Blogging, Musings, story time

What’s bee happening (if you’ve been wondering)

So for those of you who’ve been following my adventures, I am sure you’ve been wondering why my posts have been sporadic and all over the place?

Well I just recently moved! More like relocated really 😁 to a different CONTINENT!

If you’ve read any of my long distance relationship (Ldr) posts, you would know that my husband and I dated long distance and this spilled over into the first 2+years of our marriage with a lot of juggling of time difference, finding cheap flights and trying to squeeze as much quality time together while still trying to make a living or be functional members of society if you may lol

So the BIG move happened recently after going through more than a year of immigration processes, rejections and validations to finally bring us to today. Today represents our current state of finally living together and building the life we’ve always dreamed and planned for. It’s been just over a month since the move and I would love to say it’s been all sunshine and rainbows but no it’s not!

Transplanting your life isn’t as easy as they make it look and sound in the movies, books and songs. There’s a lot of back work involved. Documentation, work/ possible career change, money differences, shopping and food diversity, a different system and all that.

But all that is a walk in the park to finally have “Today”. We don’t have 6000+ miles between us anymore, no sleepless nights, no time difference, no horrible network problems and so forth. It’s not perfect but it’s still paradise.

I get asked if I would do it differently and change our process. I would love to say yes, but my answer is I don’t know if having the opportunity to do it differently would make us as strong as we are and as purified going through the fire (our process) as we have.

It’s our process and I am happy that we conquered it and made it to the other side.

Our story isn’t over by any means, it’s Just starting a new chapter ❤️.

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Musings, poems, poetry

Poetry prompt:- Light keeper

Musings, poems, poetry

The Search

Musings

Are Your Resolutions Working?

 

March is the 3rd month in the year and most of us started 2018 with a resolution or 100 of them if my guess is right. If you’ve kept even one of the resolutions you made at the start of the year, then Bravo! And kudos to you. Because as it turns out, a lot of us don’t even make it pass the first couple days of making them. As it turns out, new year resolutions became popular after the great depression and though a lot of people make them, not everyone keeps them.
Actually, more than half of the people who make resolutions fail in keeping the resolutions they make within the first couple of months in the new year. It’s not because they were not resolute enough or that they didn’t believe in their resolutions, it’s mainly because some resolutions are unrealistic, made as a self motivation tactic or totally not well thought out. Most people lose the feeling they had at the start of the year that prompted the resolution in the first place. The motivation might be gone, they might be feeling defeated due to lack of visible results, impossible goals were set or they totally forgot and abandoned said resolutions before February the 28th.

So to make your resolutions work, you need to change your mentality. Rewire your brain of sorts. Change your resolutions to goals and make them achievable.

Work on them one at a time and not several at a time.

For example:-
Weightless
Exercise
Stop smoking
Debt management
Better money management
Relationship improvement or dissolving
Diet Etc.

Even though its March, you can still work at achieving your goals and making them work. its never to late.

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Images/gifs sourced from google.com

Musings, Silence

The Suicide Epidemic (Contagion)

I love my husband very much (with the title above, I am most certain this isn’t the opening line you were expecting). But as I was saying, I love my husband very much and yet we don’t share an interest in the same type of reading materials most of the time. I tend to get away from being sucked into reading anything he’s picked up or even school assignments or papers he has to write because the material serves as a snooze button for me. But to be fair, its not that they are boring, its that I don’t have an interest in them. Although, I try my best to to help him out and also develop somewhat of an interest in the titles he is interested in and skim/read through a few of them. This was the case when I stumbled on something very interesting and quite serious that inspired this post.

I was helping my husband read through ‘The Tipping Point by Malcolm Caldwell’ (I love Malcolm Caldwell books by the way even though I haven’t read a lot) and I didn’t even know it was his book when I agreed to help (#goodwife). We split the book into chapters and I got chapters 7 & 8 which I grumbled at (because I felt I wouldn’t know what the book was about starting at the end) but I still went ahead and read them.

I have heard of suicides on international TV but nothing local here in Nigeria that I recall (not saying there aren’t any, just don’t recall any or on national news either). I have seen / heard on global/international news children , celebrities, the elderly, parents (adults) committing suicide and even though I felt sad and mourned the loss, I never understood it.

However, reading ‘The Tipping Point by Malcolm Caldwell’ opened up a new angle of suicides and the epidemic surrounding them especially in recent times. In the society I grew up in and religiously, they are frowned upon. I believe that even when a member of the community does commit suicide, it would probably be reported differently. Maybe an Illness, homicide, ”his or her village people attacked” or God is blamed for it. Rarely is mental illness  mentioned as opposed to the western culture I’ve observed online when its almost always a case of mental health when the cause /reason of death is suicide.

In this book, the suicide epidemic / contagion in the Island of Micronesia is brought up and used as a case study along with the death of celebrities like Marilyn Monroe and the rate of traffic accidents in relation to a highly publicized suicide. The research of ”David P Phillips” was used to explain this phenomenon of escalated suicide and traffic accidents right after a highly publicized suicide on TV or the newspapers. Below are snippets of his research not the whole thing because it isn’t my intellectual property, I will only post snippets and you can read the whole thing online.

This paper shows that suicides increase immediately after a suicide story has been publicized in the newspapers in Britain and in the United States,1947-1948. The more publicity devoted to a suicide story, the larger the rise in suicides there after.The rise in suicides after a story is restricted mainly to the area in which the story was publicized.Alternative explanations of these findings are examined; the evidence indicates that the rise in suicides is due to the influence of suggestion on suicide, an influence not previously demonstrated on the national level of suicides. The substantive, theoretical, and methodological implications of these findings are examined.

There was a reference to Marilyn Monroe’s death and its effect on the national suicide rate and how it rose to about 12 percent temporarily after the announcement of her death.

On the Micronesian suicide epidemic, read this article

HONOLULU, March 5— In the islands of Micronesia, young men are killing themselves at one of the highest rates in the world, researchers say, and no one knows what to do about it.

Suicides among males between the ages of 15 and 30 are so prevalent that they have become an accepted method of problem-solving in the island societies where harmony is highly prized, according to the Rev. Francis Hezel and Dr. Don Rubinstein.

”For several years suicide has been the No. 1 cause of death for youths in Truk,” said Father Hezel, a Jesuit who has served for nearly 18 years as director of Xavier High School in the Truk Islands, where the suicide rates are highest.

Father Hezel was the first person to notice the trend, in 1977, and he wrote a magazine article on the problem. Since then, he and Dr. Rubinstein, a researcher at Honolulu’s federally financed East-West Center, have collected many facts on the problem. But they do not yet have solutions, said Father Hezel, who is doing research in Honolulu as part of a year’s leave of absence.

Twice as High as in U.S.

…………………………………………….. read more on http://www.nytimes.com/1983/03/06/us/micronesia-s-male-suicide-rate-defies-solution.html

Finally, the purpose of this post is to share what I have learned, draw your attention to a different way of looking at suicides, what might be causing them and what are your thoughts on this issue and our communities.

I wasn’t going to write on this issue before because there is so much i don’t yet know or understand, but after hearing about the community in Ohio, I thought now would be the time to have a conversation about it, it might help someone.

Please share your thoughts in the comment section below

  • should suicides not be publicized anymore?
  • what are the best ways to announce suicides publicly i.e news and news papers?
  • can this epidemic/contagion be controlled or eradicated?
  • why do you think people do it?
  • why do teenagers especially with the example of males in Micronesia more prone to commit suicides?

And if you know someone going through something be sure to contact professional help.

Musings

How do you react to news?

There’s always a knee jerk reaction to news that we all exhibit in one way or another, be it pleasant or unpleasant. For some people the reaction is always subtle and seems thought out. you wonder to yourself how calm, can this person be or how is it that they aren’t reacting to this situation or that situation?

I like to look at the people around me when things are happening to see how they are reacting to the situation/ taking in news. I tend to ask myself is there a wrong way to react or are our reactions dictated by society on how it should be? If so, does this reaction still remain genuine and pure?

For example, what if your immediate reaction is to laugh where others are shocked, sad or crying? does this make your initial reaction wrong? does it lead to questions and issues of mental health?

I know these are a lot of questions, and yet this is what I have been stewing on today. Have you thought about this same issue today? have you reacted the ”wrong” way recently or at some point in time?

please share your experience with me.

Thanks.

hurt, poems

Too broke to have an opinion.

Too broke to have an opinion so I am moving on from me.

My sacrifices and changes are naught

You won’t get past the me you knew and think you know.

You define me by the moment you meet me.

I am nothing to you but her who clings to sleep and who is lazy and has a thousand and one excuses for being exactly that.

My truths are not worthy in your court of conclusions.

I am not up for trail but the jury is out and I am guilty

My revolution won’t be found in your opinions of me

I have tried to be the me you seem to want me to be.

You unravel me with a single thought and word.

You wound and you undo all I thought I had built and walked away from.

It’s nothing.

I end up being the me you think you knew.

I am moving on from you.

I am becoming numb and my tears are emptying.

I get exhausted and broken when you constantly remind me  of how I can never please you.

I am never good enough.

I have craved your approval. Bent over like a branch every which way to accommodate you.

I am cold.

You thrust me into the frost and I can’t break free. I call out but no ones there to answer.

I am starting to turn into a watering pot and I don’t like this part of me you’ve unleashed.

I have forgotten to live for me.

I scrape hours of the night to unwind and be me.

My days are slow and they drag and it’s still the same me I get to live with.

The me who was happy to have taken a million steps only to have you destroy that believe with a simple’that’s why you are fat and eat and sleep and are lazy’.

I work hard to be a better person who isn’t selfish and I can’t remember the last time I did something that was just for my pleasure with no one else but me to benefit and enjoy.

Yet I am she who is selfish.

I am too broke to have my own opinions and I have spent them all in my book of thoughts and hurt so I am moving on from me, I am moving to a person I like and can live with.

My heart hurts too much from all the band aids I have placed.

I need to heal.

Goodbye.

Guest posts, Guests posts

Guest post By Gozumaki :- The Rap Poem

thRVN3OZ8W

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”

Guest posts, Guests posts

Guest Post. THE DEMON-POSSESED CHICKEN. By Queen .F. Photizo.

thRVN3OZ8W 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.

hurt, Inspired, love, Silence

Silence 2. Rukkaya.

A mix of fiction and reality. Welcome to the stories of the unheard.

previous posts

I remember it like it was yesterday. The day everything I knew ended. Who knew that just when I was learning to play house with friends I’d have to play it for real; with a stranger.

The house would be real, the babies real and so would the responsibilities.

Who knew real babies were so much more different from my stuffed dolls? That they’d require this much constant attention?

Why wasn’t I told I’d have to entertain my husband’s guest and also look after the kids and the house?

That day still feels surreal. I was called by my mother and calmly told I was going to be married and how thankful and happy I should be that he had chosen me and the honor he was placing on my family.

I was ecstatic. What did I know about marriage and all it entailed? All I knew was that a couple months ago my friend     Amina  got married and we were all jealous of the gifts and attention she got. It was beautiful and oh so colorful. I had never seen that much clothes in one place.

So of course I was happy I would have the same. The new clothes and my own room. It was getting pretty crowded in my father’s house with the yearly births that was like a silent competition between my mom and step-moms.

I was in a daze as everything about my new life was planned out without a question posed to me as to what I wanted or how I wanted it, after all they knew best.

But I quickly got yanked out of that dream the day I met the groom and plunged into a fantasy. It was a year later. The wedding day was approaching and I guess I was finally old enough. I was fourteen. He was twenty years older. He’s handsome this husband of mine. So don’t get me wrong and think I was complaining, far from it actually because unlike my friend whose husband was quite ancient, mine was handsome and just thirty-four. A man in his prime I thought. I couldn’t stop staring at him. He was my first real crush and he spoke English fluently which I always wanted to do, I had fantasies of him teaching me how to speak properly and read.

He promised my parents I’d go to school and my future home was going to be in the city.

Fast forward a couple months later. I’m all draped out and lying timidly on the bed. The celebration over and I am in a strange room shivering like a wet dog and trying to remember the advice my mom gave me.

Was it lie still and it will pass quickly or was it encourage him and it will hurt less. What was she babbling about? I am not ignorant, my father raises animals so I know how it works. But it doesn’t mean that what my mom said made any sense to me.

The door creaks open and is gently shut. But in the state I was in, everything sounded loud and thunderous.

I won’t bore you with the details of my initiation into womanhood. Suffice it to say I learned a lot of things in the hours that followed.

  1. I was the 3rd of my husband’s wives.
  2. I wasn’t cutout for coitus if that’s how much it hurt and I had never prayed so hard he’d fall deeper in love with his other wives so as to forget my room and the consequent visits.
  3. My mother lied or maybe he’s different. It didn’t pass quickly by lying still nor hurt less by encouraging him.
  4. I could cry for hour’s non-stop.
  5. It was possible to feel shame even in marriage.

Other lessons were learned but everything in small doses even my story right?

Fast forward several months later to the present and why I am telling you this. My friend Amina lost her life in child birth and that was a wakeup call for me and prompted me to have a serious discussion with my husband about my future and how I didn’t want to end up like her. She was just thirteen and her baby girl is back home with her grandparents probably doomed to the same fate as her mom.

I am a bit lucky that my husband kept his word about my education and has promised to wait before I start having kids of my own. His first wife died a couple months after our wedding and her and the baby didn’t make it. He and the second wife got into a row and are now divorced. So it’s just the two of us. We talk more than we did when we first got married. And I have come to love and respect him in my own way especially since he now listens to me.

We currently sleep in the same room and I don’t break into a cold sweat like I used to. But not everyone’s story is like mine.

Break the silence!