FROM MY SICK BED

Mum, I thought of what to tell you; and when I had decided on what to tell you, my problem was how I would tell you, whether I should call you on the phone or whether I should write instead; but since I’m not sure I want to hear your voice again, I’ve decided to let a nurse help me write this letter while I dictate, since I’m to frail to hold a pen.

I can’t say I won’t forgive you, because whether I do or not, it no longer makes any difference. I have less than 10 days to live, the doctor told me so this morning.

The short skirts and hot gowns you bought for me, this is where it has led me Mum, at the dying patients ward. I know you wanted me to be like other girls, I know you wanted your daughter to be presentable like other girls, and so you bought me my first make up kit, you encouraged me to have a boyfriend, provided I showed him to you. I know how many times Dad nearly beat the daylights out of me because of my naughtiness and how wayward I had become, but I also remembered how you would leap to my defense no matter how wrong I was. You never objected each time I came home with gifts, you never asked who I got them from and what I did to get them; the expensive necklaces, shoes and wrappers I brought home for you, you never asked which man gave me them; you never bothered to care how many times I had to spread my legs so as to get you those gifts. Mum, I remember when I was 21, and Dad had just banned me from leaving the house if it was 5pm; I remember how you threatened to pack and leave Dad and take me along if he didn’t let me go out as I pleased.

I remember the day I came to you in tears, telling you that I had just missed my period, and the urine test confirmed that I was pregnant; I remember how you slapped my hands and asked me how did I get so careless, but promised to do something about it, which you did by introducing me to that doctor friend of yours. I’ve visited him 4 times again after that day, and four times I have had to lie on his surgery table while he performed his magic on me. I don’t know if I still have a womb, but that doesn’t bother me any longer because I wouldn’t live long enough to know the answer. The cigarettes and weeds I have had to smoke just to keep up with my extravagant lifestyle; the hard drugs that came with the wild parties that had become a part of my life till I was brought into the hospital in a stretcher, the strong drinks I’ve had to use to wash them all down, yeahhhh, I was a big girl, and that was how I thought big girls behaved.

The phones, clothes, bags, shoes and even that picanto car, I’m leaving it all behind, after all, they don’t disappear when death finally comes knocking; I realise now that they weren’t worth it, they weren’t worth me dying for them, they weren’t worth the AIDS virus I have running in my blood.

I wish I had listened to my roommate in school instead of moving out to go live with that boy because I thought she was always giving me a tough time. I blame no one for where I am today except for myself and you Mum. You didn’t spread my legs, neither did you give me those weeds to smoke, neither did you introduce me to those men; but you never stopped me, you never called me to order, you never sat me down as a mother should and make me realise I would be a mother too in the nearest future, and whatever I do today, my kids would copy after me tomorrow. Anyways, no need for such advise now; I wouldn’t even live long enough to put that advice into practise. Infact why I think God will never forgive you Mummy is because you introduced me into this lifestyle, you bought those ‘sexy clothes’ for me when I was younger, and so those boys and men started running after me. You knew they would, you knew they would never stop disturbing me till I said yes, and so you taught me how to handle them. Well, I’ve done all you’ve taught me, Infact, I’ve become a professional at it, I’m your best student, only that the reward I’ve gotten so far at being good at this is the illness inscribed in my medical report. The only thing I have to show for it is the virus running in my blood steam, killing me as the clock ticks by, eliminating my white blood cells such that I can’t fight back.

Well, it’s over for me, but I hope your conscience will let you live in peace for how you ruined me, mum.

And if by chance this letter gets to fall into the hands of the public, please I beg you who is reading this to watch over your sisters, your daughters, your nieces, your friends, protect them from this lifestyle, protect them from friends like me, that way, they won’t end up like me.

I have to save my energy, I’ve talked too much, and I can see the face of the nurse who’s writing my words down, I can see the pity written all over her face. I don’t need that pity, I got what I deserved. Please Dad I’m sorry I ended up the way you predicted I would. If I had known, I would have listened better, now I know better.

From your wayward daughter

From my sick bed….

#Gen. Sam

HEY DIVA

Of recent, I’ve come to understand the rationale behind certain acts of the female gender, but what I’ve not come to understand is why some still choose to be victims of some certain acts despite the vast storage of information and public awareness at their disposal; let me explain.No man turns a monster over night except if there’s a spiritual manipulation somewhere in the unseen. I watch as the supposedly “girlfriends” get beaten up repeatedly by their supposedly “boyfriends” over little quarrels; I see them cry, scream, and get abused; and I see them clean their tears, nurse their wounds, vow not to go back again to that beast, only for them to go rushing off into his arms tomorrow when he comes knocking at their door begging for forgiveness and claiming it was the work of the devil. How long will they continue being STUPID (forgive my use of such harsh term) to deduce the basic fact that, if he can beat you to pulp now, give you these kind of bruises that Mary Kay and other foundation can’t cover up, even the sun shades you wear can’t cover the black eye you’ve now got as a result of his macho slaps and punches; that he’ll be a wife beater tomorrow?

Please don’t tell me it’s love, and that love is blind (probably it will get you blind one day if you don’t pack your bags and leave); because I know love doesn’t hurt.

I wonder where all their self esteem went to; I wonder if all the clothes and fine English they speak outside is just a show to camouflage how insecure ladies could be. How he tells you to dress is the way you dress; he chooses your friends and frowns upon those who tell you the obvious truths about him. Gosh!!! You’ve left him countless times, and you’ve come back to him countless times after he must acted his drama of how sorry he is and doesn’t know what came over him; hey Diva, don’t you have sense? Do you think you can’t survive without the little change you get from his wallet? Do you think you’ll be useless without him telling you want to do? I refuse to believe you’ve stooped so low with all your education and exposure, to swallow all these lies line, hole and sinker. You don’t need a prophet to lay hands on you and tell you he’s not going to change, that he’s going to beat you up again tomorrow. You’re wonderfully and fearfully made, why do you keep allowing that guy make your face so look so fiercesome? You think your relationship is facing a hard time today and will get better tomorrow; and everybody telling you to quit hates the fact that you have a guy to call your own? And maybe soon you both will be marching to the altar? Well let me spill the remaining beans; you must be a big fool for believing that, and a bigger fool for keeping grudge with whosoever that told you the truth.

And when he beats you up the next time like I know he’ll surely do, you start looking for who to tell your story, a friend who will lend her shoulder so you can cry on, you start looking for self-pity; my dear, stop deceiving yourself, it’s not love, my friend Obinna Okpara will always call it “rofe”. Stop deceiving yourself that you can change someone who has a behavior running in his blood, a genetic socio-behavioral disorder.  Enough of this rat race; doing same thing over and over again and expecting different result is total MADNESS.

Do something meaningful with your life. “Na only u waka kom”, your life is not tied to his’. Move on; you can do better for yourself. Please don’t let your fate be like my friend’s friend who refused to listen, and now she’s paying the price in the morgue with a knife hole in her chest.

And for you Mr. Handsome, am coming for you with your own piece.

#RantOver

#Gen. Sam

Don’t STOP!!!

When I first started writing on Facebook as an active writer, I would always jump off on my feet each time someone like my post or commented; and when nobody did, I would silently sulk in my corner. The good I’ve been doing over the years and I thought were unnoticed by people was actually infact, well acknowledged by observers.

You see, we work everyday with all our hearts, silently hoping that someone would notice and say at least a thank you. We burn ourselves out for the right cause hoping that someday, someone on earth (not until you’ve died and gone to heaven and Baba God will say well done my pikin), will acknowledge us; and so when nobody does, we sometimes feel we’ve been wasting our time, we feel it was useless trying to do something good for no personal gain. Well, recently, I’ve come to learn something about consistency.  Irrespective of the fact that we do what we do, not because we want anyone to applaud us; until we become very consistent at it, the fruit of our labour won’t really pay out. Don’t stop doing good because no one applauded your first work; don’t stop giving because no one gave you an award for philanthropy; don’t stop acting, singing and even writing because no one said you’re good at it; the world is watching, every other person around is observing; sometime very soon; someone will shock you with a statement, a public applauds, a recommendation for your consistency in that which you do. Don’t stop doing good because no one is appreciating you, don’t stop writing because no one clicked the like button or commented; don’t stop acting, singing or even dancing because no one gives you a thumps up; the truth of the matter is that there’re a lot of people who get ministered to, people who get blessed tremendously by that dance of yours, people who get motivated by those acts of yours, those articles of yours; that might not have the courage or opportunity to walk up to you and tell you that you’re doing a good deal of good.

Don’t stop doing good, you’re blessing and touching lives, even if they don’t tell you.

 

#You’reABlessingToSomeone

#Gen. Sam

Did I get It Wrong

I was meant to write something else, but my thoughts were on the meeting I had just finished from. My hands kept shaking as I typed the words that were fuming as thoughts in my mind. I couldn’t say a word but I knew all I just wanted to do was pour out my thoughts into letters.

Like they say, nobody is perfect, but that doesn’t stop us from doing more; from making an effort to be better. People around will never stop misunderstanding you, but that doesn’t mean you should keep doing what will make everyone misunderstand you. Feeling lost? Let me explain.

Sometimes, we do some certain things with good intentions, hoping to pass a message or create a certain impact, but the result turns out to be the opposite, and so, the people who we do this for tend to hit at us for that action. When you notice a particular occurrence that has become a norm in your life, probably, your big mouth which doesn’t hold words together, or your tongue which can’t present words in a civil manner, or the air of haughtiness which discourages everyone from advising or calling you to order, or your extravagant lifestyle which from all indication is leading you to doom, or whatever it is that people keep complaining about (please note that there’s a difference btw people envying you and people who love you and wish you to change a certain act); it’s an indication that that part of you, that occurrence is what is pushing people away. You cry to God, you ask people why do people hate me so much, why can’t I just keep steady friends, why can’t I just be loved like other people; take a pause, and see that which everyone is pointing at; it might be the “shit” that has stained your white linen and scaring everyone away because of its foul smell.

We all are working towards perfection, listen when people tell you THIS is a fault which you should work on. You never can tell if it’s what is stopping you from being employed, whether it’s what is keeping that dream husband from coming near, whether it’s what is keeping you from growing and maturing into what and who you’re meant to be. Not everyone hates you. Please listen and take correction.

#ListenAndGetItRight

#Gen. Sam