Flatter me senseless
Shower me with sweet nothings
It’s all two-faced noise.
Hi, I seem to have neglected my blog as life, stuff and a few arguments get in the way! I’m back with a contribution to the Daily prompt.
It starts of innocently, you feed it with a smart come back, it wants more.
So you come in with a well placed jab.
You think you’ve shut it down.
Beads of sweat form at your pits.
Your heart is thumping, you know you’re right and he/she is wrong.
A voice like yours, but surely not, goes even higher.
You’re not backing down now.
You’re winning this one.
And then comes the regretting and the not forgetting.
Who won that bout you say. I dunno. It was an argument.
This is my little bit of pure flash fiction for a Short Story Day Africa prompt of a Mask.
My dear, I’ll weep when I hear of your demise. I’ll throw myself onto the floor and tear off my clothes. People will think grief has driven me insane.
They will shake their heads in pity and say “Sorry oh, my sister”.
They’ll turn their noses up as soon as my back is turned and think about what you may or may not owe them. Your people will come and demand that I remain in the house for 7 days. They will ask me to shave my head, to wear black and starve myself.
What nonsense I’ll think, I don’t have to wear that face anymore. I can choose my own pretty face, I can wear flowers in my hair. I can put pictures on the wall. I can dance to Fela or whatever the kids dance to these days. I am looking forward to that.
Husband, your journey has been long, but your farewell is nigh.
Your people are here, they look around the rooms and ask if you left money for the funeral rites, I shrug my shoulders and cry. I have other masks– the helpless widow, the dutiful wife or the faceless fool who fetched and carried and cooked and cleaned but was never heard.
I put one on and compose myself.
They pretend to feed my children while siphoning grain from the stores. I notice previously empty bags are now full. My mask slips, I go wild and send your people packing. They snigger and stare.
The imam counts his rosary beads, whispering fake prayers under his breath. I ask him to leave. It IS my house now.
I hear the sounds of Samba in the distance, it is Mardi Gras tomorrow. I will dance to my heart’s content, the shackles have been shed.
RIP jailer. It’s my time to shine.
Hi gratitude, I seemed to have lost you somewhere along the way.
I’m trying to get you back, cos I know you have me covered
I’m promoting to you to my first and last thing of the day.
Why? because you improve my heart rhythm and reduce my stress level and generally make the world a better place.
You flood my body and my brain with feel good endorphins, you can’t be that bad after all.
Let get back together..
I’ve decided to link up to Bernadette’s posts on thankfulness. So what I am grateful for this week.
I spent Saturday with my youngest teen picnicking and walking around Christ Church meadows in Oxford, small thing I know, but she’s at an age where going on a picnic with mother is so last year.
With promises of Pokémons aplenty and a visit to Top shop we set off. Oxford was hot, stifling hot and full of tourists lining up to do the Harry Potter trail, see the splendour of Oxford’s colleges or just being herded into open-top buses to do touristy things in a small city.
We headed for peace and tranquillity of the meadow and sat watching the rowers and punters manoeuvre their boats down the Rivers Cherwell and Thames. The best thing of all is that we talked about stuff, stuff important to teenagers without the TV, a phone or any distractions except the occasional splash and waddle of the ducks and geese that seemed too hot to move.
“Thanks mum”, she said after we’d stuffed ourselves on cold coffee, sandwiches and cookies. “It’s been great, but can we go shopping now?”
And so we went back to maddening crowd in Oxford city centre. Two hours of bliss with my Teen is something to be grateful for.
Living life in the public certainly has a few pitfalls, this is a reblog of a post on one of the uk’s most popular teen youtubers. I wish her the very best in getting better. Marina, give yourself a break and look after number one.
So, if you’ve been anywhere near Twitter (or any other social media, to be honest) recently, you’ve definitely heard about the controversy surrounding British youtuber Marina Joyce and the trending hashtag #savemarinajoyce. In today’s blog post, I’m going to take a closer look at what’s happened and share my views on the situation (just for the bants).
To start off, I would like to say that I support Marina 100%, and I truly do hope that she gets the help she needs to overcome whatever she is battling – I feel like it’s pretty obvious that Marina is going through some personal issues, which she needs space and privacy to work through. Unfortunately, being a famous youtuber means you are almost constantly in the public eye – and many people think that this gives them the right to probe in her life.
So, where did it all begin?
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Hi, this is my contribution to a Short Story Day Africa prompt.
Zaina glanced at her sleeping husband and then at the bulky belt she was to wear to Jumat prayers, eyes closed, praying seemed futile and sleep wouldn’t come, it was as if sleep knew that something was going down today.
Adamu began to stir, he always woke up a few minutes before the muezzin called the prayer, sixteen months old and his body seemed in tune with life in the bush, she smiled at him as she pushed his thumb back into his puckered mouth. The one good thing to come out of this mess. Gosh, she thought, I’m a 15 year old mother, what are the odds? That was her father’s favourite phrase, said solemnly when anyone was fretting about anything. When mama thought the rains wouldn’t come, “what are the odds that we’ll all starve?” he said. When her sister Felicia had refused an arranged marriage and mama began to wail, throwing herself on the floor as if someone had died. Papa calmly said “what are the odds that her life is over? I’m sure they’ll be others.
Husband was awake.
“Make we do am one last time before you go see your friends for Janaa” he said chuckling.
“Yes sir,” she said fingering the object concealed beneath her hijab.
It went in like a hot knife in soft shea butter, he let out a gurgle as life and air rushed out of him.
What are the odds that I’ll make it home? She thought strapping Adamu to her back.
I haven’t posted in a while, just been busy worrying about everything under the sun from Brexit to my young adults to my work-life balance!
It’s time banish worry into a box.
This is my letter to worry in response to a Daily post prompt: Companion
You seem to be my companion of late
I need to shake you off
Stop following me
You appear when I least expect
taking me down rabbit holes and making my heart miss a beat
I need to hook up with peace
You’re here again, taunting me, giving me endless what ifs
Get thee behind me worry, I’m not playing your games today.
Hi there, this is a story I posted as part of a short story day Africa prompt of an owl in flight.
Bobby hoped every night would be his last. Mama twins, his father’s second wife had threatened to leave him in the forest, she said he was a bad omen.
She blamed him for everything, his mother’s death, Taiwo’s convulsions and his father’s latest bout of malaria. He didn’t have the guts to tell her that his mother had sickle cell disease and his father was drunk. How was he going to convince her that at nine years old he couldn’t be held responsible for the family’s misfortunes?
He would have pointed out that her twins were the strange ones. Four years old, they spoke a mixture of English, some secret language that no one could understand and baby babble. He’d seen them talking to the blue eyed owl, it always seemed to be perched on the bougainvillea tree outside their bedroom window. The tree shed every day, he got a beating if a single leaf was found under the tree, blue eyes laughed at every stroke.
As he swept up the leaves for the nth time he noticed the twins playing catch with a stick. Old blue eyes began to flap and hoot. It swooped down and grabbed the snake as it leaned in to take a bite of a small chubby leg.
Kenny began to cry,
‘Where sticky gone?’
Taiwo joined in.
‘Wetin you dey do to my picken?’ mama twins growled.
‘Nothing oh!’ said Bobby as the owl flew off with its prey.
Bobby sighed, ‘thank you mama’.
Life and weekend breaks have got in the way of completing this challenge!
But here is my final quote taken from the lyrics of a lady whose latest album is making waves on all sides of the Atlantic.
Whether you think she’s a feminist, being political or its just bad ass marketing, Beyoncé has got us all thirsty.
Here’s the chorus to Freedom.
Freedom! Freedom! I can’t move
Freedom, cut me loose!
Freedom! Freedom! Where are you?
Cause I need freedom too!
I break chains all by myself
Won’t let my freedom rot in hell
Hey! I’ma keep running
Cause a winner don’t quit on themselves
My third and final nomination is olawritesfiction – check her blog for great African fiction.