10 Romantic Rules of Engagement for a hitch-free World Cup Season

June 14, 2018harold Leave a comment

My love,

It is with great pleasure and a deep sense of responsibility that I write you this letter. I trust your night was awesome. I am sorry I could not make it home last night. I could say that I was working overnight in the office, but you would know I am lying. I was re-scheduling my diary for the next one month. That brings me to why I am writing this heart-felt letter.

As you already know, the World Cup starts today. Yes, the one I have been talking about in the last few weeks. Baby, isn’t this exciting?! The World Cup actually starts today! Whew! So I have written down a few understandings you and I will have during this period. I know you love me and you’ll do anything for me, right? Remember how I stood by you and endured you during BBNaija? Yeah baby. This is my BBNaija and I expect you to stand by me. You will stand by me, baby. Right? Right.

So, here we go:

1. If you call my line twice and I don’t pick, don’t call it the third time. I am not dead. I am watching a game. And oh, don’t expect me to return your call immediately. I am watching a game. If you call me the third time, baby, I will block your number. I love you.

2. If I don’t return home on time or if I don’t return home at all, no baby, I have not been kidnapped. I am watching a game at a sports bar or I must have crashed at a friend’s place after watching the game. Please don’t ping me incessantly, asking if I’m safe. I will delete you with love.

3. We can’t attend any parties or events on Saturdays. My Saturdays have been fully booked. I will be working overtime at my friends’ place. Don’t call my friends to confirm. They have my instruction to block your number.

4. If I return home on time, the only chats we’ll be having will be football-related. No, don’t tell me what the Landlady did. Or what your boss said to you at work. Unless he said something about football. Baby, you know the world has been clamouring for gender equality? I have come to agree with these clamours. During the next one month, you can take charge of everything in this house – fix whatever is broken, give the house a make-over, pay the bills, empty the trash can, arrange for Baba Tobi to come and fix the plumbing works, take your car to the mechanic workshop…and mine too, do the garden etc etc. Don’t discuss with me before taking any decision. I love you and I know you can handle stuff by yourself.

5. The sitting room and its ‘hereditaments’ belong to me for the next one month. I have ordered for a new TV to be placed in the bedroom. Baby, you can have it all to yourself. I love you that much. Just don’t tamper with the sitting room TV or the DSTV decorder/remote. If you must visit me in the sitting room, kindly enter and leave without a hush, like the proverbial thief in the night. I must not hear your footsteps. I mean it.

6. No. Your friends can’t come visiting during that period. Unless they are male friends, then they have my blessings. And when they come, they’ll be restricted to the sitting room. If I sight a female friend walk into the compound, I will accidentally feed Bruno, our dog with beans and dry gin and I will thereafter, accidentally release him. And he will accidentally bite her.

7. This will be our food roster for the next one month:

Breakfast: Any food you decide to prepare.
Lunch: Don’t worry, bae. I’ll be fine.
Dinner: See Lunch above.

8. You will support any team I support. We have always had things in common, right? It must remain that way this next 30 days. If you scream the name of a team I don’t support, even by mistake, you are moving out of the house. I am not joking.

9. If my team loses and I feel bad, you must feel bad with me. If I laugh, you must laugh with me. If I’m pissed at a Ref, you must be pissed at that Ref. Anything short of this, then the house-keeping money for next month will be short too. And our planned vacation to Dubai during the hols will be cancelled indefinitely. Baby, don’t test me.

10. I bought a sticker note and a pen. This will be our mode of communicating during the next 30 days whenever I’m not at work. Tell/ask me whatever you want to on the sticker notes. However, you are only restricted to use one page per day. And I reserve the right to reply in whatever manner, language or abbreviation I want. If I write “K” it means “K” and “end of that discussion.” If I write “No” it means “think of another option and execute it without involving me any further.” If I write “LMFAO” and I keep the straightest of faces, baby, ni tori Olorun, joor keep away from me for at least two days.

Baby, I hope the foregoing is sufficient to ensure we have a smooth relationship this next 30 days. You know I have listening ears? So, I am open to any reservations you may have about any of the foregoing terms and conditions.

Kindly document your reservations in the box below.

Love,
Harold.

Sally

February 10, 2017harold Leave a comment

The rich man on my street boasts in the splendour of his vineyards, fields of grain and herds of cattle. I poke my head out of the raffia frames of my rickety window to catch a whiff of the cool morning breeze, and there he is – standing on the roof top of his mansion, wincing menacingly whilst sipping from a jar made of gold. He does this every morning. Is he mad at the morning? Doesn’t he sleep well at night?

The men at the village square say he is not happy because his mansion is surrounded by unbefitting structures. By unbefitting structures, he was referring to us. To me.

My house (well, if you can call it that), is the only structure beside his mansion. The others have been levelled by machines the rich man brought. It is a matter of time before he levels mine.

I should be bothered. I should be worried.

But I am not.

I pull my head back into the room and my roving eyes catch a little piece of plywood hanging on my wall. I smile as I unhook the plywood. Inscribed on the plywood are five letters:

S A L L Y.

Ah. Sally.

You are the reason for my calm. The reason I am not afraid of the raging storm from the rich man. He can wipe away my raffia hut for all I care, but since I have you, I have everything.

I remember the first time fate crossed our paths at the T.W.T.R market square. I had gone with the boys to fetch some firewood. On our way back, we heard a voice singing by a stall. The boys had wanted to hurry back home as the evening sun was almost blotted out of the sky, but I urged them to stay back awhile and listen to what you had to sing. Did they listen to me? No. They left. But I defied their warnings and stayed back. And good gods of our fathers, did you have the most beautiful voice?!

I was enthralled by the things you said in your songs. You caught my heart with your words and I willingly became your prisoner. Before we parted ways that day, you used a piece of charcoal to inscribe your name on a plywood and handed same over to me. Till this day, I have that plywood on my wall.

You are a (S)weet gentle soul, an (A)lpha female of some sort, a (L)oving and (L)ovable human, and one who is blessed with the genes of exuberant (Y)outhfulness.

Your youthfulness! Ah! Your biggest asset alongside your mind. Tomorrow will mark another moment when the moon goes full circle around you. The day the angels lent one of their kind to mere mortals like us. If you told anyone how long you have spent here on earth, they would say you were lying. You do not look it. I guess an angel will always stay true to traits that only an angel possesses. We would have called a feast to celebrate you in the village square tomorrow, but to what end will it serve to subject an angel to activities of mortals? You deserve much more than a circus of activities. So to this end, I shall keep you in my heart and render psalms in your honour.

You are more. Thank you for being you.

Without uttering a word or lifting a finger, you motivate me to be a better warrior, to not settle for a lamb when I can go after a lion, to murder sleep in pursuit of greatness…Pfft. What is sleep when there is greatness to achieve? You taught me this.

You say to me that I will make a good King one day. I scoff at the thought. Me? A low-life living in a tattered hut? Pfft. How can this be? From where would I become a King? I do not have a military to take over the kingdom. Listen to me talking about a military. I flatter myself. I do not have a single male servant to command, talk more of a military.

But you still insist I will make a good King.

Well, I may not become the King you think I can be, but rest assured, irrespective of who ascends the throne of your heart, I will be serving your best interest from the rear. I will do this because you deserve all the happiness you can get.

Pardon me if these words I speak are without form or direction. I have been quiet for so long and the words have built a hill around the walls of my throat. Thanks to the Creator of the Universe for making tomorrow your day. I seize this opportunity to let the words out. For if I do not let them free, I might implode.

***

Photo Credit: Yahoo/Black Angel

We teach our boys to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller

December 20, 2016harold Leave a comment

We teach our strong black boys to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller. We say to boys, you can be a lover of women, but not too much. You should aim to be handsome, but not too handsome. Otherwise, you would threaten the woman. Because I am male, I am expected to aspire to be the head in a marriage. I am expected to make my life choices always keeping in mind that being the head in a marriage is the most important.

Now marriage can be a source of joy and love and mutual support but why do we teach boys to aspire to be the head in a marriage and we don’t teach girls the same? We raise boys to see each other as competitors, to always be up and doing in bed, lest we lose our women to other boys. We teach boys that they cannot be sexual beings in the way that girls are.

**Photo credit: Google

Why I want to get a tattoo

August 12, 2016harold Leave a comment

Some few months ago, an avalanche of unusual emotion rose along my path, whooshed towards me, overtook me and of course, drowned me in the process. I did not know where it came from, but it was one extremely strong tide. By the title of this post, you would have guessed what this emotion was. Yes, I felt like getting a tattoo. And the reason for wanting a tattoo is not one you would have expected. I did not want it because I felt it was cool and made me look hippie. Truth is, I did not have a reason for wanting a tattoo. I just wanted it. Something was telling me I had to get a tattoo. I mulled over this thought for some time. Whilst I was mulling over it, another set of emotional tide hit me: I started feeling the need to braid my afro hair too. Arrrrgh!

Was I going through some midlife crisis? I asked myself. It was so unusual that, I, a full fleshed son of a full fleshed and typically religious African father would be considering things as outrageous as getting a tattoo and braiding my hair. I must have been going through some sort of midlife crisis.

And then it dawned on me that, I had not attained the official “midlife age” of forty. I was a long way from it. So, what was responsible for my unexplainable desires?

As I could not proffer an answer to the above mind-boggling question, I decided to kick those thoughts out of my head.

That was some months ago.

A few nights ago as I lay on my bed in the dark of my room with my eyes staring at the ceiling, my forgone thoughts came visiting like a repentant ex who had something new to say. The thought of getting a tattoo re-emerged. I thought of Chimamanda Adichie and her Team Natural Hair Movement. I thought of Wole Soyinka and his eternal Afro. And then, like Archimedes did in the 17^th century, I screamed “Eureka” on my bed! I had found a reason to get a tattoo! I needed my own signature look as a writer!

Have you attended African literary events with popular authors and not-so-popular authors in attendance? Have you noticed how most of them wear African print attires like a cult? And then, there are those who keep dreads? And those who are identified by their piercings? Yup, writers have found a way to make themselves stand out in the crowd with signature looks. And I want to be a part of that. I want to have a signature look as an African writer. I want a tattoo. I can do without braiding my hair for now (my afro is gone). But I want a tattoo. I am so getting a tattoo.

But not so soon.

I will get a tattoo when I make my first million from writing.

Million dollar, that is.

I mean, I cannot be carrying a tattoo around with a bank account desperately begging for salvation. I need a bragging right of some sort. You know, if anyone wants to complain about my hippie lifestyle (getting a tattoo), I want to be able to tell them to talk to my bank account. *wears shade*

Until then, my fascination with getting a tattoo can remain a fascination.

What is your weirdest fascination? Ever wanted a signature look as a writer? What is it (and why haven’t you got it)?

***

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My Type of Music

July 14, 2016harold 4 Comments

I grew up in a family where my dad was a sucker for music. He listened to music every single time he had the opportunity. We always woke up to some loud blaring music from the stereo in the sitting room, courtesy of my music loving dad. He also had a number of portable radios in the house. Some were rechargeable, so when there is power outage, he would have a radio he could still operate. He also had radios which worked with Tiger battery so if the rechargeable radio was down… And my dad’s favourite kinds of music were folk and Gospel. When he wanted to go to bed at night, he would leave the radio by his bedside and the channel would be one playing music. So I grew up in a setting where I had to listen to music, whether I wanted to or not.

As I grew older, I started taking after my father without being conscious of this. I placed a radio by my bedside every night. I loved listening to late night music shows, especially those playing soft music. As I grew much older, soft music also grew on me. I became a sucker for soft music. My favourite genre of soft music was (still is) R n B – short for Rhythm and Blues. And some of my favourite artistes at the time were household names like Shania Twain, Whitney Houston, Celine Dion, Lemar (I just found out he was born to Nigerian parents!!!!), Lionel Richie, Westlife, amongst others.

It did not matter what mood I was in, whenever a good R n B song came on, I would listen. These songs in turn influenced me. If I was moody, these songs would uplift my spirit. If I was angry, they would calm me. If I was happy, they would make me happier. If you looked at any of my music playlists (on my phone, iPad, Laptop), you would find that they are made of 80% R n B.

Some months ago, I stumbled on some rock bands which played a type of music different from what I thought rock bands were all about. They aren’t into that heavy metal sh*t (yuck!!!). They play good, soft, deep lyrical music! These bands are Sleeping At Last and Lady Antebellum. Weird names, right? Yeah. I don’t know what it is with rock bands and weird names. I am currently listening to Sleeping At Last as I write this. My favourite tracks are “Chasing Cars” and “Turning Page”.

You might be wondering why I haven’t mentioned any Nigerian act. Well, the thing is, I think there’s been a dearth in R n B singers from Nigeria. Most of our artistes are into those kpakpa ti kpa type of music. Afropop/dancehall or some genre like that. Although I like some of these songs, they aren’t my type of music. I just listen to them when, maybe I want to work out or dance. Not when I want to have a deep reflection about life or some serious thing. Some of my all time favourite Nigerian R n B tracks are “Ego” by Djinee and “Love Truly” by Iyanya. Currently (although I am not listening to it as I write), I enjoy “Akara Oyibo” by Niniola. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s just soft. I also love Asa (she’s not an R n B act, though. Her music is just deep. And soft. Most of them are.) When it comes to Gospel music too, I am a sucker for “worship” songs as against “praise” songs. I love songs with mellowed beats, soft rhythm and melody and deep lyrics. Songs which afford me the opportunity to reflect.

What’s your type of music? And why do you listen to it?

***

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Moralising the Writer’s Imagination

June 27, 2016harold 2 Comments

It is about 8 O’clock this beautiful Monday morning. I have less work on my desk at the office, so I decide to surf the web to start my day. Twitter is usually my first port of call every time I am less busy, followed by Facebook, my email accounts and then my favourite football site, GOAL. However, for some weird reason this Monday morning, I decide to start with Facebook. As my timeline/wall refreshes, the first post I see is Kiru Taye’s. It has something to do with her weekly Sexy Snippets. I click on the link, and after I am done digesting the erotic snippet from her forthcoming book, I cannot help but start pondering over erotica writers and their special type of art.

We all know sex is a beautiful thing, but writing about sex – writing about hot, steamy, groin-torturing, nipple-tightening, back-breaking, mind-boggling and above all, konji-provoking cum konji-curing sex scenes has got to be one of the most self-tormenting things ever, I think. Self-tormenting because, you write such curious scenes with just your imaginations to thank for a job well done. Or, wait. Do erotica writers actually experience what they write about? This was the question I threw open to Twitterverse after reading Kiru Taye’s snippet and guess what the feedback was? Almost every erotica writer/fan agreed that, writing konji-provoking erotica pieces had more to do with the writer’s ability to fantasize than with the writer’s experience.

The above revelation got me thinking: So all these “dirty” things you people write are a product of your mind? Ok. Kotinu.

I know it is generally agreed that, to be a good writer of any genre, you’ve got to have a very good imagination. Many great stories we read have nothing to do with the writers’ experience, but with their powerful imagination. I don’t imagine Mario Puzo was a mafia lord, neither do I think James Hadley Chase was a serial killer, but both men wrote the chilliest crime thrillers ever. However, just as there are positives for having a good imagination, there are also many negatives of telling powerful stories. For instance, Susan Quilliam, a British Psychologist says reading powerful romance stories can be a bad influence on women and can lead them to make poor health and relationship decisions as the novels give women unrealistic views about what to expect out of a relationship. I remember some few years back, there was this news about two 12-year-olds, Morgan Geyser and Anissa Weier, who lured their classmate into the woods and stabbed her 19 times to prove ‘Slender Man’, a mythical figure in an online story was real.

This then begs the question: as a writer, to what extent should you allow your imaginations wander? I find myself asking this question because, many a time when I consider writing graphic stories (for example, writing a very graphic rape story or writing a very gory murder piece to expose the ills of the menace), my conscience would prick me to mellow on my choice of words. Why? Because the details of my imaginations are usually too disturbing. I am always reminded of one Bible portion or the other. For instance, Philippians 4:8 admonishes me to only think of things that are pure, honourable, just, lovely etc. Proverbs 23:7 reminds me that, as I think in my heart, so am I. The contents of Matthew 5:28 are tantamount to suggesting that, thinking about erotica things is a sin. Psalm 119:15 encourages me to only meditate on God’s words and His ways. Colossians 3:2 directs me to set my mind on heavenly things as against worldly stuff etc.

My dilemma with the above Biblical injunctions heightens whenever I remember that, God also demands that, I put the gift (s) He bestowed on me to good use. Remember the parables of the Talents in Matthew 25:14 – 30? I find myself questioning myself, “by refraining from telling this story as I imagine it, am I under-utilising this talent God gave to me?” “Would God be delighted that I am not telling this story as I should?” etc….

I know you could argue that, I can tell the story in a different way from my original imagination, but truth be told, some stories have to be told in their unadulterated, inspired manner and form to pass the desired message and effect.

To what extent should a writer let his imagination go? Should he limit it at all? Have you ever struggled with this moral question? How did you overcome it?

PS:

Konji – Slang for being horny

Kontinu – Slang for Continue

Chilliest – The extreme level of chill.

Who is the perfect boyfriend?

April 14, 2016harold 4 Comments

black happy couple

The perfect boyfriend is not one who gives his girl the world. The perfect boyfriend is not one who catches a grenade for his girl. The perfect boyfriend is not one who lays his life down for his girl. The perfect boyfriend is not one who takes his girl to the moon and back.

Why?

Because none of the above is humanly possible. They are all figments of the imaginations of romance writers who have forced these lines on us over decades of literature consumption. They are mere clichés.

Who, then is the perfect boyfriend?

The perfect boyfriend is one who does the simplest things in amazing ways.

The perfect boyfriend sends his girl genuine romantic texts everyday. The perfect boyfriend surprises his girl with gifts (no matter how little) for no reason at all. The perfect boyfriend accompanies his girl to the beauty salon. The perfect boyfriend shops for groceries with his girl. The perfect boyfriend helps his girl out in the kitchen. Scratch that. The perfect boyfriend cooks with his girl in the kitchen. The perfect boyfriend leaves “Thank you” notes in his girl’s bag for whatever reason every now and then. The perfect boyfriend makes sure he has enough spare shirts and shorts at his place just in case his girl pops in and she did not come with any extra clothes. The perfect boyfriend maintains a clean, safe and hygienic living environment because he knows he is not a pig and his girl is not a maid who does the cleaning. The perfect boyfriend knows how to spoon his girl without breaking a sweat or breaking her neck. The perfect boyfriend knows how to kiss his girl without smearing her makeup or eating her lips. The perfect boyfriend does not secretly check his girl’s text messages because he knows he is not an FBI undercover agent seeking evidence to use against a crime suspect. The perfect boyfriend understands his girl needs her space sometimes. The perfect boyfriend reassures his girl at every given opportunity that she is the most beautiful woman in the world. The perfect boyfriend never makes a joke out of his girl’s insecurities. The perfect boyfriend does not slide into other girls’ DMs. The perfect boyfriend knows by heart, his girl’s shoe size, bra size, dress size, foundation type, lipstick make, powder brand, sanitary pad brand, hair relaxer type and shampoo brand. The perfect boyfriend does not just orally encourage his girl to follow her dreams or pursue her passion, but he advises, guides and supports her so she does not falter. The perfect boyfriend is not blunt with the truth if it will do more harm than good to his girl. No, the perfect boyfriend does not lie to his girl either. The perfect boyfriend tells the truth to his girl in a way she will be able to comprehend it.

Above all these, the perfect boyfriend prays for his girl every day.

Photo credit: 36ng.com.ng

100 reasons why we can’t work out

January 9, 2016harold 2 Comments

Hi,
It’s me. I was wondering if I could have a minute of your time. I’m sorry for having to communicate this via a letter. I was hoping we could talk about it, but we wouldn’t have the time. I can’t remember the last time we had the time to have a good talk about serious issues. Talking about serious things has become a sort of luxury for us. We have the time to talk about every other thing except serious issues affecting us. Well, I have improvised a medium to communicate this to you. I hope you have the time to read it to the end.
I surmise you would have garnered a clue for the essence of this letter from the subject. No, I am not breaking up with you. I still love you. I think. But sometimes, I think love is just not enough. I feel what we share may be heading for the rocks. You know, like Titanic heading for the iceberg. Who would have thought it, that something so strong and beautiful could ever disintegrate?
So without much ado, let me go straight to the purport of this letter.
1. We are perfect, but not perfect for each other.

I know our friends adore us; they literally worship our relationship. They tell us how they envy our love. They send us pings, confessing their admiration for our recently uploaded BBM profile pictures. They enter our DMs, telling us how they appreciate our tweeted quotes on love. They like our pictures on Instagram and Facebook. They see us at social gatherings on weekends, holding hands, and they tell us how much that inspired them.

Our families – oh our families. They can’t wait to hear when we’ll be tying the knot. They know we are meant for each other.

Our colleagues at work keep talking about how much we call each other during working hours. Our love must be so deep, they say.

Maybe they are right. Maybe they are wrong, but you and I know we are in a strange place.

I like cuddling while I sleep. It makes me sleep better, but cuddles are not your thing. You would rather spread on the bed. It makes you comfortable. I don’t like how you spread.

I like preserving left over foods in the fridge. You don’t like frozen foods.

I like the Rose air fresher for the room. It makes me happy. The smell makes you vomit. You prefer a scent of lavender. I hate lavenders.

I love visiting friends on weekends. You would rather sleep at home.

I was brought up in an Orthodox church and would want to continue there. You were brought up in a Pentecostal and nothing would make you leave.

I don’t like your short hair. I prefer a woman who keeps long hair. You don’t like my little pot belly. You wish I worked out more.

I don’t like onions in my soup. But onions in soup, is the soup to you.

I prefer texting. You prefer calling.

So you see, we could be perfect in the eyes of others, but we are not perfect for each other.

2. Our career paths.

Remember when I got this job at the big auditing firm? You were happy for me, but sad that it took most of my time. I had to be out of the house before the cock crowed and wouldn’t be back until midnight. Sometimes I slept over at the office. I convinced you everything would be fine. The job was paying well and we needed the money. I promised to look for a more convenient job after five years.

Well, just as the five year ultimatum was closing in really fast, you informed me you got an irresistible job offer at that Multinational. Your dream job.

Hmm.

You know what your job description entails, right? You will literally live on the road. I know I was happy for you when you told me about the job, but you and I know it won’t augur so well for our relationship in the long run.

3. Our chastity resolve.

When we started dating, we resolved to remain chaste until our wedding night. We knew it was the best thing to do. Or so we thought. We did not want our skin fusion to muddle up our real feelings for each other. We also did not want to offend God.

We held on for so long, kept our sides of the bargain.

Until that night.

I know we did not actually skin-fuse, but what we did, was close enough. Ever since then, we have continued in the act. We may not have skin-fused, but how long can we hold on until we finally do?

I stumbled on your diary the other day. I read your entry for the 5th of November. You said you were unhappy. You were unhappy about what we have been doing.

It made you want more.

It made you not want more.

You were not sure what we were doing. But you continued.

We should not have to live that way.
4. Our backgrounds.

You are from the North. I am from the West.

I know we already talked about this, even before we started dating. I know we agreed this wouldn’t be a problem. In fact, it hasn’t been a problem. We have circumvented everything that could have been a barrier. For example, our language of communication. We have settled for English. Well, we had no choice. It was always going to be English.

One other thing that could have been a barrier was the blessings of our families. But our families know we are dating and they are cool with it. Their paramount concern is our happiness. Wow. That should settle everything, right? But it hasn’t.

Being from different worlds has far reaching consequences than we could imagine. Have you considered the future? Our children? Our children’s children? I have.

When we have children – if we have our children, how do we want to raise them? Your Northern values are different from our values in the West. Should we super-impose our respective values on our children? Or let them choose which one to follow?

If we let them decide for themselves, there could be a conflict or friction in the home, especially when some of our children decide to follow one parent’s values and the others decide to follow the second parent’s values.

How about the language thing? Will our children also speak just English? How long before they forget their roots? What becomes of their own children?

A friend told me about his cousins who were raised in America. They have lived all their lives there that they aren’t sure if their parents’ country is Nigeria or Africa.

I know this is a long call as it relates to us, but I’m sure you get my point.

5. Wait. There’s a knock on the door.

No, “There’s a knock on the door” is not one of the 100 reasons why we can’t work out, Silly. I’m saying there’s a knock on my door. I think my neighbour is out of cooking gas.
Again.

Hang in there whilst I go lend him my gas bottle.

Oh. It’s not my neighbour. It’s the courier service delivering a letter to the wrong apartment.

I think I should give this letter to him to deliver to you before I change my mind about sending it.

I shall forward the concluding part of this letter to you on a future date.

Until then….

Yours,

Me.

*Addendum: I have just quickly scanned through this letter and I realise I did not refer to you in any pet name, save for Silly. I am sorry. It just feels weird that, for a long time now, we haven’t called ourselves those “mushy mushy” names we used to when we started dating. And me addressing you by any of those names in this letter would be plain hypocritical. You know I still love you, right? But maybe, ………………………………………………

It’s never too late to say this

January 19, 2015harold 4 Comments

Photo credit: http://rsmollisonread.com/my-2015-writing-goals/

My 2015 writing goals?

No. I stopped setting writing goals since…this year.

Now to the purpose of this post… I know this might be coming late, but it’s never too late to say happy new year. I bless the good Lord who made it possible for us to see 2015. It was not by our power nor by our might. If it had not been the Lord who had been on my side, I would have been history by now. Despite my unfaithfulness, He still showered me with His steadfast love. 2014 was a particularly amazing year for me. Not so great for my writing craft, but in other respect, it was amazeballs!!! For starters, I celebrated one year anniversary at my paid job in December 2014. Wait, did you think I write for a living? Really? Nah, I don’t write (creative fiction/non-fiction) for a living. Not just yet. It’s something I intend doing later in life. For now, I write for the love of the craft. Okay. I was saying I celebrated one year anniversary on my paid job in December 2014. As most of you don’t know, I was thrown into the labour market some two years ago as a Corper (whatever this word actually mean in English). By the end of my service year (December 2013), the good Lord provided me with a job, which, by its requirements, I was the least qualified for. You know when you apply as a youth corper for a job, which basic qualification for, is to have at least 3 years post-NYSC work experience? Yup, that was the sort of job I applied for. And I was hired.

Before December 2014, when I celebrated a year on the job, the Lord blessed me with this beauty below: If you are friends with me on facebook, you would have seen my post on the above. One thing you may not know, is that, within two weeks of getting it, I was welcome into the club of fresh owners with three “bashes”. One was self inflicted, the other two were courtesy of our friends who drive that yellow whale on Lagos roads. Good Lord, did I almost cry?…Anyway, story for another day….

Asides the material gifts, the Lord also blessed me emotionally and spiritually. My mental strength toughened in 2014. I became braver than I was in 2013 and I was able to face and withstand seeming challenges without breaking.

My inter-personal relationship with fellow humans also blossomed in 2014. I love keeping to myself, but in 2014, I made sure I made some new acquaintances. Just a few, though.

I also tried to know God more. Yes, the key word is “Tried”,because, truth be told, I am not yet where I want to be spiritually. But yes, I grew in that regard in 2014. I just want to better it in 2015.

Health-wise, the Lord was also faithful to me. I did not have any reason to visit any hospital in 2014. It’s been about three years now since I last visited a clinic. And it’s a testimony for me. The closest I came to visiting a place full of drugs is the pharmacy to buy paracetamol. And oh, I also bought anti-malarial dose once in 2014. *wide grin*

My love life also finally took a turn in the positive direction for the first time in four years. Shussh..Story for another day.

God has started 2015 in grand style for me as well. On the 6th of January, 2015 as I was driving home from work at night, one of those fine boys who rob unsuspecting motorists and pedestrians along Iyanoworo/Car Wash axis came over to my car whilst I was in traffic. He pointed a gun at me and demanded for my phone…or my life. I starred at this guy for God-knows-how-long without flinching, not because I was brave, but for whatever-reason-it-was, I did not move at the sight of his gun to my face. As he cocked his gun and made more dramatic demands, God took care of the situation by making a way out. I did not lose any personal belonging or my life. What more can I ask of the Most High who promised us the gift of life and was faithful to His word when I needed it most? Why am I sharing the above with you? We are encouraged in the following Bible verses to do so: Luke 8: 39, Psalm 71: 15 – 18, Mathew 10:32, 1 John 1: 1- 4.

Let me also use this opportunity to say a big thank you to everyone who visited my blog last year, commented on a post or suggested ways to better my craft. God bless you richly. In 2014, I hit over 100 likes on my facebook page here. Thanks to everyone who like my page, follow me on Twitter, instagram or add me on BBM.

I have a feeling 2015 is going to be an awesome year for everyone reading this. As for my writing, some of my plans that have been incubating for a while now should manifest this year by the grace of God. If you have been following my writing, I would love if you could apply some more pressure on me to write more. I have some “crazy” readers like that. They buzz me every now and then to remind me to post a story or two. I need more of these buzzes. They jolt me out of my struggles-of-life-induced reverie.

Gracias.

HAROLDWRITES

The Pen Whisperer

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