So, I know I said I will be updating with loooooooooooooonng posts shortly, but mehn I have been so busy with work and this particular toaster that insists we must talk at least six times a week..jeez!!! more on that later sha.... Ok, so the semester is on and I'm taking this creative writing class to hone and polish my skills (the ones I hopefully have) and we had this assignment to write a letter in the same vein as James Baldwin's letter to his nephew (something generalizable that others can relate to) and here's what I did.....
Enjoy..P.S- No, I haven't gotten it graded yet and we were supposed to incorporate synesthesia and conflict, plus I need to proofread for punctuations.
Dear Mama,
I am angry at you, yes angry, livid even! I have only just begun to realize that the indifference and detachment with which you have treated me throughout my life has left a solid ineffaceable imprint, like a footprint mold in cement. I find that I am incapable of telling my new bride, Joyce, that I love her. Sure, I give her a roof over her head, the security of a home, food in her belly, trinkets and bejeweled combs to adorn her wrists and wooly hair, but the one thing she craves I cannot give, the simple words - “I love you”.
Our elders say blood is thicker than water, so I guess it is water that runs through these veins, because all I feel is hate, sharp and searing, I feel no kinship with you whatsoever. Throughout my childhood, you chiseled away at my capacity to feel, my emotions, my human essence. When I fell on the red sand, bruised my knee and bawled, desperate for comfort, you slung me across your knees and whacked my bottom till I fell silent, mortified - Boys did not cry. When I clung to your wrapper unrelenting, terrified to be sleeping alone on the makeshift bed by myself, you slapped me across my face and asked if I was a woman. I grew, nurtured with hard work and no love; I was learning to become “a man”. I suppose you want me to be grateful, seeing that I turned out an industrious, intelligent, and hard man. But I am not, because Mama in all my twenty eight years on earth you have never once told me you loved me, in teaching me to become “a man” you forgot to include that I would need a heart, and for Joyce I would always be an incomplete man trying to learn how to love.
Your son,
Nnamabia.
Mama's Response
Nnamabia,
How are you and your wife Joyce? So you are angry eh? You youngsters of nowadays forget the hands that fed you, in my time that rubbish letter you sent me expressing your…emotions, you called it? Would be an abomination!
So you want love? Nnamabia what are you going to do with love I ask you? Will you eat it? Will it quench your hunger? Did love make you the strong man you are today? You children make me laugh.
Our people say that a yam destined to burn, will burn whether it is roasted or boiled. Did I ask you to marry your educated wife, Nnamabia? Now, she wants love and you are insulting the breasts that fed you, it is not my fault you cannot satisfy your wife, perhaps you should tend your yams more carefully.
Mama.
N.B - Mama's letter was originally written in Igbo.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Ekene Agabu
Gawlsh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! totally feeling Ekene!! and it's just his voice o! and what comes out his mouth! Eke Baby, I salute you! lol (I am such a groupie! chai!).
Check out Eke baby here>>>http://www.ekeneagabu.com
Check out Eke baby here>>>http://www.ekeneagabu.com
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Guys and Guys
Feels like I'm walking on eggshells...
I hate feeling like this.
Argh...so much for being truthfully blunt...
I forget I'm not as sensitive as I should be...
On the upside, is this our first tiff? (he he)
Who knows??
P.S - Chari, I realize this is not a PROPER update, does anyone know where Mz. Dee don run go?
I would say upcoming news on L.C>>> http://adialayo.blogspot.com/2007/07/ruminationschewing-cudover-and-over.html , but I may never deliver.*sigh. and I wonder why my blog is dying.
I hate feeling like this.
Argh...so much for being truthfully blunt...
I forget I'm not as sensitive as I should be...
On the upside, is this our first tiff? (he he)
Who knows??
P.S - Chari, I realize this is not a PROPER update, does anyone know where Mz. Dee don run go?
I would say upcoming news on L.C>>> http://adialayo.blogspot.com/2007/07/ruminationschewing-cudover-and-over.html , but I may never deliver.*sigh. and I wonder why my blog is dying.
Friday, May 8, 2009
In Love!
I have come to say that i am super-duperly officially in love with Chimere Shaffer Smith (known to the groupies as Ne-yo). Regardless of his receding hairline, his not-so discreet sowing of wild oats, I his undiscovered wife will remain faithful.
Signed on this day, May 8th 2009 - Adia Smith.
P.S - Don't judge me, I just saw the mad video, plus I had a pina colada....
(lengthy posts are on the way *crossed fingers* and I'm still kinda waiting for feedback on the story..so don't just read over...COMMENT! pls..I'm begging..don't Neyofy me again)
* Neyofy - Neyo's wanton behavior and unabashed disregard for his wife -Adia.
Signed on this day, May 8th 2009 - Adia Smith.
P.S - Don't judge me, I just saw the mad video, plus I had a pina colada....
(lengthy posts are on the way *crossed fingers* and I'm still kinda waiting for feedback on the story..so don't just read over...COMMENT! pls..I'm begging..don't Neyofy me again)
* Neyofy - Neyo's wanton behavior and unabashed disregard for his wife -Adia.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
SEALED GRAVES FINALE
Hey guys, I am sorry I didn't post on Thursday like I promised...I was uber busy with mid-terms..so once again I apologize. I am grinning stupidly as I type this, imagine my surprise when I logged in to post and what did Adia see? Two followers??? what?? I was flabbergasted!! thanks Timi and Estelle. Mwah!! Ok, so here's the finale guys, I haven't gotten any critique so far, so I hoping you guys chip in and critique away...I appreciate constructive criticism, here>>>>>>>> enjoy!!!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
I was looking at the six-foot hole in the ground, they lowered the casket into the ground and I shoved a spade in the soil and threw dirt on the coffin. Ralu stood beside me, steady as a rock, he put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder as we both watched the priest perform the burial rites. I could smell him, sweat and cologne mingled to give a heady fragrance. I looked up at him and smiled reassuringly, I was fine. Although, death seemingly brings with it an aura of finality, this death marked a new beginning . It brought transcendence and release. This was the time, that chapter in my life I had tried to tackle for so long, never letting up had finally unraveled itself. Even though this was not closure, I was content with resolution. Oddly, I was happy; funerals are typically cheerless and dispiriting, yet I was standing looking at the coffin and I felt no sadness only a strange sense of serenity. Mama had finally gone home.
In retrospect, Mama had lived her life after Papa’s death in gravitation towards this destination. She had never gotten over Papa’s death and I am almost certain that she had pined for this day to come. I watched her degenerate until she became a living relic and I could do nothing to help her. I remember so vividly that rainy day after we had stormed out of the women’s meeting in church, it had been the incipience of her spiral downwards. As we walked home that day she had murmured constantly and at times she interjected the drone of the rain with loud exclamations like “Pity…hmm!” The weeks that followed revealed a new and unfamiliar Mama; she would cry and hit her head on the rough brick wall of her room until her shaven head was scratched sore and bleeding. She stayed in her room all day and never came out. My eight year old mind could not decipher what was happening. I was oblivious to the truth that Mama had not yet come to terms with Papa’s death and that after three months her repressions had broken loose. I slowly became a walking shadow in the house, an insignificant painting that no one remembered to dust. I remember asking Aunty Ezinne what was wrong with Mama and she answering that Mama was sad but she would soon be happy again.
That happiness never truly came, on her “happy days” Mama would cook up a storm, everything from ofe nsala to akara. Those were the days I lived for, she would look at me with her bright eyes dancing in their sockets and ask me in Igbo “Gogo, what do you want to eat, what should I cook?” beaming at me all the time. I did not need to look for the light of recognition in her eyes then; I knew she was really seeing me. However, those days were few, after her cooking sprees she would abruptly become distant and return to her room and then the wailing would begin. I recall asking Aunty Ezinne a second time what was wrong with Mama, this time she shook her head despairingly and said that Mama was sick, very sick. Consequently, Aunty Ezinne cooked my meals and took care of me while Mama lay in her room moaning and wailing or staring at the ceiling tiles seemingly lost. I slept in Aunty Ezinne’s house till I turned thirteen and then I became Mama’s mother. It was because of those “happy days” I never left Mama; I force-fed her, restrained her when she tried to inflict wounds on herself and held her as she shook violently her body racked with sobs. I stayed, because on those “happy days” our roles were reversed, I became the child once again and Mama my mother.
I watched them, arms folded across my breasts; the picture was so familiar somewhat like déjà vu. Men clad in shorts carrying head pans and cement bags walked around, some mixed mortar and others laid the mortar on the grave. I watched like an unseen observer distanced from my body, oblivious to the flies that danced around my legs; piercing and sucking. Then at sundown, it happened they sealed the grave with the headstone, beautiful words inscribed in cement alluding to Mama’s wonderful attributes. I expected to feel pain, sharp and biting but all I felt was release like a bladder full of urine that was finally assuaged. Mama was where she had longed and needed to be, laid to rest beside her husband. I stood looking at the two tombstones, lovers interred, they sat side by side like mirror images almost disappearing into one another and then I smiled.
SEALED GRAVES ©
I was looking at the six-foot hole in the ground, they lowered the casket into the ground and I shoved a spade in the soil and threw dirt on the coffin. Ralu stood beside me, steady as a rock, he put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder as we both watched the priest perform the burial rites. I could smell him, sweat and cologne mingled to give a heady fragrance. I looked up at him and smiled reassuringly, I was fine. Although, death seemingly brings with it an aura of finality, this death marked a new beginning . It brought transcendence and release. This was the time, that chapter in my life I had tried to tackle for so long, never letting up had finally unraveled itself. Even though this was not closure, I was content with resolution. Oddly, I was happy; funerals are typically cheerless and dispiriting, yet I was standing looking at the coffin and I felt no sadness only a strange sense of serenity. Mama had finally gone home.
In retrospect, Mama had lived her life after Papa’s death in gravitation towards this destination. She had never gotten over Papa’s death and I am almost certain that she had pined for this day to come. I watched her degenerate until she became a living relic and I could do nothing to help her. I remember so vividly that rainy day after we had stormed out of the women’s meeting in church, it had been the incipience of her spiral downwards. As we walked home that day she had murmured constantly and at times she interjected the drone of the rain with loud exclamations like “Pity…hmm!” The weeks that followed revealed a new and unfamiliar Mama; she would cry and hit her head on the rough brick wall of her room until her shaven head was scratched sore and bleeding. She stayed in her room all day and never came out. My eight year old mind could not decipher what was happening. I was oblivious to the truth that Mama had not yet come to terms with Papa’s death and that after three months her repressions had broken loose. I slowly became a walking shadow in the house, an insignificant painting that no one remembered to dust. I remember asking Aunty Ezinne what was wrong with Mama and she answering that Mama was sad but she would soon be happy again.
That happiness never truly came, on her “happy days” Mama would cook up a storm, everything from ofe nsala to akara. Those were the days I lived for, she would look at me with her bright eyes dancing in their sockets and ask me in Igbo “Gogo, what do you want to eat, what should I cook?” beaming at me all the time. I did not need to look for the light of recognition in her eyes then; I knew she was really seeing me. However, those days were few, after her cooking sprees she would abruptly become distant and return to her room and then the wailing would begin. I recall asking Aunty Ezinne a second time what was wrong with Mama, this time she shook her head despairingly and said that Mama was sick, very sick. Consequently, Aunty Ezinne cooked my meals and took care of me while Mama lay in her room moaning and wailing or staring at the ceiling tiles seemingly lost. I slept in Aunty Ezinne’s house till I turned thirteen and then I became Mama’s mother. It was because of those “happy days” I never left Mama; I force-fed her, restrained her when she tried to inflict wounds on herself and held her as she shook violently her body racked with sobs. I stayed, because on those “happy days” our roles were reversed, I became the child once again and Mama my mother.
I watched them, arms folded across my breasts; the picture was so familiar somewhat like déjà vu. Men clad in shorts carrying head pans and cement bags walked around, some mixed mortar and others laid the mortar on the grave. I watched like an unseen observer distanced from my body, oblivious to the flies that danced around my legs; piercing and sucking. Then at sundown, it happened they sealed the grave with the headstone, beautiful words inscribed in cement alluding to Mama’s wonderful attributes. I expected to feel pain, sharp and biting but all I felt was release like a bladder full of urine that was finally assuaged. Mama was where she had longed and needed to be, laid to rest beside her husband. I stood looking at the two tombstones, lovers interred, they sat side by side like mirror images almost disappearing into one another and then I smiled.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Sealed Graves IV
Thanks guys for the comments, really appreciate...but I really would appreciate your CRITIQUING more! So, here's the fourth installment, things take a turn and the story unfolds..enjoy!!
SEALED GRAVES ©
“Goli-be! Golibe o!” Mama’s shrill voice broke into my reverie. “Yes Mama” I answered, standing from the steps I had been sitting on and brushing the sand grains from the back of my dress. “Je kwado, anyi ne je uka Go and prepare, we’re going to church” she called from inside the house. “O” I answered. “Hurry, the women’s meeting starts soon” she shouted. I walked into the house, headed for my room and emerged minutes later “Mama, I’m ready”I said as I made a bow at the back of my head with the tail ends of my scarf and walked into Mama’s room. “Ok” she replied, “Carry my bag” she said handing me her big black leather bag. “Mama, it is raining o!” I said as I collected her bag. She looked up at me from her mirror, momentarily stopped plaiting her hair and answered “ I che na enwero m anya? Do you think I do not have eyes?” In response, I sat silently in a chair watching her as she braided her hair into cornrows, my wounds still smarting from her biting sarcasm and wondering why we had to attend the meeting despite the rain and the road that would be undoubtedly slippery.
We got to church half-wet with our rain boots dripping and muddy. This was not the kind of rain people went out in except it was an emergency, despite the huge umbrella Mama and I had shared, it had still felt like the rain was flogging us, its long strokes had beaten me tirelessly and mercilessly. “Ah...Mama Golibe, welcome” Mama Chidinma greeted, she sat at the head of the meeting and signaled for us to come to her, her hands pointing out the seats to her far right. The women sat in a circle around her and as we walked to our seats they turned to us and gave us sympathetic looks, their heads inclined towards us nodding in both greeting and commiseration. Mama and I took our seats and Mama Chidinma began “Christian mothers I greet you!” “We greet you too” the women replied. “Our agenda today is short” she continued. “We will discuss plans and fund-raising for our annual bazaar, the state of our financial affairs, and relief for our widows and orphaned children” she finished. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me and Mama, Mama was tapping her fingers on the inside of her lap; it was either anxiety or infuriation, I could not tell. Mama Nkechi, the secretary began “Mama Golibe, on behalf of the Christian mothers I offer our condolences….” It was infuriation, Mama stood up from her chair abruptly, jerking the chair and simultaneously pulling me to my feet. “We don’t want your pity! My husband has been dead for three months, we don’t want salt in our wound!” she shouted and dragged me out of the church. We left the women open-mouthed and speechless, Mama had dragged me outside the church, so we sat outside and the rain still fell; unyielding and incessant. I listened to the pitter-patter of the rain as it hit the corrugated iron sheets and Mama muttering under her breath. Suddenly, she opened up her umbrella “Let’s go Golibe” she said and so I followed. I would never forget that walk home, it was long and arduous and the beginning of a chapter in my life I could never quite tackle or close.
**Next Thursday, is the final installment, ending the story..so click here on thur and bring your critique hats along!
SEALED GRAVES ©
“Goli-be! Golibe o!” Mama’s shrill voice broke into my reverie. “Yes Mama” I answered, standing from the steps I had been sitting on and brushing the sand grains from the back of my dress. “Je kwado, anyi ne je uka Go and prepare, we’re going to church” she called from inside the house. “O” I answered. “Hurry, the women’s meeting starts soon” she shouted. I walked into the house, headed for my room and emerged minutes later “Mama, I’m ready”I said as I made a bow at the back of my head with the tail ends of my scarf and walked into Mama’s room. “Ok” she replied, “Carry my bag” she said handing me her big black leather bag. “Mama, it is raining o!” I said as I collected her bag. She looked up at me from her mirror, momentarily stopped plaiting her hair and answered “ I che na enwero m anya? Do you think I do not have eyes?” In response, I sat silently in a chair watching her as she braided her hair into cornrows, my wounds still smarting from her biting sarcasm and wondering why we had to attend the meeting despite the rain and the road that would be undoubtedly slippery.
We got to church half-wet with our rain boots dripping and muddy. This was not the kind of rain people went out in except it was an emergency, despite the huge umbrella Mama and I had shared, it had still felt like the rain was flogging us, its long strokes had beaten me tirelessly and mercilessly. “Ah...Mama Golibe, welcome” Mama Chidinma greeted, she sat at the head of the meeting and signaled for us to come to her, her hands pointing out the seats to her far right. The women sat in a circle around her and as we walked to our seats they turned to us and gave us sympathetic looks, their heads inclined towards us nodding in both greeting and commiseration. Mama and I took our seats and Mama Chidinma began “Christian mothers I greet you!” “We greet you too” the women replied. “Our agenda today is short” she continued. “We will discuss plans and fund-raising for our annual bazaar, the state of our financial affairs, and relief for our widows and orphaned children” she finished. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me and Mama, Mama was tapping her fingers on the inside of her lap; it was either anxiety or infuriation, I could not tell. Mama Nkechi, the secretary began “Mama Golibe, on behalf of the Christian mothers I offer our condolences….” It was infuriation, Mama stood up from her chair abruptly, jerking the chair and simultaneously pulling me to my feet. “We don’t want your pity! My husband has been dead for three months, we don’t want salt in our wound!” she shouted and dragged me out of the church. We left the women open-mouthed and speechless, Mama had dragged me outside the church, so we sat outside and the rain still fell; unyielding and incessant. I listened to the pitter-patter of the rain as it hit the corrugated iron sheets and Mama muttering under her breath. Suddenly, she opened up her umbrella “Let’s go Golibe” she said and so I followed. I would never forget that walk home, it was long and arduous and the beginning of a chapter in my life I could never quite tackle or close.
**Next Thursday, is the final installment, ending the story..so click here on thur and bring your critique hats along!
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