Your Love Was Tame

Photo Credit: StockProject1

The calls were the first sign that our fire was going out

Calls of convenience

Like a chore, a bore, a dull activity needed to be done

How did it come to this?

From our endless talks about nothing and everything

Now all we have is the rare and awkward exchange on twitter, on Facebook

Now, all you’re good for is blog fodder

I caress your face and walk with you down the halls of memory, just to write about you.

You came, saw what you wanted, not what was there, and you left

I wish I could hate you but I can’t

I wish I could hate you, it’d be so much easier

Hate is a very simple emotion. It’s straightforward

But this… what I feel now does it even have a name?

My stupid brain is at it again, laying the blame on the only person who’ll listen – me

I should have run after you, sometimes I tell myself this

Broken down the doors as the picture of tomorrow I’d built in my head of us together went up in flames

My call logs say different.

They tell me I did – I fought, I waited, I prayed

You still left

You left me with only time to take care of my aching heart

Now I realise, leaving was for the best

Now I realise, your love was lukewarm

I wanted to say I’d rise again like the phoenix

But did we ever burn bright? Are there even ashes for me to be reborn?

You did this to us

I’m done carrying your scars

You used to be part of me. But no more

Now I’m whole again

I’m whole



Moving On

Photo Credit: SecretsofaGoodGirl

How a person treats you is a reflection of them, not youthings you tell yourself when going through the aftermaths of a breakup.

Why do they call it moving on? Like it’s a feel-good thing.

Moving on doesn’t feel good. It hurts.

It’s like deciding to go on a diet. Or quitting soda drinks cold turkey.

It sucks at first, and the only bright spot is the logic part of your brain telling you you’re doing the right thing. In time, that voice will get louder. And easier to believe.

And one day, you would have moved on.

But not today. Today, you’re still moving on.

And it feels awful.

It is admitting you made a mistake, a poor decision. It’s admitting you lived with this mistake either oblivious or too stubborn to admit it.

You should have known. The signs were there.

When her words didn’t change but her actions did. You should have known.

She kept saying I love you but she stopped calling. You should have known.

She stopped caring. And then she stopped talking. You should have known.

Finally, you pull the plug, and the dejection overwhelms you.

This you knew. Anticipated.

It didn’t stop you feeling like your heart had been run over by a steam train.

I let you in where no one has been before. You went in and awakened places in me that I never thought I had, then left me when I’d come to depend on youthoughts that keep you crying into your sheets at night.

So yes, moving on sucks. But staying put would suck even more.

So dont.

Photo Credit: SecretsofaGoodGirl

Love in the time of economic recession

Love in the time of economic recession

Hey there. Remember me?

I’m as surprised as you.

Surprised it’s taken so long for me to get back to posting anything here. Save for that birthday post which I had to quickly drum up for my lovely sister, I’ve ignored this place for months.

Everything’s so dusty back here.

I blame work. And a little bit of laziness. Plus, after writing technical stuff all day, the last thing on my mind is churning out 600-800 words about my random thoughts. The only thing on my mind in the evenings are usually food and sleep.

But I couldn’t stay away forever. And here I am.

Technically, I’m not back though.

I’m here to present a series of guest posts from my friend Francoise.

I met Francoise through a funny set of events in 2015. She’s a French lady who’s married to a Yoruba man. And she’s lived with him in Nigeria since 1987.

Her story’s a long one which probably deserves a blogpost of its own. She’s been trying to get me to write her biography for months. I’m still thinking about it.

I’m letting her pour out some of her thoughts on my blog for a while. Let me (and her) know what you think.

Note: She’s a native French speaker, and still hasn’t gotten good with writing our language. And I have refused to edit her prose, partly because I want to preserve the authenticity of her voice, and partly cos I want to punish her (lol). I also had to BEG her before she sent me pictures I could use for this story. She’s the most camera shy person I’ve met so far.

Francoise, you’re up:



Here I am, building another bridge between the two continents,  a new bridge between my two continents, between Europe and Africa, between the two cultures, between the two races….

I was born in one and I’ll like to die in the other.

As we put on the wall pictures of our family because we love them, or the cross of the Christ to remember His sacrifice, I had to tattoo the flag of my land on my shoulder to testify to myself that I am not denying the soil that made me ;  but Lagos took me by the heart, that is a fact. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know: le coeur a ses raisons que la raison n’a pas…. what is sure is that it is a love story, a passionate story that I’ll like to share.

Francoise Tatoo

I just finished reading the last novel of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I like this young author. Right from the first page, you are immersed in the story and you like the characters. This pleasure with Americanah came from the depth of the prose and the similarities with my personal experiences in life.  My own story’s title would have been Africanah.

As I was progressing in the story of this Nigerian girl living in today’s America, three essential points arose. And I could not resist comparing them with my own African life. So similar and so different at the same time… like similar opposites. The worries being the same yet opposite, like the reflection in a mirror.

Here is the story of a black girl in America and there is the picture of a White woman in Africa.

The first point of course is the colour of the skin. Like the Nigerian girl who discovered her blackness as soon as she arrived in the US, I have discovered my whiteness as soon as I arrived in Nigeria.

Yes, I know what you are thinking right now, but please say it again, because there is a lot to be said. This is the first very important point of our uprooted life and we shall come back to it again.

The second interesting point is the management of our hair. There are difficulties and I would like to take my time to express them.

The third point I would like to develop is the effect of our accent, and believe me it has its importance, you have to live it to realize that.

I’ll be going over these with you.

See you next week

Francoise Selfie



Ibukun is my friend. Ibukun is a nice guy.

When I made my proposition; he said “ok, no problem, but at one condition: you don’t go on shit”. Then I said “Ok, no problem, I am a clean fly, I don’t go on shit… only on food.”

If you know me… you’ll recognize me,

If you like me… you’ll follow me,

If you want… you can write me.

See you around…

Ibukun’s Note: Francoise will post again next week. Please leave a comment and check back.

Love is like an old VW Beetle

3am. It’s late. I’m tired. I should be sleeping. But my muse keeps odd hours. What’s a writer to do?

Today, I’m talking about love.

Wait, come back!

I promise to TRY to be brief.

Comfy? Good. Here goes….

Love means different things to a lot of people. Personally, I like to think of love like this:


Whenever I see the original Volkswagen Beetle, a lot of memories flood my heart. You see, my dad’s first car was a Beetle.

I remember the days when my dad would drive me and my sister to school on rainy days. It could cross any type of road and get you to your destination. That old Beetle took us on several 3 hour trips to the village and we never had a flat tire.

Love is rugged.

This beetle also required patience. The car isn’t particularly a runner. I can’t remember it ever doing above 80km/hr at any time. So our trips were usually longer than normal. But it just made the journey sweeter because I would fall asleep to the sound of my parents talking and those conversations somehow played out in my dreams. I can’t tell you how good that felt.

I remember my dad used to drive my mom to the market at Mile 12 and wait for hours in the Beetle, reading the dailies while she hunted for affordable groceries. That was my dad at his most patient. He never did that in his second car.

Love is patient.

The Beetle is like a souvenir of the best years of my parent’s marriage. My folks had the best marriage in the world, at least until my dad made enough money and got a new car. It seems strange but I can’t think of any time my folks were happy in the new car.

I remember the door bolts were weak and it took quite an effort to make the locks click in place. I would climb into the passenger seat , jam the door but my dad would tell me it wasn’t locked.

“Open it again and jam it.” He’d say. Meanwhile, this was a Beetle. There were no fancy red indicators or beeping sounds to warn you when the door wasn’t properly locked. Years of experience had helped him recognise the sound of the locks clicking in place. I remember before I hit my two digit years, I would drop my bag and use both hands to swing-jam the door just to make it lock.

Love takes time.

I remember this car needed warming every day. My dad had a routine. He’d warm it first thing in the morning, check the oil and wash the body and tires.

But some days, the Beetle would not start despite the routine care. And then, I and the neighbours’ kids would eagerly help him push-start the car. It was such a big win whenever the car growled to life as we strained against it with our little arms.

Love takes work.

If my parents didn’t separate, this would be their 33 year anniversary. But they did. Immediately the old Beetle was traded for a new car, that was the beginning of the end.

Forever the old VW Beetle will have a special place in my heart.

What made this car special, and what makes love special, is its ruggedness. Its simple minded ability to keep going regardless of the situation.

Whenever I think of love, the real kind, I always fall back to this definition – the old Beetle kind.

Stubborn, dependable, rugged. Not perfect, maybe not a looker but, if I’m looking for a ride on the longest journey of my life, I wouldn’t think twice about hopping in the VW Beetle.

I feel the same way about love.

It must be with stargazing and longwalks, though. 😀