Musings

Suitably Paired

Their response to my gleeful “Happy New Year!” was a just-as-gleeful, well-meaning and pulsatingly pregnant “This is the year that we’ll come to eat your rice!”

Totally unrelated but perhaps a co-traveller on the same locomotive train faithfully conveying my thoughts, I’ve often wondered about the enigma; Why do long-married couples start to look alike?

how-to-sew-drawstring-pants-8

Well, after much pondering, I’m convinced that I just might have cracked the code to finding The One that one grows old and withered with. Alas, it’s hardly complicated:

Step 1. Spot a prospective.

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Juggling Life-shaped Balls

Well, 2016 was an interesting year.

At the start of the year, I recall vowing firmly that it would be a meaningful one, I was particularly keen about achieving relevance.   I wanted to be able to properly account for the year on the last day and also be happy about doing both the things that I’d set out to do and the ones that I didn’t even expect to happen.

The most significant thing was launching the Nedoux Sewing Club.  The phrase “Do it afraid” sounds rather clichèd, but to be honest I was mostly terrified sometimes, still I kept going regardless, pausing wasn’t an option.  I found the courage to persevere and the wisdom to keep improving, by learning from mistakes.

Truthfully, I’m still learning to balance the new balls in my life, thus whilst the sewing workshop thrived,  writing and blogging were neglected towards the end of the year.

Here are some of the moments that made this year remarkable for me. I am very thankful to everyone who supported me.

Best wishes for the New Year!

Sign

Recession & The Paradox of Thrift

Indeed, austere times call for austerity measures. 2016 is definitely the year of ‘Want vs. Need’ mental debates. Considering the current state of the economy, most people have been compelled to devise budget-friendly measures and stretch their finances across the most basic necessities.

Recently, I thought I needed brand new clothes but after careful consideration, I realized that what I’d assumed was a need was simply a want slyly camouflaging itself as a need. So, I browsed through…

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I said it before, I’ll say it again

I like to think that words hold each other’s hands like best friends, it seems like a reasonable explanation for the spasms that sometimes visit when I open my mouth to speak; the uncontrollable repetition of words joined side-by-side not unlike Siamese twins.

There are days when save for its reluctant shadow, I am convinced that my stutter has left me. Days when I am smug that I don’t miss it as much as it must miss me. Days when I am pleasantly surprised that our destinies weren’t as intertwined as they seemed after all.

Then, there are those days when it comes back and settles down comfortably onto the couch that is my tongue, like it never left at all, and I simply carry on with indifference. It is what it is.isad-ribbon-october-22

When I was younger, the repetitions made me self-conscious, the thought of addressing unfamiliar people made my blood freeze even before my vocal cords froze. I was anxious because I stuttered and I stuttered because I was anxious. If a snake swallows its own tail…

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On Guard

Lagosians wear the agbádá of suspicion rather elegantly.

If there was such a thing as a scale that measured a person’s suspicion level and if the average human being’s suspicion level ranked 7, a Lagosian’s would rank an off-the-scale 12.

Yes, distrust is imprinted onto our subconscious, we go to bed with it and wake up with it.  The typical Lagosian prides himself on being streetwise and thus blessed with an AntiMumu™ that repels the slightest sign of foul play.

Nedoux Lagos Chronicles 1

Just like the iron gates that barricade our homes, with tiny slide windows to peek through, our hearts are guarded by our suspicion, our eyes are the simply the minuscule window, they play no role when it comes to discernment.

We are adamant that nothing is what it seems even when it can obviously be no more than what it appears to be. Our flair for the dramatic concocts a delicious conspiracy theory.

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It died.

My neighbour’s dog is dead. Yes, It died today.

It of the wild 5:00 am barking sprees, as though it were auditioning for Canine Idol and needed to practise its tuneless staccato song. For some reason, the left side of my head ached more than the right side as each verse of gbof-gbof-gbof marched through my ears waking me up.  An unsolicited alarm clock.

It of the stinky poo dropped generously like presents for whoever cared for gifts of the intestinal variety.  Watching a dog strain to release poo reminds me of labouring during childbirth.

There is a careless abandon in that grip of contractions,  a primal need to expel what must be expelled from its body. No graces or airs whatsoever, Nature’s call must be heeded regardless of who sees, hears or even smells.

I once heard its carer speaking Yoruba to it  “ò kí n gbórò?”  (can’t you hear), like one would scold a naughty child,  as she shooed it into its kernel but it refused to cooperate immediately.  I mused, did It understand her? I’d assumed the dog “spoke” English only.

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Traditionally woven

Unwrinkle your nose, shit is perfectly edible and might be eaten at some point.

The choice of how to eat it is what’s more important you see, for though it is well known that shit can simply be eaten with one’s bare unwashed hands, shit can also be eaten properly with a fork and knife. Even with chopsticks, for the more adventurous.

Yes, some sit down to devour the pungent faecal mass with such polished table manners, one would imagine it were a three course meal at a cordon bleu restaurant, with the stinky shit artfully plated on fine china, silverware laid atop folded napkins, steamed hand towels and fine linen tablecloth.

The housemaid is pregnant.  ‘But that’s how men are, they are all like that’.  Resigned acceptance or perhaps aloof indifference.

So, with a knife she cuts into the sizzling shit and guides the fork into her mouth, then washes it down with diarrhoeic champagne bubbling with a most peculiar breed of shame; the sort that another’s embarrassment imposes on one.

‘What would people say?’ To the casual observer, she’s relishing her feast. To herself, with no small measure of compromise, she says Hmm this isn’t half as bad as it appears, in fact it leaves a sweet tangy after-taste if I push it to the back of my throat then swallow quickly without chewing.  An acquired taste of sorts.

Sewing Asooke 1

In defining shit, need anyone be reminded of the fact that it decomposes? When exposed in the open, it breaks down till all that remains is grains of dirt that eventually blend with the earth.

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