Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Ten Greatest Hits of my Life

  1. (1988?) KinderGarten. The first time I spelt my name. That might not seem like much but my name ‘Osomiame’ is actually quite long. Everyone, including my parents had always called me ‘Somi’. I used to write Somi in all my books. One day without even thinking about it I wrote my full name on a new book. Only realising what I had achieved afterwards. I was so excited I ran straight to my parents and basked in their congratulations.
  2. (2000) My private tutor in chemistry Mrs Elogie telling my mum that I was one of the best she had ever taught. 
  3. (2000) S.S.C.E Chemistry. Ehinomen asked me what I’d written in a certain question and heaved a sigh of relief when she found out she’d written the same thing.. Ehinomen!!!! 
  4. (2000) A1 in mathematics... Maths was always the easiest subject for me though. 
  5. (2001) Getting my correct Jamb score. I had received a wrong failing score at first. I thought I had failed until they sent my real score. 
  6. (2001) My SAT results... my percentiles had me very tickled. 
  7. (2002) Some guy who later went mad from smoking too much weed told me I was the most intelligent, articulate and well read girl he’d met in a while. He was brilliant. 
  8. (2007) Architectural history class. Prof Mrs. Ogunsote exclaiming after I’d answered a question “I knew she would get it right” 
  9. (2009) Anthonia Imokhai’s Yearbook Page. Best Friend: Osomiame Evangeline Ekhasomhi. 
  10. (2010) Tolu Akinyemi’s reply to my poem ‘and so it ends’. It was a beautiful moment.
 Other hits.
  • Hearing from my mum that my brother had gotten into the course and school he wanted. I was so happy I cried
  • Finding a note on which I had written “I love you daddy you are my hero” a long time ago in my father’s desk drawer
  • Visiting day SS2, It was already about 6pm and I thought no one was coming. My mum and sister came to see me.
  • My Aunt Paulina’s wedding in 1996. I was happy and crying at the same time
  • Hearing that I was an artist with words
  • (2005) my first screenplay, Hearing I had a wonderful way with words
  • My first make-up, A week after my first break-up.. I didn’t know I was crying until he told me.
  • My first computer
  • Discovering Yanni
  • Hey there Delilah.

German Man Castrates 17 year old Daughter's 57 year old Boyfriend

I just read somewhere that a father in Germany has castrated a 57 year old man with a bread knife for dating his 17 year old daughter.

What do you think?

Many people are quick to yell kudos... I’d do the same if it were my daughter etc.
While I am convinced that any fifty seven year old man carrying on an affair with a teenage girl is predatory and deserves the worst, the truth is he didn’t force her. It was a relationship. She agreed to it because she found something she wanted.

Now I understand what the father did, when it comes to our children we sometimes let our emotions rule our heads. We are more likely to turn into animals in protecting our children than in anything else. But he didn’t have a right to castrate the other man, his issue was with his daughter and he should have tried to find out what had driven her to a man so much older than herself.

Many parents will always see their children as their babies, the thought of such an old man putting his paws on your baby is enough to sicken and enrage any loving parent. But before we start picking up breadknives we should always take a deep breath and think.

PS... If any dude tried that with my daughter... Well….....

Monday, December 13, 2010

Ridiculously Underdressed... Again!

They say smart people never make the same mistake twice. I have always thought that I was smart but oddly my mistakes keep on repeating themselves. Does that mean that ‘They’ are wrong or that I’m not as smart as I think? (God forbid). Either way for the second time in a very short time I have ended up in the most embarrassing position imaginable., Ridiculously under-dressed at a party.

Let’s look back to about two years ago, during my service year. I was handling a design for someone, a friend of a friend. This man, who happened to be a widower, sometimes showed a more than professional interest in me. But I wasn’t very disturbed because there was hardly any opportunity for him to spend time alone with me. So he would call, tell me about the job I would send feedback, that kind of thing.

Anyway one day I was supposed to send him some company profiles right? He said he wasn’t in town but would be the next day Saturday. It was going to be a busy day but he would be at a party at Sheraton Ikeja for about four hours, perhaps I could bring the documents to him? I said yes.

So that day, a Saturday, I did my chores, dressed in jeans and a shirt and hopped in a cab to Ikeja ( the job was paying). I imagined that I would go to the banquet hall, call him from outside and he would come pick his papers. Abi?

I got to Sheraton and made my way to the banquet hall. I had been there for a dinner once before, while I was on IT. Except that day I’d worn a ball gown and everything. Now here I was wearing jeans, a shirt and black ballet flats trudging towards the banquet hall and calling the guy on the phone to tell him I was there.

The party was already in full swing. It was a 70th birthday plus book launch of some dude from Shell. Outside the hall the ushers at the door gave me the eye while I ignored them and waited for my friend to pick my call. And then, there he was with a smile on his face pulling me inside the hall. Before I knew what I was sitting at a table surrounded by guys in suits and native attire, all around me were ladies dressed glamorously in gowns and such and I was wearing jeans, not even black jeans...... blue!

Suffice it to say for the first thirty minutes I was too mortified to do anything aside from be totally miserable. Later on I perked up though, enjoyed the food and flirted a bit. But that was after I psyched myself into believing that despite my disgraceful state of dress...... I was really the most beautiful girl there... Hah..hah!

Anyway fast forward to last Friday. You know when someone invites you to a party and you’re not sure you’ll go and you tell them so, and then you forget all about the party, even the date, then on the day of the party they call and say “when are you coming? We’re waiting for you” and for some reason you can’t say no and you start rushing to get dressed etc? That happened to me last Friday. I was supposed to go to this Christmas party being organised by my friend’s office, Or rather she wanted me to come. I’d already told her I wasn’t sure.

I forgot all about the date.  I even woke up sick that day, after dilly dallying at home trying to decide whether to go to work or not, I finally went, under-dressed even for work... (It doesn’t matter at my workplace cause I’M AN ARCHITECT YAY!!)

Anyway, halfway into the day, while I was fooling around in the office pretending to work, my friend called me to remind me about the party.

“Oh I’m not coming” I said. ”I told you I wasn’t”

“No you didn’t” she exclaimed. “You said you were coming, why don’t you want to come?”... And so on and so forth.

So I told her I wasn’t dressed for it... and she said... “Don’t worry about it... The dress code is casual”.

It was not.

Thankfully it was an outdoor party.. and night came quickly.

Thank God for red wine, fruit smoothies and flirty guys... I kinda had fun....;)

Friday, December 3, 2010

The Interloper

The Interloper

She was only eight years old when it happened. They had gone to the village on holiday, to visit the grandparents. How different they were from all the other children, how clean, how refined, and how rich. their mother didn’t want them talking to any of the village children but their father insisted that they should, it was his village after all and before he had gone to the city and worked his way to wealth he had been as much a part of this dusty dirty village as any of the village children.

So they played hide and seek in the bush, ran with the village children to the stream, climbed trees and watched as old men smoked their pipes. Their mother hovered around fearfully, itching to pull them back from the people she saw as dirty and diabolic. But her husband won and she let them play.

Every morning they were bathed and dressed in their fine clothes, the girl who was eight wore little pink dresses with satin ribbons, the boy who was eleven, wore shorts and smart shirts. Everyday they returned home dirty and dusty, but exhilarated and happy.

One day the girl didn’t get up to play early enough and her brother went without her, by the time she caught up he was by in an abandoned farm with two of the older boys, where were the other children? She wondered. As she watched from the trees she saw that her brother was crying.

In the native dialect which both children had been taught from infancy the older boys were calling him a coward, they kept on saying ‘You must get us back our ball’.

She saw her brother look inside the old abandoned well, beside which they were standing, and shiver, one of the boys brought a rope ‘We will lower you inside’ they said, ‘it’s not deep, when you get the ball we will pull you back up’. 

She was watching when they lowered him inside, her handsome brother who was always first in his class, she was watching when they dropped the rope and walked away, she heard the splash, or maybe she imagined it, but when they had gone she ran to the well to help her brother, the ball was floating on the surface, but he wasn’t there.

As fast as her little girl legs could carry her she ran back to the house, to tell anyone to help, as she entered the living room, out of breadth who did she see but her brother sitting between her parents watching television.

Happily she ran and hugged him, he didn’t tease her or call he flower face as he always did, she didn’t wonder, she was too happy, she watched him throughout the day, glad that nothing had happened to him. But before night the strangest suspicion had began to build up in her mind. What if he wasn’t really her brother?

The next day all the other children went to play. But she went to the well, because she wanted to know for sure that her brother wasn’t there. But he was, by now his body had risen to the surface. She could see his clothes a little darker in the darkened interior of the well. If only she had seen through the interloper at once, maybe he would be alive, guilt boiled up in her mind, and sorrow, that little heart was filled with sorrow and it never lifted again.

Life changed after that, she never told a soul, she watched as the stranger filled all their lives and caused rifts, how he told her father the bad news that caused him to have the heart attack from which he never recovered, how we was the one who ‘mistakenly’ tripped her mother when she was pregnant that she fell down the stairs, lost her baby and her womb, it was always him, he had something to do with every tragedy that came and the tragedies were many.

He left her alone, as she left him, perhaps he knew that she knew or perhaps not, but he left her alone, until the time when he didn’t. 

She was to be married. And just before the wedding her fiancĂ© went with her ‘brother’ to the bachelor party that had been arranged for him and he never returned, nobody ever knew how it happened but somehow they had been about six of them standing on the balcony of the hotel suite, someone remembered her brother whispering to her fiancĂ©, others didn’t, but what everybody saw was her darling jump straight off the balcony and into pieces on the street.

She knew that she could never let it go, and later in front of the whole family, she confronted him ‘why did you kill him’, she asked.

Her parents were shocked, ‘of course your brother didn’t kill him’ they consoled her, ‘it was an accident’
‘He is not my brother’ she said and when she told them the whole story, they called a doctor and she was sedated. And the last thing she saw before she went under was his face, smiling.

When she awoke she pretended to have forgotten and while sympathizers came and went, she plotted. When she was ready, she went to her father’s room and took the gun he had bought and never used; she loaded it, went downstairs and shot her ‘brother’ dead.

After that it was a mental home, she slowly wasted away and when her parents had died, broken sad and alone, she died too. And there was nothing to remember that family by.

Years later when the village had become a town, and later a city, somebody bought the old farm with the old well. As they dug to lay the foundation piles, they found some bones, and when they were examined, they were found to be the bones of a young boy, between the ages of nine and thirteen.