Lost and Found (I)

PS: This is a terribly long first part of a story whose end I do not know yet, but I hope you will oblige me (it is okay to read it in bits). It is a first draft, unedited, but heartfelt… I hope you enjoy it!



Picture source: Google

Boma is getting married next week Saturday. She called you seconds ago to inform you and ask when you will pick your aso-ebi. You are surprised. Who is the lucky guy? When did he propose? When was the date fixed? Why the hurry? You are surprised, but you say nothing but profuse congratulations. You tell her you are sorry but you will not be able to make it; the timing is short, you have an assignment at work. You lie.

Truth is, you are tired of attending weddings and catching bouquets of flowers that never lead into anything but almost-happened-but-actually-never-happened relationships.

She feigns a cry. You feign sadness. She asks you to buy one aso-ebi nonetheless, maybe it will make you reconsider making an appearance. She says it will mean a lot. You know it is a lie, she just wants your money. You ask her to send you a picture of the material anyway. In seconds, the beep of your Samsung phone announces its arrival. It is a stunning gold and black lace. You tell her you will have one and ask her to keep yours before you wish her away.

Boma is your childhood friend. She is one of those friends that cannot be squeezed into a box or tier. She is not close or dear or best or anything like that– just your childhood friend that you almost always talk to but never really have much to talk about; well, save for weddings and aso- ebis. She had been the one to inform you of every school party and as you grew, she would inform you of weddings. At first, it was Barbara’s wedding, then Kelly and Drew and Andrea. In fact, it was her idea that the 2006/2007 set of Kompti High school surprise Smart at her bridal shower, and it had been an awesome turnout. Smart had gone crazy with joy on seeing you all, and you had drank and gossiped and rewound the hands of time, until you had been drunk (well, a-little-too-tipsy) and been made to let Shelma, Smart’s ex-boyfriends ex-girlfriend, read your palm. She had said you will be the next of the pack to get married and it would be a grand affair.  You had known she was a scammer. Her ridiculously long lashes and finger nails did not fool you, but a part of you had honestly hoped it would be true– her prediction. You shake imaginary tears off your face now and try to be happy for Boma. And then you smile, a forced almost-happened smile as if to re-assure yourself that you are indeed happy for her.

You check your phone for notifications, anything to distract you but there is nothing. It is the middle of an uneventful Monday and you are craving a miracle. You browse through your email for the umpteenth time that day, but there is no activity there either. You feel the rush of tears behind your eye lids now, it is just too much to take in. Nothing, absolutely nothing, seems to be happening in your life at the moment and the reality of it is breaking you into bits; your strength is wearing thin; and your faith, taking leave. You have a long hoping list– of jobs, school applications, marriage/boyfriend propositions but nothing is coming through. But you cannot cry, not now; even though you have a cubicle to yourself, you cannot give in to tears. You take a coffee break and re-watch your favorite episodes of America’s Got Talent, until your boss dumps a bulk of files on your desk– the one time, you conclude, he ever made a timely appearance. You smile and thank him profusely, and you do not miss the spark of surprise in his eyes as he struggles to figure out what is going on before he walks out of your office in surrender. He never replied. You work through 5pm, until Sam knocks at your door to inform you he is on his way home. You ask him for a minute to pack up and soon, you join him in his car.

Sam is that one office buddy that has it all figured out and is everyone’s friend for a season. He has a car in which he gives a ride to people going along his route. You and about four or five other people would usually squeeze into his car at close of work. You always get the front seat because you are big, and even though there are very few occasions when you are thankful for your size, this one trumps the list! You get a full space to yourself, and you don’t even have to pay rent! Hooray! You barely make conversation with him, save for “hellos”, “thank you’s” and “byes”, and on few occasions “oh you know that song? That used to be my jam!”, “you have a lovely voice”, “so any plans for the weekend?”, “oh right”, “that’s nice”, “me? Nothing much”, and “exactly’s”. But you are grateful anyhow, even though you find him too attractive to be a mere acquaintance in your life. Half the hitchers have now alighted and it is remaining Gbemi, you and Sam, sailing in amiable silence until Gbemi breaks the ice.

“Sam, what are you doing next-week Saturday sef?” She asks, in an almost nonchalant manner, although you know that was one well-calculated-intended-purposeful-and-targeted question.

“A lot of things, except you want to take a man on a date. Who is he to say no?”

Egbe! Shebi it is the man that is supposed to take the woman on a date?”

“Shebi it is you people that are fighting for gender equality? What a man can do, a woman can do better abi? Prove it na!” He smirks. You smile in your mind.

Smh!” FYI, Gbemi is that one person that would rather proclaim an emotion or gesture than feel or act it. She would say “Lol” and maintain a straight face, or “Rme” and look you dead in the eye, un-blinking. You sigh in your head. “Anyway,” she continues “there is this wedding on Saturday and I am looking for a plus-one.”

“Wait, which wedding?” you catch yourself asking before you can stop to think, or think to stop.

She eyes you briefly as if to assure you that she wasn’t looking for just any plus-one. She needed a “date” and preferably, he had to have a car. And you understand. In fact, you understood her even before she decided to explain with her eyes, you are just surprised her make-up-on-fleek skills and hot-bod have not fetched her a long list of waiting capable suitors; the type that tick all the boxes and leave extra ticks for any extra requirements that may pop up along the line. You sigh in your head again.

“Sarah and Omoyeni, Hashtag SarOmo17. Why?”

“A friend of mine is also having her wedding on the same day. I was just curious to know if she was a mutual friend of ours.” You see the slight dance of victory in her eyes. You don’t blame her. Sam is hot like that. You escape into your world after then, staring out the window and almost do not hear her say “see you tomorrow Gracie”, except by a stroke of luck. You turn to smile after her shadow. It is the least you owe her.

You stare back out the window, and drown in Simi’s soothing voice playing off her new album in Sam’s car, hoping direly that he doesn’t feel obliged to make conversation today, at least–

“How about—”

“–not today!” you catch yourself voicing your thoughts to him, unintentionally but timely; so you quickly try to amend the almost-damaged situation, lest he feels offended and refuses to give you a ride anymore. “I mean, please not today. I—I have a feeling that you always try to make conversation so that I don’t feel uneasy. While I appreciate it, I just don’t quite feel up to it today. I—I am not in a good place. I am sorry.” You dare to look at him, and in place of the mild irritation or anger you expect to find, is a touch of concern, or is it pity? You look away.

“I am sorry you feel that way Grace. But if it helps to know, I actually enjoy conversing with you, and I don’t take it as a chore, neither do I see you as a burden I have to distract myself from.”

You smile and nod, but you refuse to reply.

He nods in return, as if to say “I understand you perfectly, and I am willing to share this melodic silence with you” and you are grateful for it, to him.

When he drops you off at the front of the compound that houses your flat, which is about six-or something buildings away from his own, he hesitates before driving away.

“If you ever reconsider talking; I mean, about this bad place you are in, call me. Okay?”

Tempting, but err— no!

“I will certainly think about thinking about it.” He smiles. You smile too. “But I should be fine after a good night’s rest.”

“You had better be! I would not let you off in this mood tomorrow.” He states as a matter-of-fact, that you almost believe him, and then he disappears into the selfish arms of darkness; and you, into the deafening quietness that is the reality of your present life.

You do not sleep that night.

You stay up denying the existence of a past that once was. You start by deleting all your social media applications, and unsubscribing from news-letters. You delete your blog, and remove your current sim card; replacing it with a new one—from the stack of new sim cards you always keep handy. You delete all your pictures, and music; and empty your phone of everything that reminds you of anything you once owned or experienced. You find a pair of scissors too, and jam it into your hair before you change your mind.



Until you don’t recognize yourself anymore.

Once you are satisfied, and there is nothing more to rid yourself of, you cry—a long, loud, reaching round of tears. By the time sleep finds you, morning is knocking at your door but you are not quite ready to face another day.


© The Short Black Girl, 2017.





Dear Lord,
here I come.
My heavy heart won’t let loose
And my tongue is tied
I can’t ask you to walk in my shoes
But I know you know where my hurt lies
So see me, Lord; see me
Set my soul free


Dear Lord,
here I go;
Counting my problems,
forgetting your gifts.
Worry is man-made, yet I wear it boldly;
While I let the peace of your Grace take a back seat.
I am sorry; forgive me
You have given me eyes Lord,
please make them see


Dear Lord,
here I be,
abide with me;
in me, through me, be for me Lord
Let your blessings and favour find me,
Touch me, heal me, teach me.
There is no place else i’d rather be
Than in the knowingness of your unfailing-ness
You are Lord
You are
And because You are, be for me




All I have seen teaches me to trust the Creator for all I have not seen

-Ralph Waldo Emerson


Picture source: Instagram- @notitia.shared


© The Short Black Girl, 2017.

Secrets of a Virgin Girl (7).

See here for previous episode.


Hola fam! This is another long episode, but the last of the series, SOVG. Thank you again for all the feedback. You are amazing! I say we do this again, sometime soon. What say you?  😍😘😉😊



It is Sunday—the weekend after, and you toss lazily in bed, snippets of last night slipping into your head. You and Sogo had gone to have dinner at your parent’s as discussed last week. He had arrived at your house something around 4:00pm yesterday and you had both driven down to your parents Magodo apartment in time for dinner. Mama and Papa had received you both warmly. Papa had seemed thoroughly charmed, as he engaged Sogo in a variety of discussions of interest—his major preferences being Politics and the state of the Nigerian Economy. Sogo’s responses, you reckoned, had been well thought-out, bold and independent—of Social media retorts and comments; and in fact pleasing to Papa, as you noticed the glint of approval in his eyes. Mama, on the other hand, appeared a little undecided, maybe less so than when she first set eyes on him that evening; but undecided, nonetheless.

She had asked questions, which you considered too intimidating and embarrassing for a first meeting; and had time not been so short, she would have gone on indefinitely. “What do you want with our daughter?” “Do you feel intimidated by her success?” “Do you know she is a virgin?” The way Sogo had confidently answered her, though, did so much to put your mind at ease. By the end of the meeting, Papa’s warm handshake as he bid you both goodbye, assured you that Sogo had won Papa’s love. The impish smile on mama’s lips however, did not give away too much; but the way she had held your gaze assured you that you would hear from her soon. You had held her gaze with matching strength too, in a way that said you would be ready whenever she struck!

Her call comes in around 8:00am, steering you from your reminiscence. You were not expecting her call this early but you pick it nonetheless.

“Good morning ma” you address her, your voice thick with rebellion.

“Morning Lara. How are you today?”

“Fine ma” you respond impatiently. You wish she would just get to the point already and not try to soften you up.

“See, I know you are angry that I asked your friend so many questions yesterday, but that is what any good mother would do. I must know what my daughter is getting into, and assure myself that she has not let love blind her judgement of her man’s character, worth and capability. And I must say, he is one fine gentleman.”

Surprise steals over your face, as her kind words ebb at the remnants of rage that seat in the pit of your heart, effortlessly. You smile. “I know ma. Thank you ma.”

“In fact—“ she continues, “—your dad and I called Daddy-in-the-Lord yesterday night to inform him that his god daughter will be getting married. He was very excited, until he called this morning to tell us that he prayed about it and you cannot marry him.”

Your rage returns. Daddy-in-the-Lord is your godfather, a spiritual and very inspiring man whom you respect and revere so much. Your family has always consulted him every time there is a big decision to be made, and his suggestions and predictions have always proved right; although now that you think of it, no one has actually ever dared to prove him wrong.

“It is frightening enough that he is Muslim and from a Polygamous family—“ mama continues, undeterred by your silence, “—but if those were the only considerations we had to make, the decision would have been an easy one. Omolara, this is bigger than us. Daddy says you must cease all relations with him immediately, and that if you choose to proceed, the consequences are grave for your future as a family together.”

You are speechless now.

“See Lara, I know you love him. In fact, yesterday, it was so obvious that you both care for each other but there is too much at stake. All I want is your happiness, because automatically, it becomes my own happiness. And your father, and Daddy want the same for you too. We know you’ll be needing a lot of time to take this in, and get over him; but I want you to know that we care for you and we are here for you, and in God’s time, your miracle will come.”

You still do not say a word. Tears are brewing in your eyes now; and soon, they start to fall mercilessly. You let them. You do not believe in miracles anymore.

“Hello? Are you there?—Lara?—Lara?” You do not answer. “MTN sha! They have started again this morning! Lara?— ”

“Maybe you have exhausted your call time.” You hear papa’s suggesting voice underneath.

“Lara?” mama calls out to you one last time before cutting the call. Immediately, you switch your phone off and resume your tears in full gear. Why?! Why has love never worked out for you? It has either been that the ones you liked did not like you back, or you did not like the ones that liked you. Yet, the first time you eventually meet someone who cares for you as much as you care for him, you are told you cannot marry him. You wish now that you were in a movie, so that you could just put a daunting soundtrack like Simi’s Love don’t care or Chidima’s All I want is you to your life as you diss mama and tell her you will marry the love of your life whether she or anyone else likes it or not. But life, reality—is a little more complicated than all of that.

You love each other, but is love really worth sabotaging your future for? Would it not be selfish of love to ask you to pick short-term happiness over long-term sustenance and fulfillment? But then again, what is a fulfilling life without genuine love? You are confused and angry! Why? Why did God make you meet him? Why did He make you fall in love? Why did He put that sign in your way on that Sunday morning when you asked for His direction? More questions and no answer, and your rage intensifies. You force yourself to sleep now to douse your heart’s heat, hoping that maybe you will wake up to realize everything is a dream; no love, no heartbreak.

You wake up an hour and thirty minutes later to the reality of your woe, when the smell of something tangy fills your nostrils. You head out, puffy eyed to find Sogo in your kitchen, fixing breakfast.

“Good morning Sunshine!” he coos upon seeing you.

You break inside as it hits you that, perhaps, that is the last time you will hear that voice and see that smile. “Good morning–” you manage a smile “—I think we need to talk.” You continue, wasting no time.

You catch something that looks like fear pull his eyebrows together in a brilliant squeeze, but you do not let that deter you; as you recount the gist of the discussion you had with mama to him before you change your mind. Once you are done, for emphasis sake, you add, “We cannot continue seeing each other, Olorunsogo. And I am sure you understand that I am doing this for us.”

“So… so that’s it?” he questions, his voice spiralling higher and higher by the second “that’s—that’s it, right? After six months of love, courtship and friendship, you want to break up just like that, and you do not even care what I think or feel? You think I have not thought about our vast differences severally? You think I have not had people tell me to give us a rethink?  I have… but I have not been so quick to dismiss what we’ve come so long to build; something you obviously do not appreciate the gravity of!”

You are angry and surprised. Angry that he thinks it was an easy decision for you to make; surprised that he would speak to you in that manner, lashing words at you like a weapon. But you have not got time for words. You have not got the time or energy to explain to him how you wish he had never been a part of your life to start with, so you would not be in the dilemma of whether to rescue the moment or save a very uncertain future from some foretold danger. “Thank you for making breakfast. I would appreciate it if you leave as soon as possible. You do not have to tell me when you are going. I am sorry, and thank you.” You walk away from him now, but he pulls you back into a defeating kiss. You break down again, as you melt in his arms; renting apart in a fresh round of tears. He hugs you tightly, like he has never done before; like he will never do again.

“Omolara, you are a believer. Where is your faith at a time that we need it most? Why are you proposing a break up, rather than a prayer battle?”

Faith? Fighting? You wish he had not said a word so that maybe you could have stayed in his arms longer. You pull away now with resolute purpose, as you say your final words to him before leaving for your room “Goodbye Olorunsogo Martins. I hope you have a good life.” He does not try to stop you now. Even if he did, it would make no difference; because your mind is made up. In less than thirty minutes, you hear the loud bang of your front door, the sound of a vehicle being kicked into ignition, and the screeching sound of angry tyres or perhaps an angry driver.

And then, it dawns on you– he is going; he is gone. Your best friend, your first love. You remember the hope in his eyes, and how he had wished you would not end things so quickly. You remember the last kiss, and how you had wished it would go on for eternity. You soak up in tears. You miss him already. You feel like love has failed you; and maybe it has—or maybe it has not. Maybe you failed love. Maybe you should have fought.

“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation”

– Khalil Gibran


© The Short Black Girl, 2016.

He’s got your back!

This feels like a sequel, if I may, to my Friday post. I get that feeling, as many of us might, of sometimes ‘just not knowing’. It gets overwhelming, what with responsibilities you know you have to cater to; expectations of people (friends, family) of and from you; dreams and desires and all of that… It appears as though there is no time to be unsure, yet you can’t help it. You pray, but you just still ‘don’t know’. Things happen, unexpectedly and they alter the course of every blooming thing, and you just ‘don’t know’. You are tired, confused, you have to keep on, but you ‘don’t know’. You don’t know where you are going, or what will happen. You don’t know what you’ll find, you don’t know what the future holds. It’s happening, life’s happening so fast, but you don’t know…

Well, I stumbled upon this, and I thought i’d share:

He's got your back

Sometimes, the mystery is the answer. You, me, we are not alone in this. I hope you keep on, I hope that you never stop. And in the end, just know that He’s always got your back!

Have a splufik week ahead family.


© The Short Black Girl, 2016.

His Love.


Last night, I was terribly hungry. I had been hungry for as long as I know, but last night was different. I was terribly hungry that my stomach growled so loud I almost danced to its beat. And it wasn’t just me. There were many other people around who would give anything to have a bite of air or a sip of rain. We lay down on the open field, backs to the ground, and heads turned to the sky. Everyone, grouped into cliques. Hope was what kept us alive… and we would pray too, day and night, that God should listen to us and surprise us. We knew He could. Miracles are His forte.

There had been no rain, and the crops couldn’t thrive. A lot of the big men had left the city behind in search of better abode, because they could. But me, the rest of us, Basilli was the only earth we knew. So we stayed, because even if we chose to leave, there was no where else to go. Thousands lay dead already, their rotting bodies nourishing the soil to no profit. For what shall it profit earth to have manure for food, but no rain for water?

I was in deep thought. Still in deep thought of the woe that befell Basilli, and the eventual fate that would befall the rest of us if no succour came, when a truck drove into the field. It was a government truck. There were loaves of bread, and cheap bottles of water stoking the truck to near convulsion, but it didn’t seem almost- enough to feed everyone. Despite the people that had left the city, by choice or fate, Basilli’s population still stood at about a few dozens less than a million. Everyone rushed at the truck and the drivers grabbing food like it was a ticket for one more chance at life in Basilli. My clique and I split, joining the tussle, pushing and pulling. Eventually, I got to the truck in time to grab the last stock of bread and water.

I stood beside myself then, angry at God and life. After all those nights of praying fervently for a miracle, it came and all I got from it was a flimsy loaf of bread and bottle of water, when a lot of the other people got a dozen more in excess of what they needed for themselves, their cliques and their families! I was thoroughly angry, wondering why God let them have what they didn’t deserve! With loathing tears in my eyes, I looked up to re- assess the injustice everywhere. And for the first time since the mob action, I noticed a good number of people without food nor water, one of whom was a clique member I used to pray with every night before we fell asleep.

I rushed to him in wonder. ‘Ketu, you are a strong man, how come you couldn’t make it to the truck to get some food?’

‘Milo, I got pushed and trampled upon five times, hurt myself so bad that I couldn’t attempt another step. I crawled back here even.’

‘What?!’ I was surprised. ‘How did that happen?’

‘How did it happen? You mean you didn’t even get a bruise? Common! Everyone got injured or badly scarred out there! Some even died! We are lucky!’

In a space of seconds, anger had turned to sympathy, and sympathy to shame! I was ashamed at myself. There I was thinking God was all shades of not nice, when he had saved me from getting any more miserable than I already was, and he even let me have food to eat… none of which I deserved. I began to realise, as I sank to the ground that my star did not not shine and God did not not smile down on me. Infact, I didn’t deserve life any better than those that died of hunger, or got killed while hustling for food, yet He gifted me with it.

So, I put down my bread, cut it into neat pieces and shared it to a few others without food. And as I watched them eat, all thoughts of my own hunger got lost on me.

Last night was a miracle, I couldn’t sleep. I just laid on the field, watching the stars in the sky. I was happy and fulfilled. And so I kept vigil to thank God for His Love.


Disclaimer: Names of cities, and people used here are as fictitious as can be. By the way, Google says Basilli is a Bacteria… Oh well! I hope you enjoyed the story. 😀


© The Short Black Girl, 2015.