Secrets of a Virgin Girl (7).

See here for previous episode.

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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?  😍😘😉😊

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Relapse

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.

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Shine.

I believe that one of the most fulfilling feelings in life, is knowing that at one time or another we touched somebody’s life, or gave them a slice of hope, an iota of belief, or a shade of light. I believe that, that is indeed one of our greatest gifts as humans, the ability to rub off on the people around us without even trying too hard. I hope that today, and everyday– in everything we do and say, and be; and everything else we choose to not do, say or be, that we be a source of blessing to someone, and give them a chance or a reason to light up in a film of shine.

And I hope that, too, someone be that person to us too.

shine

Have a shine-full day family! ❤ ❤

Photo credit: @korekgraphy

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© The Short Black Girl, 2016.

Undaunted.

We do not always get things right, or make the right choices, or be with the right people, or say the right things, or do the right things– even when we really, really do try to. We constantly evolve, through perceptions and ideals, adjust to re-align ourselves to a moving world. We do everything to fit in and match up.

Sometimes, it works; and all of this magic rightness and righteousness turn out nicely- nice job, nice house, nice partner, nice kids, nice life. At other times, it doesn’t. We realise, having put so much effort into being right, that it doesn’t always get us “there”. Of course, “rightness” is subjective, as is that place called “there”, but the pain is the same, as is the gaping hole from the disappointment, rejection, loss, or heart-break; and the silent question on the edge of our lips that reads “didn’t we do all the right things that we were asked to”?

People will think things and see things differently; seated outside that glass window that is our life, they will drool over its’ seeming perfection, and even adopt our names as prayer points; unaware of the splinters and cracks in our souls from which tinny drops of life seep in to culminate into a rivulet of ache and pain.

These days almost always come. These feelings, almost all of us are familiar with. And it is okay to ask the questions, and cry the aches out; but we must also make sure to praise ourselves for trying and daring to love; for giving even without getting a dime in return. We must praise ourselves for having the courage to entrust our hearts to be broken; for having been vulnerable enough to be invaded. Most importantly, we must praise ourselves, because deep down in our hearts, we know that once beaten is not always twice shy; and even when our heart’s been beaten to a pulp by life’s wanton surprises, we would never truly give up on trying. We are beautiful because we are strong. We are strong, because we’ve been weak before, and we broke, and we healed. And now, we are standing again, waiting undauntedly to be broken again…

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© The Short Black Girl, 2016.

Make it count.

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Say we started each day on a blank space– no yesterday’s or tomorrow’s, befores or afters, or then or laters… just now. The moment. The blink. The beat. The itch. The jolt. The breath. The feel. Yes, that feeling that perhaps every second exists in itself, and maybe it really does… because the next second is not guaranteed, and the last second is gone as though it never happened. So it’s here and now, and what you do with it. It could end now, and it could continue. But we don’t know how much more feels, or breaths, or heartbeats there’ll be; or how how many more blinks, or moments it’ll take. When’s the last hello or the last goodbye, the next later that may never arrive… I don’t know, maybe you don’t too. But we know of a now. Wouldn’t we rather make it count?

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© The Short Black Girl, 2015.

“Guess what, he said he wants a divorce!”

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Good morning again Lovelies! I got a Daily Post prompt yesterday, which read “call someone, or ask the person next to you what he/ she is thinking, and write about it!” My first thought was what?! And then, I burst into a feat of giggles as I dared myself to take on the challenge.

So I called! And she said, “Guess what, he wants a divorce!” And I’m like “Halleluyah, but what?!”

While it might have been so much more fun writing about what we discussed, I am a little angry typing this post out. I don’t get it, that some men can be so damn insensitive and too old for reasoning sometimes. Okay, this is a little gist about the issue on ground. It’s a typical rich wife, struggling hubby story, and as you would guess, hubby feels so threatened that his wife is thriving. In fairness to the woman, she tries! She is one very generous and giving woman who hates to see the people around her in need. So she just gives, even without expecting a dime in return. She pays the rent, fuels the car, buys foodstuff for the house once in a while, and just about keeps the house running. Just so he doesn’t feel less than a man, she consults him on things and asks him for money for basic house needs – not because she doesn’t have it, but just so he can feel in charge!. She buys him clothes, and gifts – so he looks good!, she pays his tuition fees – dude is yet to bag a proper degree!; but the silly lot that he is, just writes off all the debt he owes to a never- ending tomorrow. She works 8am – 5pm, and so does he, but he’s too much of a man to help around the house. No, I don’t get it. I just think it is grossly unfair!

This goes on for a while, and a cute baby comes along. There’s even more responsibility! Diapers, school fees, baby upkeep, plus the usual rent, clothing’s, foodstuff and all! But hubby is still blinded by hate to step up his game. Wifey still pays his tuition, takes care of rent, takes care of his parents and hers, provides for the baby’s needs (except baby milk and diaper which she has refused to add to her long list) and makes life a little worth living for all of them. Who better than he thanks God for having such a capable wife, and prays to be able to own up to his responsibilities one day so he can pay her back and feel as he should, a man! Yet, all he would do is go to work, come back late (claiming he is not responsible for the traffic on the road), expect already made dinner when there is the baby to care of after a long day at work and he won’t even offer to take care of the baby while she rustles something for them to eat. Osiginni?! I shudder at the thought, and hurt for she who is on this spot! Why?

After a long time overdue, wifey decides enough is enough! No more loans or bad debts, especially because most advances/loan he takes remain unsettled for a very long period of time, until they’re forgotten! No more paying of his school fees, no more birthday gifts (it’s bad enough that during wifey’s birthday, hubby will always say ‘alert never chow!‘ and for the life of me, I can’t believe he almost rendered the same excuse on his son’s birthday! Bhet why!), no more buying of clothes for him (if he can’t buy for wifey and baby, at least let him buy for himself), infact, the list is so longgggg!!!!!

And while we are still thinking, trying to find a reasonable and tenable explanation to hubby’s inhumanity, he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed one bright day, with a dead soggy brain, and says he wants a divorce, simply because wifey said enough is enough? Oh yes, please bring it on! You won’t be missed!

*sigh! It’s sad, more for the little one, than even the mother involved. But hey, if he files that divorce, i’ll be the first to congratulate her!

And so once again lovelies, she said “guess what, he wants a divorce”, and I said “Halleluyah, but what?!”

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To y’all going through this kind of trouble, or something similar oe even worse, I say the Lord is your strength!

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© The Short Black Girl, 2015.

Blogging 101- Hello and Hi!

 

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Happy new month to y’all. So yeah, I know it’s the 6th of July already buy hey Why, you’re welcome!

I’ve been a little off for a while now; partly because I have been lost on words to write, and also because I am working on Mr Meku (yeah, for those of you that saw the first horrible post of that story). In the middle of this semi- hibernation however, I joined the Instagram community, where I‘ve been able to re- awaken the ‘pseudo-poet’ in me; and also subscribed to the Blogging 101 bit. Yayy! Lool. The essence of all of this, I guess, is to find myself, and I hope I do eventually.

Today’s post is for the first Blogging 101 exercise- Introduce yourself to the world. And God help me, this is something I love doing. Hehe.

I am Rofiah Alli, but most people know me as Damore Alli, an Accounting Graduate, a talkative, a lover of words, and a lover of love. I think that just about sums me up. And of course, in between those words, there’s a lot more even I am still discovering. I realise now that I have been asked the question of why and when I started writing a lot of times, and up until now, I am yet to bring the perfect words together to describe that moment and that cause, so I hope you’ll listen again as I re- say the exact words I‘ve told everyone else. It started with a boy…

I remember that day in my Senior Secondary School class, I had been musing about this guy I had a huge- heavy crush on. He wasn’t cute, he wasn’t tall, he didn’t have builds, or any of those things that can be said to make a guy ‘hot’ and all, infact, he had this ridiculously huge lips that seemed too big for his face, but I liked him. And did he like me? That I don’t know, and I think that’s where the misery that made me start writing came from. There were rumours, about me, about him, and about the us that didn’t exist. On some days, it was sheer bliss- listening to people whisper words that promised he liked me just as much; on some other days, it was tortuous! If he did like me, why wouldn’t he just take the balls by the hand, and walk up to me like a man?! All these thoughts I had been thinking on that lonely boring day at school when I picked my pen, and started writing. I wrote about love, in its wonder and woes! Of how it could feel so amazing, yet haunting. I just wrote on and on, and when I was done, I smiled. It seemed like I had healed in seconds. And so it was from then on. I would write to heal about what hurt me, write to release the emotions that would otherwise consume my glorious heart. It was a gift, a miracle in the middle of June! I would write poems, and drama and show it to my classmates, who made me feel like a Queen as they seemed to stand on their toes each time, awaiting the release of the next big thing. It was indescribable, the feeling; that my source of release was their medicine. So I never wanted to stop!

I got into the University, and tried writing a book on an imaginary crush. Damn, I was loving that story. I had bought a new 60leaves note and penned down every thought, word for word with my Leo Smart pen and the feeling was just same- Indescribable. Until some arse stole the note! It hurt. I would cry for days in mourning of the beautiful characters in it and how their lives ended so abruptly! But thankfully, although the pad was lost, the ink was not… so I continued! And wrote on. In my second year in the university, when I started using a smartphone, the wonders of Facebook fascinated me and I started typing my thoughts on the keypads to reach a wider audience on there, and OH LAWD, was I swooned? The feedback was amazing. I wrote under the name Damore Alli, and that was how it became my pen name till date. People called me many beautiful names – wordsmith, romantic wordsmith and all! I came in contact with tons of beautiful writers like Neydu Onuoha, Opeyemi Owotumi, Ife Olujuyigbe and many others. I had an army of readers that made my head reel with sweet words. But even then, I just wrote. Without form, or reason; it was just pure undiluted thoughts, no paragraphs or fuzzy punctuations! Then I came in contact with Richard Ali, and he gave my words the gift of form. He taught me to pay attention, to write better. And I have been doing that ever since. I’ll forever remain thankful to him!

It was on Facebook also that I came in contact with the amazing April Laugh who made me just want to get on WordPress and have a blog! She blogged good, wrote well, and captured my heart. I didn’t know what it meant to have a blog, or what blogging was about (even now, I don’t) but puhleese, if its writing, I am so in! So on the 13th of March 2012, in my third year in the University, I created my very first blog- http://www.dr2103.wordpress.com. It took a lot of thought, the website address. I had a rush of names in my head, but none seemed right; and then I remembered the dr90210 (or so) that I used to watch on DstV in my 100level days, and dr2103 just seemed like it (21/03 being my birth details, 21st of March)! And again, I wrote on!

Maybe some of you would know the rest of the story- of how I deleted that website sometime in August 2014, because someone had made a flippery comment about my work that really put me down and shattered all that self- esteem I had come a long way building. But for wonderful friends and readers that made me promise to come back here and do the pen some good justice, and believe in myself and my might all the way, I would have been long gone off this space!

So hey, its been a helluva of a journey! And, its been fun!

In case you missed the point, I am Damore Alli and I write to heal and release!

Thank you. ❤

© The Short Black Girl, 2015.

Thank you!