I accept guest posts :).
I love meeting people in LDR (Long distanc relationship) its one of those things you never think you’d do or be able to do or even want to do till you find yourself counting miles and time difference lol.
Rhanda Panda is someone you want to get to know through her writings so do yourself a favour and stop by.
In the beginning you gave me the puzzle pieces of You, piece by piece. Your day, your jokes, your story.
Piece by piece.
You shared with me your heart, layer by layer. Your dreams, your hopes, your secrets. Layer by layer.
You managed to break down my walls, brick by brick. My insecurities, my fears, my doubts. Brick by brick.
You maneuvered yourself into my heart, corner by corner. Your wit, your depth, your kindness. Corner by corner.
We put together a trip to see each other again, plan by plan. Time off requests, rental car, long drive. Plan by plan.
Time ticks away,
second by second.
minute by minute.
hour by hour.
day by day.
week by week.
month by month.
We survived the separation and cherish the time we have, moment by moment. Quiet talks, private prayers, shared smiles. Moment by beautiful moment.
The days add up in…
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So this sort of happened to me. I am usually reblogging other love, sharing and meet and greet posts.
Until Today when i started recieving links of my own to share.
So if you would like for me to share or reblog your posts, please drop your links in the comments section below.
And in the spirit of community and growth, dont hesistate to click on a link and drop a friendly hello on someone elses blog.
I hope to connect with you all and looking forward to sharing and reading your posts!
Take me on a trip
Take me to that church
Take me to that place , that makes all things just work
Make me think of greatness
Break me, make me shapeless
Mould me to that being
That’s Ultimately weightless
With no chains of society
Transcending media lobotomy
Defending sane morality
Heading towards eternity
Lead me to that point
That Helps take on points
Pointing out words you said
Leaving em point blank dead
To the questions and the philosophy
That’s filled with devil’s psyhcology
I’m here, and not here
It’s like I’m speaking but I’m dead
To this world
To its choke
To its deafening crazy jokes
At what it means to walk in Christ
Come on at me Yea i’ll bite,
No fear of what you doing
Or what you saying
Cause one way I’m leaving
And in the end, I want him to say
“You’ve done well my son”
This is a guest post.
My childhood was really interesting and full of fun. I was born into a large family. My father had married and divorced several women before he met my mother and as a result, I had a few older half siblings. This made growing up a lot of fun for me because it was always a full house and there was never a dull moment. We lived in a very big building with lots of flats, a few of which my father leased out to tenants. The compound was also very large with plenty of space for playing around. Another factor that contributed to the fun was the presence of domestic helps. We had different maids come and go, each with a different cultural background. This gave us the opportunity to be exposed to different games and folktales from all over the country. Some of those maids were stern and unfriendly but most of them were very relaxed and loved to play as much as we kids did. My early years were filled with funny events and occurrences due to all the influences around. I am going to share a story about one of such occurrences. I call it “chicken drama”.
I have already stated that my mother was not the first and only woman my father married. This always put her on edge because in this part of the world, if you had step-children, that could mean serious trouble for you. Nothing you ever do will be right in the eyes of your neighbours and acquintances. Every little act of discipline would be perceived as maltreatment of the children and you could easily be branded a wicked step-mother; like the one in Cinderella. Anyway I digress. Back to the story. The main issue that made my mother uneasy was the fact that the mothers of those children, although they were not living in the same house with us, might want to harm her and her kids. That is also a common occurrence in this part of the world. This fear of being harmed made my mother to become very prayerful and “spiritual”. This spirituality was further fueled by the church we attended then. We were made to believe that the devil had so much power and we had to stay awake and pray in the middle of the night or witches would kill us in our sleep. My mother was always alert and concious of the fact that there were demons everywhere. Every unusual occurrence was caused by demonic activity. She was what we Nigerians call a “prayer warrior”.
This chicken drama began when one of our tenants started rearing chickens in the backyard. The hens laid some eggs which later hatched into really cute chicks. I was nine years old at the time and my baby brother must have been around four. We were really taken with the cute chicks. They were so fluffy and yellow, we decided that we simply must have them as pets; at least one of them. Our maid at the time, Fatima, was the most exciting, adventurous and mischievous help we ever had. She was very playful and was ready to go along with every silly idea I had so I approached her with a new one; to steal the tenant’s chicks. She eagerly agreed of course and reappeared shortly with a very cute chick in her hand, apologetic for being able to catch just one. We set up living quarters for the chick immediately. After pondering for a few minutes I decided to create a home for it in the top drawer of my dresser. That was one place I was sure my mother would never look. We made the chick comfortable in the drawer and left it open just a little bit, for some air to go in. I made sure the space wasn’t large enough for it to get out. I was so happy with our new pet and I actually thought we would be able to take care of it till it grew and was able to lay eggs. We fed it whatever we ate; we obviously didn’t have the slightest clue on how to rear chickens. My top drawer was filled with biscuits, strands of spaghetti, grains of rice and whatever food you can think of.
Our “pet” didn’t last with us for up to one week before the “chicken drama” occurred. It was a Saturday evening. We had just come back from a visit to the amusement park; mother, Fatima, baby brother and I. Someone foolishly left the drawer open, wider than usual, before we left for the park. The poor chick, after being locked up for so long, found it’s chance at freedom and jumped out. At that same moment, for some reason which I can’t remember now, my mother followed Fatima and I to my room and saw our wonderful pet. Now my mother is someone that overreacts a lot; she’s known to make a mountain out of a molehill and this made us to lie about a lot of things while growing up. As soon as she saw the chick she screamed, ‘Jesus! Who brought this chick here?’ The little person in my mind was running around frantically, thinking of what to do because I was so scared of what my mother would do to me if she found out we had stolen the tenant’s chick. However, on the outside I maintained my composure and calmly told her that I didn’t know who brought it. ‘So how did it get here?’, she asked. Again, I replied that I didn’t know. She immediately started binding and casting evil forces. She then called the errand boy, Patrick and asked him to take the chick outside and set it ablaze. The rationale for this was that if the chick was indeed a witch that changed her form, she would die in a very horrible way; being burnt alive.
Fatima and I looked on in dismay as Patrick took the chick, poured some kerosene on it and set it ablaze. I felt terrible as I watched the chick burn and I was convinced God was going to punish me for what I had done. It took me years to get over that incident and I eventually told my mother about it. She laughed and said she couldn’t even remember burning a chick. It’s something I laugh about now when I remember it but it wasn’t in the least bit funny then. I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept tossing and turning, thinking about what a terrible person I was. I had caused the execution of an innocent chicken.
LIFE LESSONS: LESSONS FROM THE MOUNTAIN TOP
I’d always wanted to go mountain climbing but it wasn’t an enthusiastic desire, just something I hoped for IF I ever had the chance. I wasn’t going to stress myself trying to make it a reality. You know how you create a bucket list and hope that some of them come true. Well, I did get the chance. Is it just me or do you also feel that first rush of excitement when you decide on something new? The kind of excitement you feel when you’re doing something you’ve never done before?
I was elated. I was going to climb a mountain, for the first time ever! The plan initially was to get to a manageable spot on there, take a ton of selfie, post them on social media and then go back home. I wasn’t going to climb the whole of that humongous mound, and I definitely wasn’t going to be climbing down after two hours on the mountain complaining of how much my body ached. I think that mountains are scary when you come up close. The way they stand unmoving and intimidating in front of you, and you never know what you’ll find. Only for my partner to tell me that snakes have been seen on the mountain. What?! But this was my first time and so far I hadn’t seen any snakes. There was also the fact that I wasn’t alone and of course I wasn’t going all the way to the top – at least I thought so.
The first thing we saw at the foot of the mountain was a small area of very clean water. You see, here in Nigeria we tend to attach spiritual significance to things that are uncommon, like that bit of water which some people had labelled ‘healing water’. I’m not one to disrespect people’s beliefs but on this day I had to use a bit of that water. It was extremely hot, I was sweating profusely and needed a sip of this water that looked like it was going to be refreshing. It wasn’t as cool as it’d promised though. Here that singular act would have earned screams of horror from the superstitious ones, besides I can’t lie that I was a bit hesitant and waiting for something horrifying to happen. Nothing happened. Fear number one conquered. I used what most people won’t dare to use, and on my body too.
On and on we went, taking selfies along the way yet this mound still stood unmoving. Anyone who knows what I’m talking about? You’ll notice that whenever you’re at the foot of a mountain you’ll feel very intimidated by it’s hugeness. It makes me think of our set goals or new endeavours and how that when we just start them they intimidate us because of our inexperience but as we do more of those things we begin to loose our fear. At the foot of the mountain I was most intimidated. I even imagined that it would tumble on me and crush me to the ground – I know that’s weird thinking – but as I continued on it I became less intimidated and more surprised that I was fearful of something that I was now standing firmly on. Our fear most time presents an illusion of what is not.
Fast forward to somewhere in the middle of the mountain. I could have stopped right there and be justified in ticking that item off my bucket list ‘go mountain climbing’, and I was going to if not for the innocent question that my partner asked me. She’d simply asked if I was going to reach the top. Between the two of us there was enough fear to go round. We’d overcome the initial fear of climbing the mountain, now that we had done that we didn’t want to face the fear of what lay on top of or after the mountain. I was scared (and it’s important that I emphasize that). Nobody told me to go mountain climbing. I was living alone so only myself and my partner knew where I was. I hadn’t bothered to tell anyone. Here I was now with the decision of taking even more risk or going back home with the fulfillment of having at least reached the foot of a mountain.
I don’t know where the courage came from but I decided that I wanted to be an inspiration to my partner. I was going to show her that it could be done, and so with my heart pounding heavily and the fear of the unknown (I didn’t know how I was going to run down a slopping mountain in case I had to), I dragged my butt -quite literally- up to the top. The mountain is such that at a point you could no longer walk on it, you had to crawl or drag your butt up. Interesting enough I had to back the unknown that I was going to meet, which means that I wouldn’t see what I was going to until I got there. I kept looking back just incase though.
I got up the mountain and saw a wide stretch of mountain with cactus, small trees, some short plants, and more and more mountains to the left and right – I don’t know any view more beautiful than the one from the mountain top. What?! I’d been scared of this? And it’s even more interesting because I saw cow dungs up there. How in the world did they get up there? Like that I reached the topmost part of this nameless mountain. My heart didn’t stop beating immediately but now I was more in awe than I was scared. I’d seen what was at the other side and guess what? It wasn’t anything to be scared of. I learnt another very powerful lesson that day: when we give in to our fears they make us loose what we stand to gain if we’d continued on the path of our dreams. When you get over your fear – no matter how badly your palm is sweating and your heart is beating – and you do what you’re scared to do, you’ll see that it’s really not that difficult. There’s nothing behind that mountain (figuratively speaking now) except for a stretch of unbelievably beautiful top and short cactuses here and there. And what joy to know that we did it. It was with joy that I ticked that item off my bucket list, adding beside it (to clear all doubt) that I also did reach the very top.
GIDI GIRL IN DIASPORA
Diaspora; Jews living outside Israel (1) the dispersion of the Jews beyond Israel (2) the dispersion of any people from their original homeland.
Before I begin, let me first state that I did not know the meaning of the word ‘diaspora’ until July this year when my sister proclaimed that I would become one of the many Nigerians “living in diaspora”. Of course, I never thought I’d be living in diaspora until I received the admission into graduate school in the desert of Arizona (or Arid-zone-a, as I like to call it in my head). Just like the name, it is Arid (another new word I had to learn; thank you Google!), a desert with desert weather, desert heat and desert dehydration. I arrived in mid-August, arguably the hottest month of the year and I have never been more miserable in my entire life, I’ll explain why later.
Life is full of experiences, you learn something new every day; about yourself, your friends and your environment. One vital lesson I’ve learned here is; water is life! Really, you cannot leave your house without water or you’re calling dehydration, dizziness, hallucination, diabetes, cancer and probably death upon yourself. Ok I was kidding about the death and terminal diseases part but dehydration is real! Once I missed my bus stop and had to walk an extra 20 minutes to my destination (I had finished my soda), and by the time I got home I could almost swear that I’d travelled to the Himalayas and back because the exhaustion was incredible. Yes maybe I exaggerate a bit too much, but it took a while for me to start seeing the world in other colors beside yellow, blue and green.
Speaking of buses, well that has been an experience as well. As a gentle bred Lagos girl (i.e. Ajebota child), I’ve spent the past three years driving around my beloved city in the car my father ‘loaned me’. Now while I’m no stranger to the very reliable means of road transport in Lagos (danfo, molue and okada), it was still very strange not having a car and moving around in buses only, especially when the bus systems are completely different than what I’m used to. Google maps cannot estimate the arrival time of a danfo, it can’t even tell you where their stop is because their stops are everywhere! I am happy to report now that I have mastered the use of the bus, I know where to pay and I don’t extend my bills to the bus driver anymore (I never actually did that-well I did it just once).
One thing that the buses here and in Lagos have in common is the wide array of strange people, but then, there’s strange and there is strange. I once got on a bus where one passenger decided to uphold the law, at least his version of the law and tried to drag me in it. All I can say about that experience is “Won o ran mi wa bii wa ku”, loosely translated in Yoruba “they did not send me here to come and die”. I simply put on my earphones, turned my face to look out the window at the interesting, starless desert sky at 9pm, anything to save my life.
Ahhh the people, very interesting set of people Americans are; they never stop talking! I pride myself on being a curious and inquisitive person, but these people beat me hands down. If they’re not asking about something, they’re talking about something, whatever the case, they’re always speaking. Now this might not seem like a bad thing, in truth it really isn’t, but for this Yoruba Lagos girl that is used to people fast talking about “important things”, a 10 minute dia(mono)logue about the humidity in Florida isn’t particularly interesting to me; I’ve never been there and I don’t know what it feels like. I have to admit though that I like the people, always opening doors for me, holding the elevator for me, answering my numerous questions and saying “oh, you’re fine” at every corner when I’m confused about something. Yeah, they’re good people.
One thing I have really enjoyed is meeting people from other continents and other African countries. My favorite would have to be the Indians, they’re a very interesting lot (and they are a lot). In each class I take, the demographics are the same; 60% Indians, 30% other countries, 9% American and 1 black (African) me. With these numbers it’s not very hard for me to fade into the background and just watch everyone else do their thing; and it is very fun watching them do their thing, I even came up with titles for each group. The Indians are the silent mafia, they don’t talk much to those outside their group, they are always in groups and they’re super intelligent (which is why I had to worm my way within so I can pass the class without stress; don’t judge me). The 30% others, they try too, depending on their country of origin; most international students pass more, mostly because they’re highly motivated I think. Finally, the 9% Americans, small in number but still manage to out talk the rest of the class; they’re the ones whose voices you hear every week telling stories about their dogs or the time they spent in Europe. Very interesting set of people they are. I have a whole series on funny moments I’ve had interacting with my Indian friends I’ll share later; I hope they’re funny to you as they are to me.
Now here’s the part most people would naturally expect, the reactions of American people when you tell them you’re from an African country. When asked, I usually say I’m from Nigeria because I like to be specific, but all they hear is ‘Africa’ even when I don’t mention that obvious fact. Here are a few of the reactions I’ve received when I tell people about my country of origin;
- My class instructor: so where are you from? Me: Nigeria. Instructor: that’s nice. Your English is so good, where did you learn it from? Me: we were colonized by the British, our official language is English. Instructor: I did not know that. Me (in my mind): but it’s 2015, how could you not know that????
- My first time in church: Hi! Where are you from? Me: I’m from Nigeria. Him: interesting. Hey so we have another member who was raised in South Africa, He speaks Afrikaans, I don’t know maybe you speak that too…..Me: He’s from South Africa, Nigeria is in West Africa. I don’t understand any bit of Afrikaans, also the South Africans don’t like us much these days. Me (inside): oga mi, that’s too far na, the whole of Africa does not speak the same language.
- Still in church: Hi, I heard you’re from Africa. Me: yes, I’m from Nigeria. Her: oh yes, my son worked there in Nigeria in the bush near ‘Los Lagos’ (I tried to correct her, but she’s Mexican so I let it pass). Me: oh really, that’s nice. I’m from the city, I’ve never been to that area but I have heard stories. Her: yes, he was a doctor doing his training there. He said most of the ‘bush women’ come to deliver their babies at the last moment; they don’t spend more than an hour in the hospital before they leave with their babies. Me (inside): that’s my Naija women for you, we don’t have time for nonsense.
- Yet another church member: Hi, where are you from? Me: Nigeria. Her: oh that’s great. I’ve been to Africa once. Me: oh where? Her: a village in Kenya, do you know it. Me: no I don’t, Kenya is on the other side of the continent, and I’ve never been. Me (inside): but I never mentioned Kenya!!!
- A classmate, complaining about the heat: it’s so hot out here. Me: yes it is! Hottest weather I’ve ever been in. Her: but you’re from Africa, isn’t it hot over there. Me: it is hot, but not like this desert. It’s humid and gets cooler at night. Me (inside): really! Not every African country is sharing a border with hell. Haba!
Well I only spent three months there; I’m back in my beloved city for 3 weeks and men do I love being here. A lot hasn’t changed but much has happened. I’d be lying if I say I don’t miss the place, somehow it has grown on me. Last last sha, there’s no place like home; and Lagos will always be home.
He…the love of my life.
The tingling sweetness of my insides.
One man, one amongst ten who got,
Got in me a treasure valued like gold.
He, this one, the one who holds,
Holds so tight I rest in love.
That one…his presence my smile
Him whom I never learnt to love…
The pounding of my chest,
The tightness of my tummy. But wait,
Is he my soulmate?
I always thought I believed in soulmates, well I did, until recently. Love the world’s way will have you believe that it’s an emotion that cannot be helped. In love you’re supposed to be helpless, drunk, needy of your partner, see the world through your love for your partner, no one ever says that but that’s the unspoken expectation. And it’s beautiful, absolutely something to be privileged to experience, but does it really exist?
I’ve always been something of a romantic – blame it on my love for all things romance. I love love and the idea of it, but you see, as a Christian my view on certain subjects will change, not because I force them to but because I take on a renewed view via the word of God that I take in… besides my influence is different now. I don’t claim to have gotten my view from the bible, but I’ll say that I am talking from a Christian point of view, as is my understanding.
When I used to read a lot of romance literature, I used to spend my time dreaming up my prince charming. I imagined that he was taller than me, was all muscled up, had fire in his eyes every time he looked at me, all those wonderful things like that, and I looked forward to romance. I longed for my own 6-packed hulk who was going to be my hero. I longed for this near perfect guy – because the protagonists in any romance story always fought only once. As I grew though I got to understand that there’s really more to romance than all the beautiful feeling. Most enlightening is my understanding of romance from the love chapter of the bible: I Cor 13.
In church you’ll usually hear that love is not a feeling, that to get a true understanding of love is to understand love God’s way: love is kind, love is patient, love does not boast, is not envious, etc. As a Christian it’s easy to quote this afterall we keep hearing it. But as much as I heard love to be this way, I never really was convinced that that was love, I mean love is fire, love is love and really it’s about two people in love. I had head knowledge of God’s kind of love and even practised the easy parts of it without referring to it as love. In my mind giving na giving, patience is only because I don’t want to look stupid – or I know I can’t fight the conductor. Tolerance is until I can’t take it any longer, long suffering has never really been appealing. Like that I went on, waiting on love because love was supposed to happen with a guy. I love my family and love God but the ‘love’ I was waiting on was special… the real one.
After reading through my favourite literature and noting the way the protagonist studied I Cor 13, I decided that it was time to find out what it was about that part of the scripture that everyone keeps going on about. I’ve read that portion before, in a group setting and personally, it wasn’t until recently that I really understood the gravity of real love.
The first thing that grated my nerve this time around when I read that portion is ‘love cares more for others than for self.’ I was shaking my head in disapproval when I saw ‘love puts up with anything, that spoiled it. Put up with anything? Like any-thing? Even when I’m being nice and the other party is being nasty? Like even when I’m being shoved rudely? Even when I’m without any fault? That’s tough! And that continues to be the most resounding part of that portion for me, maybe because it’s tougher to accept for me. I just can’t come to terms with the fact that I have to put up with anything.
There’s no way to explain I Cor 13 and dwell on romance, at least for me, because the focus is not on romance. The focus is on loving any and everyone like that. I concluded that having a soulmate is not God’s design simply for the fact that the idea of having a soulmate promotes selfishness and I don’t mean that in terms of self as it is that the focus of the love is just on the two parties involved. Having a soulmate connotes that our world revolves around our lover, that we see them, breathe them, etc. God’s kind of love extends beyond the two to everyone the parties come in contact with.
I’ve also concluded that having a soulmate connotes that the parties involved have attained an unreasonable standard of perfection. With a soulmate we insinuate that our lover can do no wrong, that he/she is without responsibilities, and even if, that they exist in a world without problems: sickness, financial situations, family responsibilities, etc. The whole idea of having a soulmate says one way or another that the parties involved are perfect and exist in a perfect world. If it was true, God’s love wouldn’t require us to put up with anything, wouldn’t ask us to be patient, long suffering (the dreaded word). It wouldn’t ask us to not keep score of the sins of others.
The relationship of soulmates is a relationship of exclusion. It excludes everyone apart from the parties involved, there is a horizontal expression of love that benefits only two people. Imagine if that love was actually ideal, how many people will be loveless? How many people will be denied the joy of experiencing true love. If God’s love was based on whether we deserve it or not, a lot of us will be without love. And that’s the beauty of I Cor 13, it tells us to love everyone, even when they haven’t done anything to be loved; the consistent practice of this kind of love is what even strengthens a romantic relationship because what will you do when you find that the one you’re smitten by is just as human as you and just as prone to be annoying?
The question is if soulmates truly exists and my answer is that it only exists in an ideal world made up of ideal people. Soulmates can’t exist because it’s exclusive – God doesn’t want only a few to experience love. It can’t exist because it’s idealistic – it wants something that can’t be (except of course all men were perfect). It can’t exist because people still find love (sometimes with a bigger intensity) after they’ve lost their spouse whom they were very much in love with. It can’t exist if love truly is a choice.
It’ll be too fickle if it existed because at the first sign of a challenge the parties involved will chicken out. I’m not negating the use of the word itself, I’m only against people looking for love in terms of finding their soulmate… I guess it’s whatever works for everyone but really it’ll only be disappointing. I rather prefer being married to my best friend. As friends we’ll acknowledge our humanity but as soulmates hold each other to impossible standards.
I’d like to bring out a lesson from the most unlikeliest place: my hair. I’m not particularly obsessed with my hair but like most women I could be finicky about it. I want my hair to look like a million bucks. I want to be comfortable with my hair. I have to say though that I belong to the group of women who don’t like adding extensions on. Gosh I love how other women look with them, they’re usually very beautiful and in my mind’s eyes I even look beautiful with them but in reality I don’t have the courage for them. You know how strands from them start sticking on your skin on extremely hot days…horror! It was with one of such experiences, after deciding that I’d had enough that I decided never to sew them in again. And the hairdressers don’t even help with the way they keep yanking at one’s scalp in the name of braiding, so it was a combination of the hairdresser’s ‘hard’ hand, the heat that comes with extensions, and my inability to maintain them that made me decide to stop them altogether. Even better was I wasn’t going to make my hair ever again, I was going to lock it. In my mind it was a better option than cutting off my hair or enduring the hairdresser’s hand. Three years later and I’m on a low cut. I’ve cut my hair twice in the last three years and not once in that space did I even mistakenly lock my hair. Then this morning someone suggested that I should cut my hair again, I could’ve laughed in Spanish!
Making the decision to go natural is a very huge one for me because with that I defiled conformity. Then with it came plenty of YouTube videos and hair articles, in truth the whole thing was draining, but not at first because I was still heady from the excitement of doing things my own way. I hadn’t told anyone before I cut my hair. A year later and I was VERY frustrated. Prior to going natural I wasn’t one to pay attention to my hair, I was pretty much a routine person, nothing extra, but with going natural I was now extra particular about my hair. For the first time I began to pay attention to what products I used, who did my hair, what kind of material I slept on, etc. I would for the first time ever come to say that I love my hair and actually mean it. I loved my hair absolutely. After going through the cycle of doubt, compromise and sometimes neglect, I decided to cut it again and I must say that I feel liberated from the need to have my hair a certain way.
As is with people, they’re wont to give unsolicited advice. Now I have people telling me what to do and not do with my hair. There’s this lady in particular who keeps implying -and she’s relentless- that I should subject myself to those hairdressers. I was just reflecting when it occured to me that this time around my resolve is much stronger than what everyone else thinks I should be doing with my hair. I’m no expert but I learnt this very clearly.
That listening to everyone on what i know i want for myself will frustrate me. I don’t know if it was that I trusted other people more than me or I was just being respectful of their opinion but I realised that I was listening to too many people, even five is a crowd. I’d decided on what I wanted so why did it suddenly not sound good enough in the face of other people’s opinion?…I learnt that defining what we want for ourselves CLEARLY is absolutely important. I’m not implying that we shouldn’t give ear to other people’s opinion, I’m simply saying that we should receive their opinion in the light of our own. There will be times when we need wisdom from other people’s experience, and that should count but have you realised how much we go to the wrong persons for advice? The people -whose advice I didn’t ask but were giving it- hadn’t gone natural like ever.
I also learnt that I have to be more confident of my choices. Because most of the people giving me advice were older, I assumed that they were right in telling me to ‘do my hair’ so I did my hair even after telling myself that I really didn’t want extensions. Many times I left the saloon wondering why I kept going back when I knew I didn’t like it, but you see my mum for one would not accept my hair as it was plus it didn’t help that I was not great at taking care of it. I don’t even know what she has against natural hair anyway.
This time around when everyone tells me what is best I just look at them with a smile on my face thinking ‘no way’. My resolve is much stronger having already failed myself once. Now I’ve clearly mapped out my goals and I intend to follow through, really though sometimes experience is the best teacher.