Writing Hours

  We finished cooking last night and the traditional eager faces by the door and the queue to go grab plates and head to the stove didn’t happen. Instead, I had to traipse around from door to door,   “Myself and your little brother finished cooking like half an hour ago, aren’t you hungry?” The few who were hungry promised to come eat later.  Later was much later as I already ate and was asleep, their party-like noise woke me up. And I envisioned them walking around the living area, plate in hand, un smoothed semolina and okra soup in the same pasta dish as they chatted about colleagues, classmates, hobbies and what they would rather be eating.  We had God and community while raising the children and I had a lot of good times but last night, I think I stumbled upon the crux of the matter. That they couldn’t wait to grow up so they can do things their way!  Okra has always been a thing to celebrate, even in my late mom’s kitchen so I’m trying to understand. Gggrr...

  Tales from Church.   There’s    days you’re required to enter his gates with praise and thanksgiving then use your shakara to win souls to the glory of God. I had one of those opportunities and I’m horrified to say that I blew it. Despite the fact that I had a modest book business of my own, I was a teeny bit scared of the boss at the other side gig so I tried to texturise my hair and accidentally fried it.  Then reduced my work wardrobe to an array of assorted black trousers and different coloured blouses. Then one day, I watched myself walk past the usher at church in his gorgeous grey suit in my black trousers and the purple top I wore to work on Tuesday. Then I was purchasing    tops from Oxford street, we ran into a Nollywood actor in front of Dorothy Perkins, stared at him then walked past. It’s not every time you run into photo ops with the daughter! I kept my old Nokia N97 after their satellite was shut down and didn’t get the iPhone my local...