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!
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…
If I had to list 5 things that I’m very thankful for, my sewing skills would definitely fall within the top 3. It’s a truly beautiful skill that has enabled me to build my wardrobe in a budget-friendly way, and also discover interesting angles to my personal style. The most rewarding aspect is being able to share this skill with other people.
Blassion was intended to be a meet and greet event for bloggers and aspiring bloggers, but one with a meaningful purpose. We wanted the participants to network and inspire each other by sharing their blogging experiences, challenges and triumphs.
The day started with a heavy, unrelenting downpour of rain which concerned me at first, then I decided to be optimistic by telling myself that the heavens were crying tears of joy because the event was finally happening.
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.
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.