Of Names, of Meanings, of Growth.

My name is Ugochukwu – a large number of people rather use the clipped form; Ugo. Whichever is cool by me. Because of official documents and other correspondence that requires providing my other name(s), a few of my friends know and call me Obiakor or Obiaks (my course mates, majorly) – and before now, 98% of people who know me do not know that my other name is Chikezie. So yes, all three of my names are [very] Igbotic!

There is a fleeting sense of questioning on their faces when I tell some people that I do not have an English name, the most recent being a few weeks ago. I had gone to the bank to make a quick transaction in school, after standing a few minutes on the queue; it was my turn to meet with a teller. We had joked that we might be distant cousins because we share same surname, and when I repeated the fact that I didn’t have an English name after returning the filled-in form to him, I saw that look again- that fleeting sense of questioning on his face.

I have grown to deeply cherish my names and what they represent, particularly my first name; however, this was not always the case, and because of an incidence that happened while growing up, I was committed to affixing an English name to myself as soon as I grew up.

When I was about six, my classmates and I had formed a small circle at one side of our Primary 2 class, it was break time, and for some reasons I cannot remember now, we weren’t on the playground relishing the short pleasure of recess. We were taking turns saying all our names- particularly to brandish that colouring of English names sitting pretty in-between our Nigerian names. I watched as this small pride travelled round the small circle; my chest heaving strongly and falling as it got to my turn. I didn’t have any ally who belonged in my category.
“Mine is Ugochukwu, Joshua …,” I blurted, thanking the universe for luring my eyes to the portrait of the then Governor of Plateau State, Joshua Dariya, hanging firmly on the cream-coloured wall. The consistent wry smile on his face emitting a vibe that whispered familiarness; that we now shared one thing in common. Every day after that had me wielding my new name in school only- on my notes, on my exam sheets, enforcing it in the mouths of my friends. This was short lived as my dad found out first after collecting my report card that had my new name placed between my last name and the first. Mumcy killed me that day. Lol.
A year later, I had changed schools, and had returned Joshua to the original owner on the wall, to that consistent wry smile that couldn’t even save me from a lashing.

When I was in Grade 4, the white missionaries who founded the school were visiting. A few of us were selected to recite poems, say memorized scripture verses, sing songs, that sort of thing- a wave of anxiety hit the nine-year-old me. “What if these white people ask for our names? Every other person has an English name, it’s only me. Would they even be able to pronounce U-G-O-C-H-U-K-W-U well?” I had hit my mum with these unsettling questions, and because she could see the panic on my face, she suggested I used either the clipped form or the meaning of my name. In addition, we made a bargain that upon reaching 25; I had the liberty to choose ANY English name that I wanted. Early years into teenage hood had me sampling names- from Destiny to Eval, to Victor etc.

In retrospect, I think deeply about that bargain and I question the ‘liberty’ being tied to 25. Why 25? When I mull over this thought, I assume 25 seems a landmark that announces adulthood- how you should be certain things, achieved certain stuff at that age. Like that age where you halt and measure what you have done – how far you have covered. Just like 30, that buzzing of pressure that comes with it.

The literal translation for my name is Eagle of God – the beyond the surface meaning is Glory of God. Emerging into my twenties opened me up to embracing these two meanings; for what the eagle symbolises and the profoundness of what it means to glory- either way, God still being the Complement. The most important factor.

The last year around the sun stretched me beyond my resilience; I cracked at so many junctions, I wept other days, but every step of the way God reminded me that I was his very own eagle, his glory carrier. For days where everything fell apart, I was reminded that God remains the Complement, and without his help, I would probably have seen more severe days. I will save details for my end of year blog post, but in all of the pruning, this eagle still soars, the glory of God still has a carrier, a boy is filled with immense gratitude!

Today begins a journey of 25+2 years after, and I have lost every interest in finding an English name. I have made peace with the fact that it’s okay to not have it all figured out yet, that the aforementioned liberty that comes with 25+ hasn’t flattened my own special journey. I am growing in my own space, soaring on eagle wings, venturing into altitudes I couldn’t have reached by my own doing, Ugoing in my own lane. I truly have loved, and lost, and won, and I could not be more grateful.

Therefore, for today, I am grateful for a year of stretching; for growth that forced me out of comfort zones. I am grateful that sometimes blessings fold and present themselves in pockets of hardship – brooding and waiting until time of maturity. And that while we stay strong, the shells of hardship breaks off eventually, and the blessings, like new offsprings toddle out.

Today, I am grateful for a sense of belonging; that I do not need to perform to be accepted; I do not need to be overly theatrical and/or pretentious to be embraced – that my niche has opened its arms towards me and presented me with people who require nothing but my very basic self. I am grateful today for people who know me, who see me, who love me; people who offer me spaces for inclusion. Because to be loved for whom you truly are, is the purest version of love.

This new year, I avail myself to serve, to threaten unkind statistics, to give out and receive love. This new year, I have scattered my seeds on good soil, and I know rain will come; roots, flowers, fruit. This new year, I fully participate in life – my arms receive goodness, my words heal, my anchor is steadied on The Rock. This new year, I am unafraid to go for what I want. Doors open easily, the road is smoother, I will not forget to laugh that my deep rumble of a laughter. This new year I rise from tables that threaten to flatten or diminish my dignity. I venture into a deeper dimension with the Holy Spirit.

It’s my birthday, and I am open for all the great things!

Of Resolves and Reminders

For the past 3-4 years now, on the eve of a new year, I try as much as possible to summarise how the transient year unfolded for me. It is something I have been very consistent with, because amidst the fact that it had always offered me some sense of accountability (to my writing), somewhere in the narrative, it presents to me an avenue to infuse a plethora of happenings that I am genuinely grateful for, and it helps prepare me for the coming year- until last year. I really cannot place a finger on why I couldn’t will myself to write for the last three months of the year, I had at some point become overly relaxed and basked in the fact that the year had taken a toll and had frozen my creative process, and many hacks I employed to jumpstart the engines proved abortive.

Sometime last year, I was in a heated conversation with an acquaintance that made a blanket statement that didn’t sit well with me. “Everybody wey dey do resolutions, na scam. E no dey ever work.” I have heard people say this on countless occasions, but insofar I had always stuck to what worked for me, this conclusion had never ruffled my feathers. (By the way, why do people reduce the concepts of resolutions to only writing? Those goals you silently plan to attain in your mind too are resolutions, no?)

As much as this sounded a tad annoying this time, there were flecks of truths in what he said. Obviously from his experience, and what he had observed from others. Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to swallow whatever claims he had without presenting receipts on how writing resolutions had helped me in the past. I do write down my plans and resolves (yearly, weekly), and while I confessed to K some two weeks ago that most times I do not check out all the boxes, it helps keep me in perspective- it offers me some sense of focus and scale of preference.

Again, on new year’s eve, I was overcome with a sense of nonchalance, that I didn’t only not write down my plans for the year, I waltzed into the new year, unconsciously prepared to wing the next few weeks. This almost cost me productivity and commitments. Whew!

During the heat of the first wave of the pandemic last year, more than ever, I was committed to going the extra mile on my writing. That meant, reading more materials, participating in contests, signing up for classes, joining writing challenges, networking with other writers and the likes. I could see the results of what that commitment had brought my way. I could present to you also, how many rejection emails I received from attempting some of the aforementioned, but that didn’t conceal the obvious fact that I had gotten better at some point, that the difference between when I started the year and now isn’t glaring.

Commitments are necessary, and if you are willing to grow as an individual, your resolves must be accompanied with actions. Before we stepped into the year, there were lots of resolutions people were professing; remarkable, challenging resolves, and it feels like after ten blinks of the eyes, January has rolled by. I recall listing a set of books I would have consumed before January ends, the projects needed for execution, list of things I had envisaged attempting, and I can barely say that I have reasonable excuses why I haven’t met up. Oh! I wanted to wing the first few weeks. Sighs! What have I, what have you done about your resolutions?

In all honesty, I am not placing myself on a high platform, because as I write this, I caution myself also. I had major deadlines to meet up before the last week of January, and because I had waltzed into this new year, totally unprepared, save for plans I had written in my head, I had started to burn out with insane pressures almost drowning me. Please, jazz up! There’s always something about beginnings and how they are able to pare way for the succeeding months.

Accountability partners have proven over time that, in sticking to your laid down plans, you can actually be committed to checking off the boxes. Talmbout iron sharpening iron. Align with people who would help, because the distractions won’t stop coming, and most times, you won’t be enough to go the overhaul by yourself. I hate to sound like a motivational speaker, lmao, but if you want to see results, be ready to put in effort.

Until the second week in January, I was completely unmotivated to do anything, my room was a mess, my thoughts were in a whirligig, I was still convalescing from an illness that had me since Christmas Day- I had planned to amidst a sea of resolves to get on track with my Bible- in-a-year plan, to get new journals etc., and I hadn’t even done anything about them. I had friends who came over, and in that melding of ideas, I had to get my acts together. So, from getting my room tidy, the rest began to fall in line, just as in the domino effect. My room has over time assumed the perfect ‘hole’ where I easily do my work, hence, any chance it gets disorganized, it takes a toll on my mental space; gist for another day.

Please whatever would work for you in ensuring you emerge a better person, in ensuring you grow the way you want, please go for it by all means. If writing down your resolutions, having accountability partners, rewarding yourself for small and big wins would aid this, by all means. However, I beg you, don’t just sit and wait for good things to come to you, launch into the deep, and fish! Pick up your journals, write down your goals, and let them remind you whenever you seem to go off track. January has ran its course, there are 11 months left to do stuff. You CAN do stuff.

As you step into the second month, let resolves be succeeded with [practical] actions. I hope its not too late to wish you a happy new year.

THE DEATH QUEUE

There are news of death that hits you so hard it peels the life off you, it forcefully snakes its way through your mouth and reaches deep inside your heart and squeezes it till you literally gasp for air- till something of you dies too.
There are news of death also that revives a latency inside you. It pulls out questions that have been silenced, questions you might have been frightened to ask; such deaths embolden you to summon these questions. It offers you a voice to prod.

When I finally decided to pull out my phone that had been vibrating ceaselessly in the back pocket of my faded blue jeans for over fifteen straight minutes, I was almost sure that my mother wanted to, in her usual streak, share some random news. I was seated in my Generative Syntax 201 lecture hall when the calls started; I cursorily made a mental note to return the call just as soon as the lecture was over. My mother has a long history of overly being hysteric- my siblings and I have always assumed her outlets where she empties herself of her hysteria. We do not have a choice, so we listen- we are her all time audience. Once, she had called me in the middle of the night; squealing like a ten-year-old girl, to tell me she had successfully made ‘leaf moi-moi’ without the egg slipping off the wrap, and while I started to inflate with mild irritation for disturbing my sleep, the call ended with she telling me how much she loved me and would send some to me the following day. So, when her calls that day became persistent, I hadn’t the tiniest clue that it was tragic news she bore this time.

It was a random Tuesday; the air was slippery, and fresh, atypical of an August evening. I had just returned to my apartment when I remembered and pulled out my phone to return my mother’s call. I opened the pending message first on the home screen: Daddy is dead!
I, immediately, was assaulted with a wave of nausea; I could feel my heart thudding through my white polo shirt. I was trapped in a whirligig of my emotions suddenly; sweat broke out in a formation over my forehead, the ground felt like sinking-sand; sucking me in. When you first learn of the demise of someone very close, you try to suppress and expel the image of that person lying lifeless in your mind. How that person, once filled with life and a name can suddenly be reduced to a body. You try, but you fail. Until Bidemi, my next-door neighbour had run into my room did I realize that I had mewled loudly like a wounded wild feline. When I returned the call, my sister picked up- sniffing and sobbing, she confirmed the news.

The one-hour drive to our house seemed to multiply itself that evening as I journeyed home. I had pinched my left arm repeatedly, hoping that I would frog kick myself out of this bad dream, out of this terrible joke. I was sitting at the back seat of the bus, but my mind was clouded, blurred with fear, begging the heavens to perform some miracles before I reached home. I looked out the window and noticed how normal the day was; the sun was setting slowly, like a toddler insistently refusing to go to bed, traders were locking up their stalls, a group of teenagers in their school uniforms were returning from school; giggling, obviously basking in the euphoria of a jocular moment. Then it hit me, the realisation that the world does not stop when you are bereaved. It does a good job of pretending as if it isn’t aware that you’re breaking badly. Maybe it doesn’t pretend, but it just moves on like every other day. The sun does not go on a boycott to show you that it stands with you, if anything, it provides enough light that leads you home. I, immediately, pulled out my phone that had started to flood with messages from friends, and colleagues who had learned of my father’s death. It was overwhelming, too real that I was in this position, that it was my turn to be sympathised with. I learned that day, that death hits all of us, maybe differently, but it does all the same. We just wait for the time we get in front of the queue. No one escapes it; if it doesn’t get you yet, it snatches someone you love dearly.

As I drew near to our big brown gate, it was as if, all the preparations I had preinstalled in my brain during the ride home began to dissolve like sugar dissolves in water. I had mentally, amongst other things planned, first, not to cry before my mother, I wanted to assume a rock for she and my siblings at that time. I remembered the time when I was six; I had fought with my best friend because he said his father was bigger than mine was. Danjuma, my best friend had dealt me a winning blow on my right eye. Defeated, I ran home, crying, sobbing heavily between words as I explained to my father who was seated in the living room, reading a section of the folded newspaper in his hands. After he quelled me down, he made me promise not to run away from a fight next time, and that I should never run home crying, especially before my mother and my sisters- that boys do not cry!

I was here, pushing the side gate open, taking in the sight of people moving in and out, some shaking their heads histrionically, others with a numb look on their faces, gawping at me; slippers and shoes scattered at the entrance of the door. You never really are prepared enough to walk into your house to see your mother sprawled on the floor; her braids hanging loosely, dishevelled, exposing projections of grey at the root of each strand- fresh tears replacing dried tears, ensconced between other women who hold her down gently, as she tried to roll on the cold tiles. Maybe it was the way her screams jumped out of her throat in raspy tones, or the wounded, broken look in her eyes that forced stifled tears break loose and pour down my cheeks that made me aware that going to sit on the floor, wrapping my arms over her frail frame, holding my sisters to my sides, sobbing, and sitting together is indication that, death brings even the strongest people to the ground, literally. That whether you are male or female, the finality of death triggers your tear gland and forces it’s content spill out.

Irrespective of the manner in which the death disguises itself in, learning that masked gunmen gruesomely killed your father on his journey home from work leaves you with a bitter after-taste in your mouth; a putrid taste that feels like bile. You begin to picture your father, pleading like a child before men with sashes of bullets over their chests, you begin to imagine how the bullets pierced his body and drew life out of him, you imagine him haggling with death, and constantly, you begin to burn with an anger that almost consumes you. So, when the priest in white cassock recited from the Bible at your father’s funeral “forgive those who trespass against you” in his calm, almost pretentious voice, you rolled your eyes, until it almost was stuck at the roof, you fiercely had to bite your tongue to prevent yourself from hissing loudly in the cathedral. You wondered why God chose to fold his hands and watch. You became fearless, numb; you placed God in the docks and grilled him with questions.
You only disarm the potency of death when it happens to you.

Even though it is almost ten years your father had bullets drilled into his body, you never really heal totally from the pain. It just takes the littlest of things to make the memories flood all over again. Things like submitting a piece to a magazine, buying your first car or eating boiled corn on a random Saturday evening. You live with the fact that somehow, regardless of how immortal you feel you are, every single day the sun wakes, you get closer and closer to the front of the queue- the death queue.

Sometime in 2017, a few minutes after five in the evening, I was returning from work- tired, deeply famished, and terribly cold. It was one of those days in July where the heavens opens its mouth and pours in torrents all day- a day where its entirety is cast in a sombre, pallid feel. I had been standing under an old structure that served as shade for about an hour, shivering and hoping that the rains would quell a little, because cab drivers were not even plying due to the intensity of the winds and rain. I remember looking down at my navy blue trousers collecting drops of dissolved starch from the neatly, now drenched white shirt I wore. My teeth were chattering, elbow in elbow, feet, festooned in soaked shoes.

After about an hour, the rains lowered a notch- I, immediately, emerged alongside a few people who were standing with me, earnestly hoping that the tricycle riders would at least take us close to our houses, even if it meant paying a little above the normal. We were standing at British America Junction.
And then in like a flash of light, this silver Lexus sped in front of us, and stopped a few meters away. This woman who was standing under the shade with us, whose hair was banished in a shower cap, her sole ornament, a bracelet that announced her loyalty to Redeemed church; the two love birds who were exchanging babbles of affection, and the two siblings wearing the maroon blazers (apparently their school uniforms), rushed vigorously to the passenger’s side of the car, oiled with intent, hoping the driver to help. Only when I saw the hand gesticulating towards me, did I drag my soaked shoes to the car. It had to be someone I knew.
“What way are you going?”. I had told him where my destination was, and because we weren’t exactly going same way, he apologetically said he would drop me at the closest junction to my house. That was more than enough help. What was more amusing was that, we hadn’t known ourselves before now.
The interior of the car was alluring- it smelled of lavender, and I was impressed at how precise everything was. I stole a glance at the back seat, and saw a laptop, files neatly piled on themselves, and I could not but savour the sound of Sinach’s voice blasting coolly through the speakers. We exchanged small talk, and when we arrived at my junction, he offered to take me home. Until I alighted, peeled out of my drenched clothes did I realise I didn’t even look at his face for once. He was kind, avuncular and had an accent as he spoke. We talked about how deplorable the roads were, how the rains would affect power output in the following days, what church we attended and that sort of thing. Until this very day, I still wish I knew what he looked like, in the hopes that perhaps if we ran into ourselves again, I would thank him more profusely. He was kind, went out of his way, helped, and to this very moment, I still mull over that gesture with contrived mindlessness.

That long break before we transitioned from Junior secondary to Senior, I had all the required books and texts bought, and being the efiko I was then, I had started reading up on every subject before school opened. I remember after reading Purple Hibiscus, (which was on our WASSCE syllabus including Arms and The Man, Woman in Her Prime, The Blinkards), I was so enthralled by how much I could relate to the characters. I mean, Aunty Ifeoma was almost exactly like one of my dad’s sisters who calls my mum “my wife”, part of me wanted to be like Jaja, it was as if Ms. Adichie had stolen some of my brother’s attributes and rolled into Obiorah. Then there was this fascination about Nsukka, about The University of Nigeria, Nsukka. For all I knew, that was the school I deeply wanted to enroll in when the time was right. I was fourteen then.
Fast forward to a few years later, we- my dad and I, arrived Nsukka in the morning; tired, hungry, heavily sleep-deprived, but the mere thought that I had finally arrived this town I had read about in Purple Hibiscus, the mere thought that I was standing inside the University submerged whatever pinches of exhaustion I was feeling. I remember the exams were cancelled that day because there were rumours of ‘papers leaking’.

A few weeks later, we returned to rewrite the exams, and this time I had ample time to make a friend who we had already planned that we’ll be roommates if eventually we got in. He was kind, humorous, brilliant, and the neat jeans he was wearing was a dull blue, faded from a lifetime of washes. After the exams, we checked out the hostels, we checked out buildings, we checked out the staff quarters, we bought okpa, we took pictures in front of the school gate, in front of the Lion statues with the blurry camera of my Nokia C1 phone. Sadly, it was until I returned to Jos did I realize this my friend and I never exchanged contacts.

I still think about these people, how in a moment someone can lend a kind gesture, a kind word and it imprints on the beneficiary for a lifetime. This past 365 days have been overwhelming, and just like everyone else, I have had my full share of the vicissitudes. Like the norm with me where I write a birthday post for myself, I can barely contain the surging inflation of gratitude that is brimming and on the verge of spilling. I have been loved in both the simple and the intricate, complex ways. Random people have extended arms of kindness to me; my friends and family have treated me in the ways and more that I deserve. And in this moment where I’m swollen with thankfulness, I want to say that, I didn’t forget to look at the faces of you all- I didn’t forget to savour the moment, I didn’t forget to still be in touch with you all. Every single act of kindness has made me learn that in the chaos that accompanies mankind, in the stifling atmosphere where selfishness is prominent, I have a circle of people who defy the odds, who wear love like an ornament, who choose to remain like our Father, who are loud when it comes to loving. If anything this year has taught me, being kind, being accommodating, being genuinely loving to others stands out the most.

I think about growth, how in an instant you’re fourteen, with your first sprawling of beards and the next moment you’re hitting 25+. In all of this, I am most thankful to God, for the access he grants me, for the gift of the Holy Spirit, for his love that overwhelms me- for his mercies-tender yet relentless that rises at every break of dawn. I am grateful for doors that flung open for me, the numerous opportunities I got plugged to, the times I laughed with unfettered vim, the times I was vulnerable and weak; for tables I was invited too, especially those very high once I got to share with only a few people. God has been extremely good to me.

So for this new year, it’s me saying, I am ready for the ride Abba; it’s me wanting to contribute my own quota to making even the smallest sliver of humanity believe that their dreams are valid; it’s me refusing unproductive status quo; it’s me saying “yes, it’s not a bad life Ugo, it’s only a bad day”. I still choose to define myself according to what the Word of God says concerning me, dazzol! So, as I step into the next 365 days of my life, I am comfortable with the backseat God, I can play the background, you take full stage- infact, I will only choose to remain at backstage if you please.

Ready or not, here I come. Let’s do this!!!!

Dear Ugo “Your God is present among you, a strong warrior there to save you. Happy to have you back, he’ll calm you with his love and delight you with his songs.”– Zeph 3:17 [Msg]

Please if you ask me for my account number you wont die na?😭😭😩*blows acha-looking-powder and breaks Calabash and a lirru uncooked hegg*😂😂

Dear Warrior,

It is such a good time to write to you and remind you of cogent truths you simply might have waved off or forgotten, truths that might have been buried under layers of doubts and uncertainties. It is such good time to nurture harmony and love, and togetherness. We are at a time where love is the fuel that keeps us going, love is what is aiding us navigate through this war.
I have seen wars, I have experienced physical wars, and I can tell that, largely, hope most times offers us a sense of “we will come out of this”. The embers of hope must burn brightly, because beyond wars, beyond Covid, we always need to come out of whatever our struggles are, and stronger, better- different persons.

Very often, I mull over what Post Covid will assume, while I foreshadow on what happens then, amidst a sea of other things, I imagine myself making several lists. List of people who walked into my life during this period, list of people who randomly sent me gifts, list of people who sent messages out of the blues. List of things I achieved, books I read, places I went. Tasks I accomplished. Fallouts and makeups.
Lists of other warriors; losing and winning on their lanes.
Whether we choose to admit it or not, this year has travelled down history as monumental. The only way to keep history alive is to document. So, I implore that you make lists too, you keep each feeling alive, you preserve the hurt and feeling of uncertainty you currently feel. Choose to be a storyteller of what this period has made of you, of what life has done to and with you. Nurture your scars, they are storytellers!
I dump lots of experiences in my mental reservoir and I believe that lots of stories will spring up when this becomes history.

Sometime last year, I incorporated the monicker, Warrior. Beyond the literal meaning of the word, I believe it speaks to each person differently. I wouldn’t give a definition of what it is, I have my own definition, but insofar each morning you defy the odds, you show up, your eyelashes flutter beside the crow-feet around your eyes, you breathe in the sweet smell of dawn, you take a chance on this life thing over and over, you deserve to be called Warrior.
Dear Warrior, define your warrior.

Lately, I have had a slight unsatisfactory feeling with the question “How are you?”. It is so overused and hackneyed that even before I remember that it is a personal question, I have tossed the usual “I’m fine” right in the face of who’s asking. It has become a chat starter. So if I need to ask Abdul to please send me the song he puts up on his status, “How are you?” or rather “How far?” whets the floor first. It creates the environment.
In December, I recall, I was chatting with one of my friends, C, on Facebook. C, is an award winning writer who I have come to respect a lot. Sometimes, I find it humbling that C, out of the blues sends me messages to check up. I mean, punching his name on Google vomits lots of information including his works, so…
When I asked him how he was doing, he replied, “Ugo, things are coming together”. I felt very incapacitated; I didn’t know what to do with that reply, I don’t even know why. But it was a lot. I have stewed over the response up till this moment.
I have resolved that when I want to ask how people are actually faring now, “How are things coming up?” should suffice. People are carrying loads of baggage and the least you can do is lend an open ear. Lend kind words too, and if it is in your means, lend a helping hand.
So dear Warrior, how are things coming up?

Just this morning, I read my resolutions to myself again. There are still many boxes that have been yet unchecked. I totally do not feel pressured. I have said to myself, I even began to doodle on my journal SMALL PROGRESS, IS STILL PROGRESS. So, I am contented with the little mile I have travelled so far.
Hey Warrior, your progress is still progress.
I recall the first few weeks of this lockdown. There was this debate that everyone must come out of Covid with something to show for it. A few certifications from online courses, a few online classes, zoom meetings, crafts and the likes.
Do you know that completing even if a single book is progress? Reaching out to mending a fallout is progress, starting a workout schedule is progress. Sleeping more, learning how to be useful around the house is progress. Remember when I said I will not give a definition of who a warrior is, that you are entitled to define your warrior? Same applies here. You are entirely free as to what progress means to you. Don’t let anyone cause you to run wild or sweaty with pinches of pressure.
So yes, I believe the notion that everyone should come out a different person.

Recently, I have had ample time to think, to imagine, to breathe consciously, to laugh with rabid vim. I take close look at the skies. I pull out my phone to capture the designs God paints a few times. Sometimes, I stop and get lost at what He does when the skies are dancing hues of burnt orange or mild pink over the blue backdrop. Other times, I marvel at the scenic pallid grey of the evening skies, and in such moments, suddenly, I am engorged, swollen with pride that God thinks about me.
Dear Warrior, think, imagine, breathe, the world is for our taking!

I think of street food every now and then and in that moment, I am reminded of how expensive the cost of freedom is. I think of school and I am reminded of how in an instant life interrupts our plans. I think about how uncertain life is and then my resolve is consolidated even more that, I serve a God who is faithful and steadfast. I trust him completely.

Let me leave you with this profound excerpt from the book I’m currently reading. It has spoken to me, resoundingly. I pray it does same to you:

“I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done in life, any choice that I’ve made. But I’m consumed with regret for the things I didn’t do, the choices I didn’t make, the things I didn’t say. We spend so much time being afraid of failure, afraid of rejection. But regret is the thing we should fear most. Failure is an answer. Rejection is an answer. Regret is an eternal question you will never have the answer to. “What if…” “If only…” “I wonder what would have…” You will never, never know, and it will haunt you for the rest of your days.”

Dear Warrior, keep conquering, keep falling and rising. You are a divine project that keeps emerging and unfolding EVERY single day. God’s mercy and unflinching love is a signal fire that you should unravel and reach full capacity. But please, TRY. Always try, seize your goals by the jaugular! Regret is too great an eternal unrest.

I would REALLY love to hear from you.

With all I am,

Ugo.

You could send in a reply to me😊😊😩😩🙈 at:
yugee102@gmail.com.

To The Man with Eyes of Fire and Love 2

The Second Day/Saturday or /2/3

There is a premonition one perceives that disrupts the normal functioning of one’s system, of one’s life sometimes – a brazenfaced premonition so intense that leaves you heavily breath-deprived, soul conflicted; an emotional-grazing reality that the extremes of good and evil are about to spar, and somehow, you will be caught in the middle of the duel. The entirety of your existence depends solely on who emerges victor.
Indeed, you are the reason for the duel.

I understood real love and peace when I ran into his embrace that quiet summer evening, almost two years ago. He was sitting on a rock, his feet clad in dusty brown gladiator sandals – teaching, answering varying questions tossed at him, telling parables; his forehead was a glossy reflection of perspiration and on his moustache, tiny bubbles of sweat collected. The words bouncing off his mouth were like silk and lead, smooth yet resounding, hitting every crevice of the soul, drowning fear and replacing it with peace, smashing lies and filing with truth. I was eight, but I knew that once I entered into his embrace like the other children, and perceived the culminating, distant smell of olive and sweat, and wood shavings, I knew that even my asthma couldn’t stand a chance, that I had met the man with eyes of fire and love. I placed my head on his chest, and listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat, I AM, I AM, I AM…
He touched my head, and in a voice one never misses spoke to his friends to allow the children be brought to him.

For Friday, papa had ordered we all stayed at home. The civil unrest over the city was the reason. This man was the reason. How baffling it is to the mind that the capital punishment for a supposed criminal could ruffle feathers, could draw the attention of the Scribes, the Elders, The High Priest, Pilate and Herod too. Only hardened rebels or nobles had that power to capture the attention of the high and mighty as such.
On Thursday evening, as we sat, circling our low table for supper in our small house with baked clay tiles, my father, a guard at the courtyard of the High Priest had shortly arrived from the days shift. After he had washed himself with hyssop, joined us at the table in a blustery fashion and instructed that mother stays home with us the following day because the allegations about Jesus had escalated and death seemed like the last resort to satiate the treacherous thirst of his accusers. Even though my best meal of Challah and Babka was on the menu, my appetite had been rolled up like an old rug and tossed into a dump pile, never to return. I loved this man and the thought of him been killed made me feel suddenly nauseas. This whole performance was totally a swing and a miss. I nimble on the fresh grapes and pinched the Challah and waited until Papa said grace.

A few hours later before I retired to bed, I saw Papa, seated on a bench on the roof of our house, gulping a throat-scalding local spirit, fully clad in his mauve uniform and rugged sandals with wooden soles. I had heard him say that all guards were instructed to report to duty before the first crow of the rooster.

The First Day/Friday or 1/3

I had the longest sleep of my life; I tossed and turned repeatedly, took multiple bathroom breaks, and finally cried myself to sleep. When I awoke from sleep, the whole town was agog with the galumphing of soldiers and the townspeople. Some wailing, some jeering, some indifferent, over this man who let me place my puerile body on his chest, over this man who allowed even children be brought to him.
I knew that I would be severely punished if eventually caught, but I had to sneak out, and even if for the very last time, I needed to look into those eyes-sockets that housed a fiery furnace and an everlasting supply of love.
I slipped into my barley coloured tunic and strapped my black cincture at my waist and with the speed of a thief stealed through the anxious, distracted watchful gaze of my mother and older sister and fled, joining the history-making procession to Golgotha.
I do not know if the sighting of my friends among the crowd palliated the emotional rollercoaster I had been those few hours, but there was a minute feeling of fellowship in spirit as I wriggled my way briskly to them, oiled with intent to see my saviour. He had saved me!
Yochanan, my friend who is slightly taller than I am placed his arm over my shoulders. I heard him sniff and wipe of a tear that escaped. Yochanan shared his lunch of five loaves and two fish with a crowd few months ago. Chanan and Aryeh were there too, and we tried as much as possible to stay away from the overly prying eyes of concerned adults. We were not meant to be near these streets, so we did a good job of cowering and hiding.

With tear-filled eyes, we watched as he hung like a criminal, blood staining the wooden cross he hung onto. From where we stood, we could hear the groaning from his bosom, the disturbing mewling of agony that escaped his lips, and then with so much pain, his eyes located me and looked into my heart. It wasn’t a goodbye I saw in those eyes, it was an assurance as solid as Gibraltar.
He was coming back!
His chest heaved and fell. Darkness.

The Third Day/Sunday or 3/3

There has been a raucous this bright Sunday morning. I particularly do not know if it’s just my eyes and imagination, but there is something totally like chalk and cheese about today. The birds are chirping loudly, the leaves on trees are staging a performance, the blueness of the sky and the brightness of the sun smells chary. Soldiers are all over the streets and deep within my ten-year-old heart, I do hope that this man who touched my head, who snatched and disarmed the power of my asthma, whose hands and feet were drilled into with nails on Friday, had returned. All creation feels aware of the colossal impact of the last forty-eight hours, all creation feels the impact from over two thousand years ago.
I am drunk in high spirits, and whether the created admits or not, the King is risen!

Sometime in 2015, I made a friend from one of the social media platforms. I remember clearly that it was on the eve of 2016, I made a post on the books I had read throughout the year. House by Ted Dekker was the last I had finished, and with a pictorial proof of the books arranged on each other, I made the post on IG with a few lines synopses of the consumed literatures. We had been following ourselves a while, and like most acquaintan-ships from online social platforms, we never had had a conversation.
“You read Ted Dekker and Mario Puzo too? Come into the DM, you should be my friend bro” he commented and very soon we became quick buds.

I remember that he NEVER broke a smile in any of his pictures, not even once. And even when some of his captions evoked humour or random cheery feelings, the accompanying picture betrayed the captions. I always wondered.
(D if you are reading this, please it is well meaning🧘‍♂️)
He is quite the introvert – extremely guarded and private, and so the first few times I had to prod why amongst a surfeit of pictures in his Facebook and IG galleries none looked jocund, he dismissed it with a resounding ‘nothing’ reply, a nothing reply that screamed closed case. Of course, my enquiry was without a glint of asperity; I was as polite as the word.
Not until a few months later, we were having a random discussion on Whatsapp did he tell me that he had an accident when he was younger and lost one of his incisors, and that had affected the manner in which he saw himself. He saw himself as almost hideous. He was terribly insecure about this.

I had unearthed and exhausted all the motivational-speaker-prowess in me on him, I had come from the angle of God’s word, I had told him that he was a great friend and it didn’t even matter. He remained unyielding, unbendable to any truth I employed to reassure. Almost four years now, we have never broached that topic again.

Sometime last semester as the gang were in one of our friend’s house, it was during exams, we were group reading with giant intrusions of jocular savage jabs at each other, Glory looked at me, her voice lowered, yet audible enough for everyone to quell down and listen and asked, “when will you own your look?”. By this, she meant when will I just rock my alopecia like a badass. I can’t really recall what I answered, but its sha not now abeg. Lemme reach 35 fest.

I had gone out with a Sombori a year ago, and after we had a good time, we were giggling, holding onto the proceeds of a good outing, and strolling to where cabs assembled, Sombori, with such speed plucked my beanie from my head exposing my head in all its glory. I was flummoxed! I wouldn’t have minded unless, I was two weeks without my regular seven day appointment with my barber. While I pleaded and protested for my cap, Sombori said, in a very salving manner, “you look very handsome, even so with the balding”.

Truth be told, I have always been so conscious of my look when I’ve not shaved every strand of hair off my head, so conscious that I won’t mind wearing an agabada with my beanie.

Now you know why I wear corporate attires with my cap.💁🏾‍♂️

Until these few weeks of critically mulling over these thoughts did I realize that a shortcoming (in our own eyes) largely can affect the way we see ourselves. It can tilt our self-esteem; it can tamper with our confidence.

I know of people who are extremely self-conscious of their body parts, of their noses, of their feet, of a scar that intrudes their faces. I know people who are self-conscious of people dear to them – like a crippled family member, a loved one who is an amputee and that sort of thing. It is not an easy blow to deal with such things as these. For me, I dont really mind as such, I joke about my head, maka its not that deep plus I can cut it so low whenever I feel or just wear a cap, but what of people who have theirs plastered on their faces like a bad acne breakout?

Last week I was returning from school, I boarded a cab that had this girl of about twelve sitting beside me. She had a bad case of cleft lip, immediately; I was consumed with an enormous sense of pity for her. Her disposition seemed withdrawn, too aware; too aware for a child. The please-do-not-stare-at-me look was battling for prominence on her face. It had to be buoyed by the fact that this happens a lot, maybe she has suffered some form of bullying, maybe she has seen herself at some point as ugly. I know that look, I’ve read it in books, I’ve watched it in movies – I was looking at it.

I know people also who with what was meant to be an insecurity are having a ball and giving an IDGAD about what you think about my bloated nose and doing their thing, and I’m so challenged by such type of courage. I wish that girl be like you all someday.

Sadly, like my friend who refuses to smile outwardly, there are people who might see this and feel, there’s nothing I can do about it, why is this one babbling? I want you to know that whether you believe or not, you’re beautiful in all ramifications. Incase you need an urgent reminder, listen:
THE TRINITY CAME DOWN TO MOULD YOU!!! Gen. 1:26-27🙈🙈

GOD IS MADLY IN LOVE WITH YOU (insecurity or not)!!! 1John 3:1💞💞

JUST LIKE FINGERPRINTS, YOU ARE ETCHED IN HIS PALMS!!! Isaiah 49:15 *do I hear an awwwn sombady*😩😩

WHEN HE FINISHED CREATING EVERYTHING, IT WAS GOOD (you inclusive)!!! Gen 1:31👑👑

Conclusively, please be nice to every person you meet.

Annnnnd, whenever you see me with my cap on, regardless of if the sun is at melting point, please lemme alone and face your front. Don’t let your village people lure you to go as far as pulling it off, I shall drag your wig off and expose the 4 tired and stubby cornrows you’re hiding. Tanz 🏂🏂🏂.

Btw, the heat has turned us to unpeppered suya😩😩.

Happy new month!

Picture Credit: Hanniel Yakubu, badass photographer!

My 2 Cents while we garb in Red and White.

Adaora is teary-eyed; her right palm is spread over her quivering lips. The fact that her perfectly made-up face will be smudged by the gentle weight across her mouth extending to her left cheek and the tears escaping with a handful of mascara doesn’t even perturb her right now. Amidst the flashing of cameras and squeals of delight from her coterie of friends and Jides’, and onlookers, Jide is on his left knee slipping the ring with sparkly emerald stones into her finger.
“Yes, I’ll marry you”. Her resolve as solid as Gibraltar.
……………………………………………….
Daniel and I are kneeling in the Principal’s pocket-sized office. Our faces simply that of woebegone, our heads hanging loosely, downwards, foreheads plastered with sweat. The air in the now crowded room is gently invaded by the feral stench of pubescent perspiration, mainly Daniels.
Mr Alao, the school’s chaplain, and the disciplinary committee are taking turns rummaging through different (love) letters I had received and exchanged with Daniel, the tense atmosphere sporadically interjected with histrionic sighs and gentle hisses.
“In our time, we didn’t do these things. Can you imagine?” Mrs Orki says in her usual raspy voice, slightly irritated, her eyes bulging over bronze-rimmed bifocals.
On the principals table, the tag, DANIEL AHIDJO, alongside the inscription, HEADBOY, printed in silver strokes over blue plastic rests above two suspension letters.
…………………………………………………….
Fifteen years old, Seyilnen forces the faded floral wrapper over her head. The infamous Jos cold is descending, ferociously. Such temperature reminds her about many things. It reminds her of her bed, reminds her that this IDP camp now is home. A strand of tear falls off her eyes, drying almost immediately. Not only the constant anger and resentment cause the tears to roll out but the questions of why she needs to forgive. Why she needs to ‘love her enemies’ because ceaselessly her Reverend would say it. Enemies that invaded their house – stomped into her home with sashes of bullets strapped across their chests and firing into everything, including every blood flowing human.

———————————————-

A cursory look on the above scenarios intimates us of the glaring fact that love is an anchor that resides alongside life. Not limited to these happenstances alone, amidst a plethora of other everyday examples, love embodies a new beginning, sometimes blissful; that it gets punished – it leaves us naked to bear the brunt of social expectations and that it, love, leaves us with choices to make.

These few years of settling into adulthood, the ritual adorning in hues of red and white commemorating Valentine’s Day has required a deep sense of introspection and a reminder of what love is rather than what it has become. Thus, I have struggled as much as possible to proffer a vivid, none-clichéd definition or rather, explanation of what love truly entails. This is due to the unwavering fact that, love takes variants of forms, it conforms to one truth and as much as it is a human quality, it evolves beyond the minimal requirement of showing compassion to being a lifestyle, an attitude, a remedy.

I believe love is a latent phenomenon peacefully buried beneath our hearts; waiting, ever ready to be unearthed, to give and to receive. Only the courageous unearth it.
Looking at what the world has become today, at what Nigeria is, there are 101 reasons to not love – our world is ill, critically so with blasts of war, tribalism, killings and other grave elements that has stifled the potency of love and embraced all the opposites.

Suffices to say that love is not always the easiest way out, but the most effective, trustworthy alternative.
Due to the intricate complexity of what love is, I dare defy the perceived notion that its sole antonym is hate. Hate definitely occupies the platform with the opposite of love, however, fear and intolerance fit perfectly as synonyms to hate.

Nigeria, home, is ravaged with war and divide; young people are engaging in suicide; great deals of people are fettered with depression. There is remedy – LOVE. Love tears down the chasm of unforgiveness, it retires hate, it transforms the identity of a people, it restores friendships, it erects harmony and most importantly, it heals broken hearts.

I have had to relearn that irrespective of what I belong to, regardless of tribe, gender, religion, it is expedient of me, of every blood–flowing human being to nurture the budding of compassion, to groom kindness, to unearth love and as much as possible be benevolent in unleashing and receiving this priceless phenomenon.

Please, the next time you look into someone’s eyes to tell him or her you love them, please mean it, and be sure of what it means. It is a weapon; use it strategically, and truthfully.
The next time you reply to an “I love you”, be ready, and be sure that it comes from unearthing the latency. Until then, another adjective should be used instead.

Love looks beyond flaws, it embraces humanity and it knows when to dust feet and leave!

This has been the most hyped Valentine’s Day, please don’t let the pressure mess with your psych. Look around you, you’re loved, open your heart and receive this reality, and if you’re as singular, who probably didn’t hear this today, listen:
You’re loved. You’re strong, important! You matter. The Moulder of Creation ceaselessly thinks about you. Stop jumping from Social media upandan screaming “God when” 🤣🤣

Remember, if it is not patient, if it is not kind, if it envies, if it boasts, if it is proud, if it is rude, if it is self-seeking. If it is easily angered, if it keeps records of wrong, if it delights in evil – IT IS NOT LOVE! [1Cor 13]

Happy New Month💜💜

Dey your dey. Enjoy your dey.

I love to read. Anything, everything. From hardcover books to random online letters, to newspapers, to the ingredients behind Milo sachets, to God’s Word. I love to read well thought out eulogies and birthday shout-outs, and book reviews. There’s a tingling feeling when I read through interesting mails and sometimes I go over chats that inject me with mirth.
Most times before I scroll past links or headlines that I have little or zero interest in, such as Baseball or sports in general, I just skim through for names, dates and the likes, just in case. The only place you won’t catch me pull out my phone or a book to read is probably inside a moving car. Everywhere is a potential spot, and my bed, asides other things was made to hold me and be the Haven where I have the maximum satisfaction to lie in my usual fetal position – and when my ear begins to burn, I turn the other way around and fire away.
I will not say a word about reading school books, go figure that one out for yourselves.
People who know me closely will know that I am a voracious consumer of literature, and if and when I have a form to fill that requires my interests/hobbies, reading tops the list by default.

I love to read strings of beautifully written words. It fascinates me how words are bendable, how vulnerable they are to play around with, how they possess great power to keep you glued for hours when they are married with utmost dexterity. How they loose themselves in subservience to whoever wants to lord over them.
Up until these few days where I have had this thought linger in my mind, I am finding it almost exhausting to actually pinpoint how reading easily became one of my interests.
I would choose fiction if I had a gun to my head and had to make a choice amongst genres of the written word. And if I had to narrow it down for specificity, Mystery, Thriller, Adventure are my favs and the others, in that order of preference.
Over time, one of the surest ways out from my episodes of the writer’s block is reading a handful of good books. This has remained a potent, reliable elixir for me.

This post is not about reading entirely.
I do not read all the time, in fact, I get tired that I can go on for weeks and months without finishing or even starting a book.
I don’t get as tired with movies. Maybe this is largely because seeing a movie requires less mind effort and engagement in comparison to reading. Every school day, after hectic lectures, there’s nothing more my body craves for like a sumptuous meal in my hands and my PC entertaining me with a movie.
I love to see movies.
Only a few years ago, I would just watch a film and move on to the next activity. Now, I’ll patiently wait to see the cast, the sound tracks, the producers, that sort of thing till the screen goes black. Then, I’ll head over to Instagram and search the casts that intrigues me, and maybe follow.

On days like this when I feel bloated with inspirations, writing is how I love to chill. I love how an idea creeps from within and snakes up my body to my brain, to wherever they say the mind is. The feeling is priceless. So, I pour from my mind and most times when I’m done, I am never really satisfied with what I’ve written down. I feel there’s more to say, like there are expressions I muddled up, I feel like I have broken a plethora of punctuation rules. I never seem contented. But I love to write anyways, I do. Especially at wee hours of the morning like now, where I can hear only my breath.

This post actually isn’t about boring you with what I find interests in or not, that’s besides the point. It is a lesson I want to share with you.
Some four, five years ago, an acquaintance dashed into my room of the fresher’s hostel and kindly requested I lent him one of my books. This was because I had pestered him to like reading. I kept bringing it up whenever we were gisting. So he came to borrow one, just to get me off his back. In his words ‘he wanted to sha learn how to start reading’. Asides the Danielle Steele and Jeffery Archer novels I had left Jos to Ado-Ekiti with, my dad bought There was A Country by Achebe and gave me to pass time when I settled after registration. It was a thick book, and since I had not made any friends within the first 24 hours I had been on campus, I devoured the book within hours.
So, I handed that one to him, and he rejected it like some piece of garbage, like he had just touched a used diaper, and pleaded I gave him one with far lesser pages and WITH PICTURES, most preferably. I laughed!
It sounded childish to me.
I shouldn’t have laughed.

A week or two had passed and this guy came again, and after a few back and forth conversations, he asked me who my best players were. I was like “Nollywood or Hollywood” 🤣🤣Of course I was trying to be humorous.
He was asking about football, football that I only watch when Nigeria is playing. I told him I don’t watch football o. And he started laughing.
So he decided to impose Arsenal as a team on me, and wanted me to know players and follow them guys to the cafeteria where matches were aired on the TV’s.
I just told my guy to camdan o. That he couldn’t force an interest on me. He didn’t have that right to do so.
I didn’t have the right either to force reading down his throat. (Just for the record, I am the most passive Man United fan in the entire world, just because for as long as I can remember, my elder brother has been and is a die hard ManU fan).

Since then, I have consciously come to respect people alongside their individual interests. The same way our faces and fingerprints are distinct is the same way each person is to his own interest(s).

A friend jocularly send me a message a few hours ago after I had posted Ayobami Adebayo’s Stay With Me on my status, that I should abeg calm down with my bookscapedes and stop making her feel unserious. In return I told her that if reading wasn’t her thing, she should kuku just enjoy what she loves. You need to see the meals she posts on her status, my God! Babes, dey that your dey! Enjoy your dey.
It is not everyone that will love reading, or football or music. Some people find interests in drawing, or singing or yoga and that is perfectly fine. The point is, when life randomly selects these things for us, enjoy yours, and while you can suggest your interest to the next person, you have no right to tease or condemn or go as far as forcing your interests down the throats of another.
After all, interests are meant to be enjoyed freely, so chill, life is not that deep. No be all of us go like boxing.

Oya, come and tell me some of your interests too abeg, shebi I’ve shared some of mine.😩😩

2019 – Speedy, Graced, Tough. And Happy. 365/365

It is 1:21 am, New Year’s Eve. Except for the distant barking of dogs, the piercing cold breeze, worship oozing out from a nearby church, and the buzzing sound of notifications from my phone, it is relatively quiet.

In 2016, I started documenting lessons the transient year taught me on the eve of the next year (it doubles as a grateful post too). It is normally effortless because I start to prepare days before the 31st of December. This year is different, differently so because I’m struggling to gather my thoughts together.
Where do I start?
What do I skip?
Which do I conceal?
Who made me laugh?
Whose wig did I pull off?🤣🤣, (I did actually). That sort of thing!

If you know me closely, you’ll know I like to keep all the records, I like to hold in my mind all the memories, and so if I dare decide to be extremely expository, only a handful will read till the end.

I would like to acquiesce with basically everyone who believes this year in particular flew by in a flurry of activities, I mean it feels like yesterday I wrote an end-of-year post; I’m here, we’re here on the threshold of another new year, my legs tucked into stockings, trying to combat the infamous Jos cold and punching the keyboard away.

These past 72 hours, I have searched for a simple modifier to sum up 2019, after sampling a list of adjectives, “Happy” keeps resurfacing. Up until the last 24 hours, my entire being is dissatisfied with “happy”. A part of me feels like it’s too simple a word to categorize 365 days. Hold this thought…

Undeniably, 2019 has been one of the most relaxed year I’ve had in the past five years. I have had to be conscious of every action, every choice, every friend, every memory.
I started this year with my usual writing of resolutions (yes, I do that, it works a lot for me) and I promised myself that at the very end, I just want to have reasons to be thankful.

These, therefore are some of the lessons 2019 leaves to bide with me.

1. Be Gentle, be kind, be intentional about yourself first:
Generous and kind in the sense that, I knew I would make mistakes, I would fall along the line, I knew I would burn a few bridges but I’ll be intentional about forgiving myself, about dusting myself, about forging ahead, about straightening out my rough edges.

I decided to be happy.
I decided that wallowing in self-pity and regret pays no man; and so for every drama, I decided to move on, learn the lesson, but move on regardless.
After all, you cannot give what you do not have.

Nah! I think I deserve a medal for being overly kind to myself this year abeg 🤣

2. I learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness at all
A lot of times we prefer, unconsciously to appear strong. Strong for our friends, for our siblings, for people who watch us from a distance, and if there be any need to break down and cry out our lungs, or admit to some form of weakness, we’ll rather suppress it, wait till we’re in the confines of our rooms, and let the dam flow. Alone.
This year, I learned how to unravel myself to and with friends, how to share struggles, how to trade those part of us that trouble us. I mean voicenotes we’re flying upandan my WhatsApp.

To every single person who lent their time and came through for me during periods of vulnerability, I can’t thank you enough.
IF YOU HAVE FRIENDS, UTILIZE THEM. Friends are not for decorations.

YOU’RE REALLY NEVER ALONE!

3. Be deliberate about making memories:
I was asking T on WhatsApp a few weeks ago if I was the only person who literally pauses and is practically conscious of the now and be like “in the next 10 hours, this would be a memory” then I try to just enjoy it, I try to take note of the sky’s colour, of the smell of rain, of the scorching sun; of the taste of freshly roasted corn and ube.
I have beautiful memories from 2019, memories that leave me quite nostalgic, memories that reinforces embers of distant laughters, memories that leave me misty eyed.

I am beyond thankful for all the memories.

4. Continually, work on your yourself:
There is always room to do better, to be the best version of yourself. I decided to read more books, listen to to more genres of music, attend workshops, apply for seminars, seize opportunities by the jugular. Learned new recipes on how to cook Indomie noodles.
For all my senior writer friends who I disturbed this year, biko no vex, use this break to relax, January we continue 🤣🤣. Ogechi Nwobia, you in particular, I cannot thank you enough, for reading all my long stories and stuff, for all the voicenotes, the feedbacks. Chukwu gozierie gi.

5. Be satisfied, be thankful, be content:
Can the aforementioned be overemphasized? I doubt, strongly. God came through for me in more ways than one. I mean God was and is faithful, he provided everything I needed for life and godliness.
2019 was about thanking God for giving me peace, for restoring my joy, for showing me the lessons in contentment. For acknowledging that behind the gloss of social media, every person is entitled to his own struggle. Be thankful for yours.

For adjusting to God’s plot twists.

6. PRAYER IS A WEAPON, USE IT:
This month was supposed to end in tears for my family, we resorted to the potency of talking to the God who has ears and listens, the God whose arms saves, to the God who loves us in excess.
Please do not wait till you are in the danger zone, pray, your life changes when you speak words to the ears of God.

7. Accountability is key, do not neglect:
Concerning my resolutions this year, I was deliberate about having partners who would serve as checks and balances. Amongst a list of boxes accountability enabled me check off, reading the entire Bible stands out. I have ALWAYS wanted to, but whenever I hit those Chronicles and friends, I just call it a year and continue with my usual devotionals. This year Christine, my Twinnie, made this possible. Babes, thank you, you have no ideas.💜

Aside:

I planned to start saving this year and after the second month, I kuku asked for my money. 2020, my accountability partners for savings had better have the fear of God and a high immunity to puppy eyes, my puppy eyes.

8. Get a mentor; follow and learn.

Sincerely, it has been a good year I won’t even deny. I am tremendously excited, my blog is 1year old today.
A huge thank you to all who follow the links and read through, all who comment, all who share my posts, I see you, and you have a place in my heart, swears!
Cheers to all the new friends I made through this platform!!!

2019 – Speedy, Graced, Tough. And Happy.
365/365

2020 is just a breath away. Please do not put unreasonable pressure on yourself with all the “excessive lists of the beginning of new decade” expectations. Be gentle with your growth, be open minded to learn and interact.
Be happy.
Before every decision, foreshadow the consequences, take your time to choose what is right rather than what is easy, and when your head hits your pillow every night, remember you have a father who is just a call away.

I wish you all a prosperous New year 💜🎉