Scribblings Of A Dramatic Introvert

"Jeez, what happened to your face?" Yes, people would walk up to you to ask this. And yes, the question is as rattling as ever each time, as it brings all your insecurities rushing back full force. Usually, some shady routine is suggested for the ghastly incident on your face that ranges from acne to heat rash or some stubborn strain of  Tinea vesicolor stunting on you.  There's a classic disgust they wear on their faces while commiserating with you. It's usually at the edge of my tongue to say "It really doesn't hurt, unless you poke that way" but I keep it in every time.  So since I was a little kid, I've always had one skin problem or the other; my brother still hisses his frustration whenever I mention something else that went wrong with my face again. My mom said I was about  four years old when the first break-out happened. It gave me the worst picture memory I'll ever have, sitting there, trying to look pretty but with a body of red beat ...

"Looking sharp" sounds like a better compliment than "You look like a pastor's wife" which I had to smile to on Sunday, with a thank you, because church girls are polite and I look like a classic one; at least on most days.  Proverbs 22:6 classically says to train a child in the way they should go and they shall not depart from it (I just googled this Bible verse, my brain is empty for church things). Well, to be honest there's the part of me that is scared of derailing morally or rather "backsliding straight into hell" but other than that, I don't think Jesus is proud of me. Although that's personal; should be personal.  There's been interesting days in this church girl thing which I feel like writing about. One particularly hasn't left my head. The one at Ibadan. Nothing prepared me for the "sanctuary" I was visiting. Gathering of faithfuls? Definitely faithful to the movement. The fun part: As a Christian, I'm not n...

  What's your quarantine routine like? 161 days later, I know the world has indeed moved on from the pandemic, yet here I am, talking about it after 23 weeks (feels like 934 weeks, uurrrgghhh). I get asked "So what are you up to?" almost every other day and my handy reply is "Well, I'm living and breathing." Okay well, living things breathe and feed and do those MR NIGER D thingy, although there's not a lot of movement (I'm stuck in my bedroom cell 28/30 days a month), growth(I'm still 5'7 and all round flattened) or reproduction (well, mating isn't permitted yet) going on in my life at the moment. And clearly I'm not dead, so that strikes off the D. The "I" should be emboldened though, because I am soo irritable, but we don't want to talk about that now. Is this a whine about being stuck at home and being helpless about it, without any moral lesson at the end? Hell yes. Should I shut up and accept it? Well, I did that f...

If you want closure, come  get (over) it. A couple of years back, I had this incredible breakup barely one month into dating and although I was the instigator of calling it quits, it felt so awkward and off to just end it that way. For me, I couldn't stand it anymore and felt like I was being strangled into accepting the relationship (although there's details that might not add up if I start with the list now), so I said I wanted out and since he plainly told me there was no option of "taking a break"...Whatever. First set of persons that I told I had broken up with my boyfriend thought I was batshit crazy. "How dare you mess with such a lovely human? What on earth do you want, you unsatisfiable wench?" They went on and on and left me in shock. I thought I did the right thing. I mean, he had flags blazing red before my eyes. (He was really a sweetheart to everyone though, so yeah I was the wench) Anyway, I decided to go down the closure lane, following the a...

I said so many sorrys and forgot what I was apologizing for. It makes everything better when you take responsibility and mutter the word, sorry. I learnt that very early in life, so I mastered the art of apologizing. I accepted my flaws right from being a terrible cook, (or maybe that's what I've been made to believe since I had to apologise for every pinch of salt that exceeded the cut for her taste buds), to being an awful student who never had perfect grades. I get scared before presenting myself to be assessed and when a comment is passed about a stray hair strand outside the bun, I apologise for it- Identity crisis? I say sorry for looking below par and being poor at making myself pretty. I said sorry when he walked over me, and apologized to whoever cared to ask for being so gullible. I said sorry when I tripped and made people ask if I was okay. I said sorry when I choked on water and made everyone worried. I said sorry for not eating a lot and being skinny. I apologized...

There's a whole textbook definition for pain. Yet, the amazing thing is that pain is what the person tells you it is. It's subjective. This time, mine isn't the abstract kind of pain, it's the physical one. I can clearly see what's causing the gut-wrenching screams of ache. My feet is killing me, and my abdomen feels like a knife is being twist in and shoved deeper. My head is ringing and when I place my hands over it, I just want to yank it off, while closely considering the option to slit my wrists to relieve the pain that shoots through my arms. Everywhere is so cold and I can feel the life leaving me. When it sets in (some five minutes every goddamn hour), the pain has a way of messing with everything I think I can normally handle just fine. So many chemical pathways; some poorly understood and others well outlined. The basis of all these is simple: pain eats me up. It makes me forget who I am and what matters to me. I need it to stop so bad, and as I try to not...

2017; It's not second nature, but the only nature you've got. Very much worse than a petty habit; it's your addiction, glued to your oozing skin, reeking of every piss you excrete from your flayed pores. You gotta do what you gotta do- For you it's spinning webs of fables. It's human to err, you say to your dying humanity in defence, yet you seem to have become a god at the art of fable-spinning. I bet you can't recall the last truth you ever told, since every turn in your sick life is a damning lie. I hope the stench of your rotting conscience fills up your nostrils, even as I pray with all my heart it never reaches in time. Probably until your soul is caught up in the tangle of thick blinding webs you've drawn, in your bid to cast a veil over the eyes of unsuspecting victims. I hope you end up clawing at your own throat from the deceit that ever rolls off your tongue. 'Siyah