World peace in a syringe…

Hello beautiful people…

I’m ill :'(

I woke up feeling terrible on Saturday morning so I did what I do best; I self-medicated on painkillers and Lucozade Boost. I even missed church on Sunday. I dragged myself to work yesterday even though I still felt like shit and finally, today, I landed in the hospital early this morning, weak and bra-less.

I was lying down, half dead on the hospital bed and all I could think about was how to gist you guys what was going on. My whole body hurt, but my thumb was just fine. I could still swipe with it so typing out a blog post wouldn’t be hard. I just didn’t know if it was possible to send out a post with my phone.

The doctor came and I didn’t wait for my guy to land… I started confessing. See, I watch a lot of CI (Crime and Investigation) and ID (Investigation Discovery). I know how these things work. It’s not during my autopsy that the medical examiner will discover that it was the amala-ewedu-stew-Snapp-Ibuprofen combo I had on Saturday that killed me… so I told him everything. l told him about the amount of painkillers I’d been taking, told him about the coughing, the nausea, everything! He didn’t look like he was judging me… or maybe he was judging me in his mind. I don’t know.

The blood guy was asleep when I got to the lab so they had to shake him hard to wake up and take my blood for testing. He asked for a few seconds to get himself fully awake. That was fine by me… I told him to take as long as he needed. Better safe than sorry abi? Plus I could see that he was really tired. He walked out of the room, came back less than a minute later and the niggah still pricked my thumb three times to get blood… THREE!!!

I asked him how many pricks it would’ve taken if the sleep was still in his eye… Na im be say e for cut plus my big toe join. He didn’t laugh at my joke because nobody likes a wiseass  ( ._.) He said he did it like that because he didn’t want to go in too deep and hurt me (words no celibate woman wants to be hearing).

I ended up in a tiny air conditioned room and then someone, who I think was probably sent from God, came in and injected me with what I now believe, is the answer to world peace. I don’t know what was in that thing, but it made me sleeeeeeeeep for hours and it took all the pain away. One dose of that magic injection and suddenlyyyyyy life had new meaning to meeee! And there is beauty up above… and things I never take notice of…

Wake up, suddenly…

And hear that test results show I have Malaria and a chest infection :’(

After that, they sent me away with a Ghana-must-go bag full of tablets and syrup that I’ve already flung to a corner of my room. I’ve never seen this suspicious-looking brand of Malaria tablets before. Why couldn’t they just give me some more of the thing in the injection??? Why don’t they want world peace??

Anyway, on my way home, to celebrate my HIV-negativity, I stopped over at Cold Stone to get some ice cream. I’m home now and I’m feeling much better. I’m just excited that I survived the trip to the hospital… Notin do me!

Hope you are having a great week so far  :-*  :-*

As you were…

The importance of contraception during threesomes…

Good morning beautiful people of God!! 😀

E don tey abi? Hope you guys are doing great… I have exactly one hour before I have to start work on a brand new project so I decided to say hi. My team has done all the ground work and we think we’re prepared. I’m not particularly excited about it because it’s going to be tough, but it’s nice to do a different kind of job sometimes.

I’ve been ok… I guess. It’s been a difficult couple of weeks. My 10-month old generator packed up and died on me. It was running fine one minute and then suddenly it let out a Mariah Carey-ish scream (WoahAaaaaaheeeeeeee!!), then it farted twice and just died. The gen doctor says it’s going to cost 35,000 Naira to fix it, so I got a big plastic bag and covered it up. It will rest in peace till further notice.

I’ve done the math… 35k is the equivalent of about 20 to 23 trips to Cold Stone Creamery. And if I’m honest to myself, I know I have been there way more than 23 times this year alone. Basically, I’ve licked my generator repair money :’(

On Saturday, I went with a friend to Balogun market. I hate markets because they are filthy, disgusting places full of rude disgusting (Igbo) men who pull at you. There’re also sweaty people with whom you exchange body fluids when you have to walk so close to them. It’s terrible, but my friend is preparing for her wedding and I didn’t want her to face all that stress alone.

We were in a shop looking at different kinds of chord lace fabric. Ok, so maybe I was sitting down on a plastic stool and charging my phone while my friend was looking at different kinds of chord lace (don’t judge me jor… I don’t have light and my gen is bad; every socket is a potential phone charger). Anyway, we were sha in one fabric shop. Opposite that shop was a similar fabric shop, but the lady there had two babies. The boy was about three or four years old and the girl was barely a year old. She was just learning to walk. I watched them rolling around on the shop floor near their mother’s feet. Then they came out of her shop and rolled around some more on the wet ground between the shops. The girl picked everything she saw and stuck it in her mouth- a plastic toy, a pen, her mum’s phone, something that looked like a dead lizard – and no one stopped her. Their mother just sat back and looked like she was in a trance… a few times, I saw her move her arms to swat flies away, but that was it.

The kids then started heading towards the shop I was in and I became immediately alarmed. I was just by the corner, very near the shop door. I know how kids can be, especially those ones learning to walk. They hold unto every available thing as support; they will hold unto stools, table legs, cabinets and people’s knees… people’s knees!!

My knees!!!

And I was wearing my ripped jeans, the one that has more skin than actual jeans so both knees were exposed. The kids managed to climb the steps leading to my shop, with the girl struggling more than her big brother. She had a wet patch on her dress that may or may not have been pee mixed with water from the puddle she had rolled in. She got to the shop, turned back and I think at that point, it hit her how far away her mum was. She started to call out to her mum.

“Mummy!! Mummyyyyyyy!!” and then her brother joined her. They were both calling out for their mum.

Mum looked up, waved to them and smiled, then she pointed at me and said the three most dreaded words;

“G’aan meet aunty…”

I looked to my left and then to my right and tears filled my eyes because I was the only aunty in sight. My friend and the shop attendant were both buried in yards and yards of aso ebi.

It was like the time my customer (the lady I buy my fruits from) was with her grand-daughter. The baby girl had pooped on the ground beside the shop and was squatting, waiting for someone to wipe her clean. No one came cos grandma was busy with me. She must’ve felt abandoned and exposed, squatting butt-naked in full view of Lekki residents because she started to cry. Her right hand went to her bum and came back up with poop stains. She stood up (by now she was wailing) and started heading towards the kiosk to meet grandma. I was at the entrance of the kiosk and I knew she was going to have to go past me to get in. Grandma, saw her coming and said those words…

“I’m coming oh!!! Stop crying… Oya g’aan meet aunty.

NOOOOOOOOO!!!! All I saw was a tiny hand with brown poop stains coming towards my knee for support :’(

Last year, on one of the days I had interviews, a lady walked into the hall with two kids. Immediately they got in, they were running around the place and screaming… generally doing what kids do. Their screams were distracting other candidates, but it was fine. That didn’t bother me at all. Where I had a problem was when it was time for the lady to be interviewed. She waited till I was free and walked into my cubicle with both kids and announced;

“You people should g’aan greet aunty

I thought No!  Don’t greet aunty. Aunty doesn’t think you’re cute!!

It’s the same on buses…

“G’aan seedown wit onkoo…”

“Stay wit aunty…”

“Let onkoo carry you…”

Why??? When did I participate in all these threesomes that conceived all these children scattered around Lagos? Why do I have to share your child/children?

Then, I always feel guilty afterwards because I know I genuinely love babies. But it makes me wonder.  If I like cute, chubby, Vaseline and baby powder-scented kids and not those snot-nosed, mud/pee/poop-covered, ground rolling Oshodi babies, can I then say that I have true brotherly love as is described in the bible? Do I really “love” kids?

If my ovaries don’t tingle at the sight of babies, does it mean I am not motherly?

If I meet an Oshodi poop baby that is in true distress, will I leap to the rescue, or will I buy gloves first?

Have a great week people!!

 ps: You’re probably wondering, what did I do in each situation right? Well, I jumped into oncoming traffic. It was a million times easier than getting poop/pee on my exposed knees…