Few things convey the message of ‘put-togetherness’, poise and self-care as effortlessly as neatly painted fingernails.
My hands are dipped in soapy water many times a day; from giving underwear the dignity of a fresh wash to freeing dishes of deteriorating food crumbs, to wiping wooden surfaces so they can be free of the unwanted embrace of dirt (I had the not-so-bright-but-still-bright-nonetheless idea to insist on mostly-white furniture in dusty Lagos. Mind you, the effect is rather dazzling interior-design-wise).
Did I mention that I wash my hands near-obsessively? Yes! I am the one who sees germs and microbes crawling on doorknobs with her ordinary human eyes.
A twitter thread about the not-so-easy side of pregnancy and childbirth swept the social media streets a few weeks ago. It caused quite the whirlwind.
Well, I found it to be refreshingly honest albeit brutally disillusioning, but in a very good way. It was necessary to hear the other side of the female experience, I felt “saved” from the danger of a single story.
Recently, I’ve begun to question that I even have sufficient maternal instinct. I mean, my own mother would (more…)
So, when I saw that Paper magazine cover of a stark full-frontal naked reality TV star, along with her well-oiled, beautiful posterior, my reaction was a peculiar blend of evenly-measured giggle and wince.
Then, I reflexively crossed my legs and clutched my own breasts protectively even though I was fully clothed at the time. I decided to think carefully about why my own legs came together of their own volition.
Did I cross them because I imagined that it was I splayed across that magazine cover and the thought of globally exposing the pencilled-in stretch marks on my modest bottom was a bit too much for my heart to bear? Yes. (more…)
When I see an interesting garment, I mentally take it apart and analyse the fabric and pattern pieces. I enjoy the thrill from challenging myself to replicate the style, if only in my head.
Likewise, I hope our Ogas-at-the-top squeal with glee (I recommend a high-pitched “weeeeeee”) and then proceed to challenge themselves to replicate when they see interesting countries where systems and processes work beautifully for the benefit of all.
Switzerland seems like a fine model, and there isn’t a patent or copyright law on countries as far as I know. Besides, imitation is supposedly the best form of flattery.
So, Dear Nigerian leaders, kindly flatter the Swiss, make them blush so hard from your flattery, that Mac Cosmetics would feel compelled to release a limited edition lip colour (preferably matte) aptly named “Swiss Red”, matching the distinct shade of a blushing, flattered Swiss.
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.
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…
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.
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…
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.
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.