You are the reason

It’s funny how something so seemingly sturdy suddenly breaks and then you begin to see that in retrospect, there were cracks. Cracks you thought you could ignore and they would fix themselves. Cracks you thought you could hide from the world. Cracks that widened and expanded to form irreparable gutters with the things ignored floating on the surface.

Sitting there in church with his bible in his lap, Pastor Tunde was there but he wasn’t. 
He looked over his notes. His sermon today was supposed to be part 3 of “Getting marriage right”.

In the background of his thoughts,Pastor Tunde could hear the choir singing.

“You are the reason why I lift my hands
Why I lift my voice
Why I sing to you”

When he told Tolu five years into their marriage that God had called him to be a pastor and to start his ministry, she had been silent. Then she had told him she couldn’t handle the pressure of being the “mummy” of the congregation. That she didn’t want to be second in his life to a God she wasn’t so sure she believed in. That she couldn’t lose herself for a calling that wasn’t hers. 

He knew she would come around. And she did. She understood that God had to come first.

She always looked beautiful in her skirt suits and hats on Sunday mornings. She handled the congregation with effortless grace. They were living the life God wanted them to live.

For Pastor Tunde his perfect structure had shattered to smithereens when he walked in last Friday from his 3-day prayer summit trip to Abuja to find Tolu and their maid, Jane, groping each other on the couch.

He looked up at his tear-stained face on the projector screen. The camera men had a habit of keeping the camera on those who were moved by the worship and were in the spirit.

“You are the reason I’m alive today
I am here to say

It’s all because of you”

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Hi guys! Hope life is treating you well.

I haven’t been writing a lot these days which is really sad.

As always, I can be found more often on my hair blog here if you’re ever missing me and if that’s your sort of thing. (I talk about other stuff too, not just hair but mostly hair) 

Xoxo

Double standards

My first memory of it was when I was 8 and my uncle gave my brother, Ugo and me a box of crayons to share. The crayons were 15. I wanted to take 8 so Ugo could have 7 after all I was older but Ugo threw a tantrum and said he wanted 8. I ran to my mum and she said to me “Chinenye, let him take 8. He is a boy and you are a girl”.
I didn’t understand what she meant. If she had said “He is your baby brother”, I would have understood even though I wouldn’t give up that 1 crayon willingly. I would have understood.
But she said “He is a boy and you are a girl”.
You see, I’d never thought we were different until that moment. Sure enough I knew daddy always gave him a bigger share of the dried meat he brought home often but I always just thought it was because he was younger.
When daddy told Ugo not to help mummy cook anymore because the kitchen is a woman’s place even though Ugo loved it, I began to wonder.
I said to mummy “why can’t Ugo do what he likes? Does it matter that he’s a boy?” And she said “Nne it does. Some things are for boys while some things are for girls. That is the way it should be”.

In JSS1, I remember practising for weeks the points I would make during the inter-school debate I was meant to represent my school in. I was so excited. My parents were coming to watch me with a photographer to cover the event.
We had had an in-house debate in school and I had won the votes of my classmates beating Vincent 150-40.
On the morning of the event I was dressed in my cleanest, most ironed pinafore with my socks whiter than snow and my shoes so polished you could see your reflection in them. I got to the school bus only to be informed by the debate master that “Vincent will be going for the debate instead. We decided that he will do a better job because he is more confident and assertive”
I cried for days! Vincent that couldn’t even string a sentence together without a grammatical error. Vincent that couldn’t even look you in the eye when he spoke, “more confident and assertive”?. Of course my school lost.

I had worked at B&G Holdings for 7 years and I was due for a promotion. It was down to me and Segun Aina and everyone knew I would be the one because Segun had been in the company for a little over 2 years and hadn’t brought in half as much business as I had. It was a no-brainer, the promotion was mine.
When Segun got the promotion instead, I went to my boss and asked why. He said “Chinenye, you know you are a woman. Very soon you will get married and your family will become number one in your life instead of the company. Besides Segun will be a better representative. People will take him more seriously as the face of the company”.

All the inspirational quotes tell you to work hard so you can be successful. They never mention that you should be a man too if not you will live your life always almost getting to the top, always being second best even when in all honesty you are the best.

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It’s been too long guys, I know!! Forgive me! This post is fiction but is inspired by Chimamanda Adichie’s “We should all be feminists” speech(I’m too lazy to get you a link but you can google it and watch it on Youtube. An excerpt of it is in Beyoncé’s Flawless) and by my baby brother telling me “You can’t be rich unless you marry a rich man. That’s what I heard on Afmag” after I said “I can’t wait to be rich!”.

What do you guys think? Are there (still) double standards when it comes to men and women especially in Africa because I think there definitely are? What can we do about it?

P.S: if you’re ever looking for me, I can sometimes be found over at my hair blog. You can check it out here if you’re into that sort of thing.

Peace!

Through the door

Emeka walked tiredly to the coal black door with 17B written on it in gold, turned his key in the lock and walked into the overwhelming smell of incense, apples and something else he couldn’t make out but didn’t find pleasant. His wife, Halima, and his daughter, Julie, were praying in the living room. He wanted to go to the kitchen to drink water but he couldn’t because he would have to walk in front of his wife and daughter and he knew he wasn’t allowed to walk in front of people who were praying. He’d learnt that the hard way. So he sank into the couch and swallowed saliva repeatedly hoping to at least make his throat a little less dry while he waited. Not only was he greatly thirsty, he was starving. He had eaten an apple for breakfast and he had been so busy at the office that he didn’t have time to eat lunch.  Confined to the couch, he had no choice but to wait till their prayers were over.

“Hello darling, dinner is almost ready. How was your day”, Halima said, after their prayers were done. Julie hugged him and ran upstairs probably to continue chatting with someone she’d put on hold for her prayers. “My day was long and tiring and I’m famished. What’s for dinner?”, said Emeka, all but whispering. “Aww, sorry dear”, Halima said, ladling something from a pot into a bowl. “We’re having Mama Aimal’s stew and some apple pie for dessert”, she said as she brought the bowl of stew to him. Emeka wanted to cry. He now knew what that smell he couldn’t make out before was; it was the stew. A blend of pig brains and intestines,weird spices and other strange things made Mama Aimal, Halima’s grandmother’s stew and it was a treasured family recipe. He hated that stew with a passion and always poured it down the sink when Halima wasn’t looking. He sat there with fake happiness on his face spooning the gross liquid into his mouth as Halima watched him, his soul weeping.  He also hated apple pie; he thought it was just too sweet to be called food. After several spoons of the stew, Emeka couldn’t take it anymore so he pretended to doze off. He ignored Halima’s light taps until, finally, she carried the bowl of stew to the kitchen and started to load the dishwasher.

 Emeka heard her make her way upstairs and only then did he rouse from his fake sleep and go upstairs. Showered and lying in bed next to a sleeping Halima, Emeka waited for sleep to come. Strands of Halima’s long, sleek hair tickling his face, he thought about his beautiful wife that his family disliked. When he told his mother on the phone that he had found the person he wanted to marry, she said ” ah, Chukwuemeka! I thought you would come back home to find a wonderful Igbo girl, preferably from our hometown to marry. Anyway, I trust you my son. I know you have found an equally good Nigerian woman over there”. When he said his wife to be was not Nigerian, his mother screamed as if someone struck her with a big stick. “Jehovah! Chukwuemeka, you want to marry an American. Do you want to kill me? Eiii God oh”. Emeka thought it wise to not divulge any more information so he told his mother he and his girlfriend would be coming to Nigeria to see her and his father. When his mother first saw Halima, she whispered to Emeka, “Why is she tying her head like all those Muslim people” and Emeka said “mama, she is Muslim”. His mother’s face wore the expression of one who had seen a ghost but she said nothing. Later that night, sitting in the living room of his family house in Aba, his father merely nodded while his mother told him they would not consent to the marriage. His mother, arms akimbo, said at the top of her voice,”We cannot agree oh,Emeka. Never! Not only did you bring a white woman home as a bride, you brought a Muslim white woman. You must be joking. You will not kill me; I did not kill my parents, so you will not kill me”. Then with tears in her eyes and palms raised towards the ceiling, she knelt down and said “God, where did I go wrong please. Did all my prayers for my son’s future go unanswered. Will my years as a devout Christian go unrewarded. Jesus oh! Father why me”. Emeka explained time and time again that he loved Halima and he would never marry anyone else but his mother just cried and screamed and his father just shook his head mournfully. Emeka still married Halima. And then they had Julie. They couldn’t decide on a name; he wanted her to have an Igbo name, preferably Ngozi after his mum as he secretly hoped this would make his mother accept his new life, but Halima wanted to name her, Aisha after her own mother. So they decided to just give her a neutral English name they both liked. Emeka had hoped that his parents would change their mind now that they had a grandchild but their stance on the matter remained unchanged. Soon, the void created by the figurative loss of his parents was filled by his growing love for his daughter. She was just like her mother, maybe that’s why he loved her so much. He was a little hurt when, 13 and bright eyed, she decided she didn’t want to be Christian anymore.

Emeka fell asleep and he dreamt of a different life. It was one of those dreams that you know is a dream from the get go but can’t seem to wake up from so you just go along with it till your alarm clock rings. He walked up to 17B, turned his key in the lock and walked in. Seated on the couch was his mother singing an Igbo lullaby to a new born Julie. But her name wasn’t Julie in this alternate universe, her name was Ngozi. “Papa Ngozi, welcome. How was work”, his mother said still looking at baby Ngozi. “Fine mama”. The appetizing aroma of food hung in the air like a thick comforting blanket. “Welcome darling, your dinner is ready”,said his wife.  Her accent made it clear to him that she was Igbo, most probably from his village. She had dark shiny skin and a gap in her front teeth and she looked like Igbo personified. He could see why his mother liked her. “What’s for dinner, he asked”. “Oh, your favourite. Pounded yam and Okazi soup”, she said taking his jacket and briefcase. As the first bolus of pounded yam drenched in soup made its way down Emeka’s throat to his eager belly, Emeka woke up to the sound of Halima’s 5am prayer alarm.

His life was like punch at a college party: a mix of many things that boggled his mind.  But, he wouldn’t have it any other way. Even though he had no one to go to Mass with him on Sundays, even though he hated the smell of incense, even though he’d prefer pounded yam and Okazi soup for dinner instead of Mama Aimal’s deadly stew, even though they stuck out in public like a sore thumb, one black, one white and one caramel, even though his family didn’t agree, he loved his life and that’s all that mattered.

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Hi guys, this was written a little hastily so I hope it’s coherent. It’s in response to this week’s writing challenge( http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/05/06/writing-challenge-door/?utm_content=bufferf4266&utm_source=buffer&utm_medium=twitter&utm_campaign=Buffer ). What do you guys think about marrying/dating someone who is different from you? Someone of a different race or even ethnic group, someone with different political views, someone with totally different religious beliefs etc?

June 3rd

I’m featured on The Rambling Newt! Please check it out guys!

Ramblings of the Newt

Today. We have Jennifer, gracing our ‘eyes’. Enjoy.
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I check my watch for the umpteenth time. It’s 11:59 so I just watch the second hand make its way around the circle. 12:00! Finally! Like clockwork, my phone rings. No need to look at the screen for caller ID, I know it’s you; you always call first. “Hi baby” I coo into the phone. You proceed to sing me “happy birthday” with me smiling like a fool and wiping a couple of tear drops.
I always told you that you were an angel in human form; not only because of how special you are, but because of your voice that would put the birds, the American Idol contestants and a few angels, dare I say, to shame. Your singing ends and you say “Happy birthday baby! You are the light, the love and the joy of my life and I’m…

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Can’t think of a title

Last week’s “person,place and thing” challenge was the original inspiration for this post but when I saw the daily writing challenge for yesterday, the deal was sealed. The daily challenge for yesterday was to write about a song that has been stuck in your head or that you can’t stop playing. That song for me is definitely “When I was your man” by Bruno Mars. I love it so so much. I can’t get it out of my head and I can’t stop listening to it. I know all the words! Whenever the video plays on TV, my sister rolls her eyes because she knows I’m about to use the remote as my microphone and give a show stopping performance with Bruno Mars. I remember watching a Bruno Mars interview where he said “when you use songwriting for therapy, it’s hard cos I want people to hear the song but singing it reopens the wounds and memories”. I won’t even lie, my eyes welled up. It’s such a beautiful song with so much emotion. No wonder it’s stuck in my head. Why it speaks to me is that it rightfully tells us to never take love for granted. Never be ‘too young, too dumb to realize’ that the one you’re with is to be treasured. And so, this post is inspired by last week’s challenge and is in response to yesterday’s daily prompt ( http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/04/22/daily-prompt-earworm/ ). Enjoy!
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As I walk into the brightly lit classroom, still a tad hungover, I cringe. I’m clutching my cup of coffee for dear life as I make my way to the teacher’s desk. I study the curious faces of the first graders for a few seconds before I clear my throat and start the class. “Good morning guys. Your teacher, Miss White, is a little under the weather so I’ll be your substitute teacher until she gets back. My name is Mr Bamidele; it may be a little difficult to pronounce so you can call me Mr B”. So far so good.
“Today, we’re gonna talk about nouns. A noun is the name of an animal…”

Monkey. My little monkey is what I used to call you. Not just because of your obsession with bananas but also because of the little mischievous things you did. You always had that look on your face like you were about to pull a prank on someone. It was one of the things that intrigued me about you. I could never tell what you were thinking because of that look. I think I started to take you for granted when I finally cracked your code and became able to read your soul like a book. I could finally see the vulnerability, the need for affection and the unconditional love for me when I looked into your eyes. It made me feel like I had power, like I had the upper hand. I forgot what love was about.

“…the name of a person”

Oluwademilade. When you first told me your name I thought to myself, ‘isn’t that a boy’s name?’. Despite my being Yoruba, I never learnt the language growing up. I asked you what it meant and you said “God has crowned me”. Indeed, God crowned me with you. You are more beautiful than all the jewels in the world combined. What’s that saying again? Oh yeah, ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown’. I don’t think the heaviness I felt was from responsibility; I think the heaviness on my head was pride. At first, I knew you were too good for me. I knew this crown did not belong on this head. As time went by, alas, my love, I started to feel like I was the one who was too good for you.

“…the name of a place”

Shoprite Ikeja. That’s where we first met. You had rolls and rolls of toilet paper in your cart and I thought “this girl must poop a lot”. You caught me staring and that was the first time my heart heard that your funny laugh that can lift my spirit any day of the week. I left Shoprite and went about doing the other things I needed to do at the mall, your laughter ringing in my ears. When I got to my car in the parking lot, there you were parked right next to me, putting your rolls and rolls of toilet paper in the trunk of your car. We smiled at eachother like familiar strangers as I drove home tucking you somewhere in the back of my mind. After my visit with my family was over, it was time for me to go back to my life. And by some stroke of serendipity, as I got to my seat, 34A, there you were seated in 34B. You always said you knew we were meant to be from the moment you looked up and saw me standing in the aisle beside you. You said we were destined to fall in love. By the end of that 23 hour flight, we felt like we’d known eachother our whole lives. By the end of the flight, I couldn’t get you out of my head. The way you laughed loudly, the way you hit my arm whenever you were excited about something, the cute way you snored when you fell asleep on my shoulder. The same things I first loved about you became the cause of several silly rows.

“…or the name of a thing”

I’m your angel by Celine Dion and R Kelly. That was our song. On our first date, I took you to a 4 star French restaurant for dinner. I still remember how the lighting of Pierre’s hit every angle of your face like that was the light God used when he fashioned you. After dinner, we walked down the road talking when we came across this karaoke bar. Your face lit up as you said “oh my gosh! I love karaoke, let’s go in”. I remember muttering something about having the worst voice on the planet as you pulled me into the bar. You sang a couple of your favourite songs and I smiled all through because your voice was just as bad, if not worse than mine. But your confidence was remarkable. Then you dragged me on stage and said we were going to do a duet. I didn’t want to but I did. I thought to myself “Ugh! This is such a sappy love song” but then I saw how much you liked it. We sounded horrible but it was beautiful. And everytime I hear that song, I think of you. It’s our song. ‘And when it’s time to face the storm, I’ll be there by your side’, I sang to you countless times. Yet, after a silly little fight last night, I said “Demilade, I can’t do this anymore. It’s over”. Funny thing is, I don’t remember what we were fighting about. I’m not sure if that’s because of how trivial the issue was or because of all the beers I downed at O’neil’s pub after the fight. But lately we’d been fighting a lot. I was always the one who started the fights and they were always over the stupidest things. I had had this idea brewing in my head that I was tired of you, that I was too good for you, that I was too amazing to be a one-woman man and so my aggressive side came out. Now, I’m realising just how huge a mistake I’ve made.

“Excuse me class, I’ll be right back”, I say as I all but sprint to my car. I’m remembering that song by Bruno Mars that was playing on the radio when we were going to lunch on Friday, about a man who lost his love because of his stupidity and I think to myself, “that man must not be me”. Before I start the engine, I take out my phone to send you a text: ‘Dee, my precious little monkey, I’m so sorry about last night and all the other fights, I don’t know what I was thinking. All I know is, there’s no one I’d rather be with than you, no place I’d rather be than in your arms and nothing I’d rather do than love you. I’m coming over’.

Jammed

“Lord God,Lord God,Lord God this is not happening again!!!”
I’ve stared at the computer screen so long that my brain seems to be hurting.
Still, clear as crystal, that number remains on the screen.
150…150?! How the hell did this happen?!
Let me be sure this is my result! I rub my eyes and look again. Same number! D’uh!! Like rubbing eyes ever works!
I log out and log in again…

JOINT ADMISSIONS AND MATRICULATION BOARD.
Candidate Name: Salami, Adetoun Mary
Gender: Female
State Of Origin: Ondo
Local Govt: Owo
Registration Number: 1563485655
Examination Number: 9635444482
Examination Centre: Yaba College of Technology Secondary School G.R.A. Yabatech Quaters,Yaba.

EXAMINATION RESULT
Use of English:33; Government= 27; Lit in Eng= 30; Christian Rel. = 60; Aggregate= 150

It’s still the same!!! It’s really my result!!!
What in God’s name am I going to do now?! How will I even tell my parents?!
This is the 6th year in a row that I’ve written JAMB! 6th!!!
The first time, I got 220. My mum said I had to do it again the next year because we are known for great results in my family. She said my sister had 303 and my brother had 290 and that they didn’t have two heads. My dad said I didn’t have to do it again if I didn’t want to because the result was good enough to enter Unilag,my first choice. But I like a challenge! And I hate it when my mum compares me to my siblings so I waited and did it again the next year only to score 200. And then I did it again the next year and the next and on and on… The results just got worse year after year! 220 then 200 then 190 then 185 then 170 and now 150?!?!

The computer beeps indicating that I have five minutes of internet time left. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a crisis?!” I hiss at the computer before I remember that I’m in public. Everyone is looking at me like I have a leprechaun dancing on my head. I hurriedly log out and practically run out of the cyber cafe.

Just perfect!!! Just perfect!!! After I paid that foolish lesson teacher a whole 20k to get me dubs,I still got 150?!

Who have I offended now?! Am I possessed or something?! God but why?! I promised to join the choir if I had a good score; that deal is definitely off now!
Chai! What will I do now?!
My mum told me that this year will be the last time she’ll register me for JAMB. Even LASU or Lagos State Polytechnic won’t accept me now! I know exactly what my mother will say; it’s the same thing she has said every year, “Toun,JAMB has jammed you!”

Hot tears are threatening to roll down my cheeks when suddenly,a chalkboard in front of a small store catches my eye. It reads:
“Sale girl with secondry school certificate wanting. Good salary”

I take a good look at the store. “NO KING LIKE GOD INTERNATIONAL SPARE PART SHOP. 3 OLOWU STREET IKEJA. We deals in original imported parts for Mercedes,Honda,Toyota e.t.c”

I walk in.
Fate has decided. Maybe this is my destiny.

***** P.S I did NOT write JAMB oh! Abeg! No be true life story be dis! And if by any chance this actually applies to you,do take heart; Aal iz well! *****

Baby blues

“Why are you crying,ehn?! Queen of the coast just tell me why you are crying. When you were flying in the night you didn’t cry;now that you have been caught you have emotions abi?!Put your head in one place my friend!”
 
Nonso is sitting there in the corner watching his mother shave off my hair; there’s no pity in his eyes. Infact his eyes seem to be mocking me.
  “This is the ‘worse’ our vows were referring to Nonso;DO SOMETHING!” I say with my eyes but his eyes and mouth remain still.
My mouth is too weak to scream,my body to weak to struggle. For a week,they have not fed me. For a week,they’ve not let me shower. For a week,they’ve kept me locked up in this hell hole. And nobody knows. My friend came to visit yesterday but my mother-in-law turned her away at the door saying that I had gone to London with the baby. I tried to scream so she would hear me and save me but my voice couldn’t get past my stomach.

When will this torture end?! I’ve begged these people to hand me over to the police but they refused. I begged them to just kill me but they refused.

  Everyone says a mother’s love begins from the moment she discovers she’s pregnant. Mine did. I loved Junior while he was yet unborn. I don’t know what happened when I finally had him. Looking at him made me angry; each time I heard him cry, I felt like an angry charging bull. I just couldn’t look at him,couldn’t touch him, couldn’t hold him, couldn’t feed him. I hated Junior and I didn’t know why. How can a mother hate her innocent baby?! Impossible as it might seem, I hated my baby. I couldn’t explain this longing I had to harm him. For the first week,my mum held him,fed him and cared for him because she felt my withdrawal was because I was still recuperating and getting used to motherhood. But when she left,my mother-in-law came and she forced Junior on me. She wouldn’t hear of her only grandchild being bottle-fed.
On this fateful Saturday morning when she pushed the two week old squirming and screaming Junior into my arms, I lost control and walked straight to the balcony as if in a trance and dropped him from 3 storeys before it could even register in my head.

And so since then,my mother-in-law has made me a prisoner in my own house, beating me,starving me and punishing me daily. And my husband is doing nothing about it.  

Yes,I killed Junior. I really can’t explain why. I am not a witch. I am not a psycho murderer. Yes,I wanted to kill my baby but I didn’t want to kill my baby. Oh God,I’m confused! What did Junior ever do to me?! Why did I do it?!What happened to me?! How this this happen?!

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Another issue from my sociology class! This one might be a tad bit difficult to decipher because it’s not a popular problem. The problem I sought to highlight in this story is post-partum depression(clap for yourself if you already guessed)…Post partum depression is a form of clinical depression that happens to some women who have just had a baby and even some men whose wives have just had a baby. Some of the symptoms are sadness,fatigue,irritability,withdrawal from the baby,a longing to harm the baby e.t.c. If a new mother kills her child and is taken to court, she won’t be punished if it is proven that she’s suffering from post partum depression! So it is wise to be informed about it so as to prevent any problems. It’s a real illness we really should learn more about because we never know when we might be able to identify someone suffering from it so the person can get help early.For more info, please Google it. Peace!x

Only normal

I’m lying in the corner,curled up in a naked ball.
My body hurts but I’m used to it.
He’s lying in bed,a dark heap; his sturdy chest rising and falling gently with each snore. He always sleeps whenever he surprises me with sex or corrects me. Tonight,he had done both. He looks so peaceful, so beautiful. Who wouldn’t love someone like him? He has always known what was best for me. If not for his regular corrections and disciplining, I would probably have put myself in trouble. He keeps me in check. He surprises me with sex. Surprise sex, that’s what he calls it. When i’m tired,not in the mood or when I blatantly refuse, he surprises me with it.
      My friends don’t understand. All they do is criticise. I know they’re jealous, they just want what we have. The other day, they said they were having a party only for me to get there and find myself in some sort of intervention. They sat me down and blabbed about how Segun was abusing me and I was too blind to see it. They said he was raping me and hitting me and that I had to leave him before he killed me. They wouldn’t listen when told them that Segun wanted the best for me and that he corrects me because he loves me or that he only surprises me with sex because it is his right as my husband to take it whenever he wants. What do they know? Chineye had the right to talk too. She went and changed her children’s school without her husband’s permission and he didn’t even correct her. Titi has her own personal bank account and her husband has never deemed it fit to correct her. Thank God for Segun. The way he disciplines me keeps me from going astray. Spare the rod and spoil the child; you only discipline and correct those you love. Why should I take advice from wayward friends whose husbands don’t love them enough to keep them on the right path?
    So what if I end up in the ER every few weeks? At least every broken bone and black eye has taught me right from wrong. And so what if I had a miscarriage as a result of one of those corrections? At least he saved that child the horror of having a terrible person like me as a mother. So what if he surprises me with sex? A virtuous woman submits to her husband and puts his wants before her’s. It’s only normal. After all,he takes good care of me. And he proves to me that he’s sorry whenever he goes too far with his discipline by buying me nice things. Just last week,he got me the Christian Louboutin shoes I wanted and brought them when he came to see me in the hospital. I don’t even think I deserved those shoes; after all,I was wrong and I deserved the beating.
      I love Segun and that’s all that matters.
      I better go and prepare dinner before he wakes up. I have to keep my loving husband happy.

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So dear readers, I took this sociology course this semester titled ‘sociology of deviant behaviour’ and I really enjoyed it. I learnt about a number of social issues and I decided to highlight a few that really got to me here on my blog… As you must have realised, the problem highlighted here is domestic violence. What I learnt and decided to point out about domestic violence is the fact that the victim hardly sees it as bad. Most times,they don’t think it’s wrong. Onlookers can see that it’s a problem but the victim can’t. Before you criticise abuse victims, you should know that before an abused person can leave,the person has to first realise and label the relationship as abusive. Someone actually tweeted that rape is just surprise sex; I just shook my head in disgust. In my next post, I’ll talk about another issue so watch out… Till then,peace and love.x