theinkheartblog

letting the ink tell the tales conceived in my mind………

Month: March, 2015

Hello sweethearts… I know I disappeared from here again but it was all for the best. Since last year, I’ve been announcing turning the blog into an e-mag of a sort, where I post more than just fictions but a lot more to entertain and educate you guys. It took longer than I expected but I’m so glad to announce to you guys that it’s finally done!!!! And so, henceforth, I will no longer be posting here. All posts have been moved to the new site http://www.theinkheartblog.com. Fiction, Poems will still be posted on the site and alongside that, more interesting articles like “Outfit Of The Day”, “Funny Picture Of The Day”, Recipes, Tutorials, Interviews, Opinionated Articles, Opinion Polls, Tips and Tricks, News and so much more.

As usual, I can do this without you guys; a site is as good as dead without its readers. So, I need you guys to stick me with more than you have been doing in the past. Every click on every post means so much to me. I need you guys to tell a friend to tell another friend who will tell her friends. Help me share post links on your social media accounts and leave comments too on each post (all these are important to the growth of the e-mag). If you have a story, recipe, article, tips, video tutorials or pictorials you want to share, please send to theardentinkheart14@gmail.com. If you are creative, talented and young entrepreneur and you are interested in being interviewed, please send a mail to the above address or add bb pin: 557C1CF0… If you have suggestions, complains or whatsoever please don’t hesitate to contact me. Your feedbacks are important to the growth of the site; really important.

All that said, you guys should head over to http://www.theinkheartblog.com to check out the new site. I added four new posts; a recipe, movie suggestions, fashion tips, business tips, today to test the waters. I will start posting articles officially from the 1st of April. I am really excited about this whole thing and I hope you guys are. And I am hoping to continue with all the series I am yet to finish. What series will you like me to start with?! A friend really wants “The Stalwart Knight” back; Yay or Nah?!!

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Finding Redemption – Part 2

PART 2

How I Became A Writer
I was sitting on a chair outside my house one day, just staring at the sky. It was so blue and so bright, I wish I could reach out for it. Tiny white clouds moved about so cheerily, reminding me of my own freedom hindered. I wanted desperately to float, and swim in blue seas of the sky. It was so enchanting, I sat there for so long, looking and imagining myself in the sky, surfing. Even when the mean boys who called me weirdo came out to play pretend soccer and then hit me with the ball every chance they got (which was a lot), I did not budge. I just sat put, daydreaming about surfing in the skies and going on picnic with my imaginary friends. I imagined what it would be like to tell my stories to the fluffy clouds, my voice echoing so loudly, everyone on earth would hear.

Then, bang, it hit me. No, it was not tornado or a special wind that caused an in-depth revelation or some vision triggered by the clear heavens. Neither was it the constant pain from the ball that they won’t stop throwing at me. It was a bird, flying in the sky, screaming on top of its tiny lungs for everyone in the neighborhood to hear who found it fit to use my forehead as its toilet. The bird was so far up in the sky and when I raised up my eyes to look at the bird that had managed to break my attention from the sky, it was a blur; almost as if it was a speck of dirt floating in mid sky. The bird was too far from me to pick out the colour of its feathers, I could not even recognise if it was a pigeon or a dove or an eagle yet from that distance, it had disrupted my daydream. I wiped my forehead clean but there was the stench that did not leave until I had washed myself thoroughly with soap. It was insignificant, come to think of it, but it gave me an idea that changed my world. I became aware of the power that laid in being invisible. True, I enjoyed telling my stories but I felt an urge within to make an impact in lives from afar.

The next day in school, as I watched my teachers scribble notes on the board and then students rush to copy them in their notes, I knew what I would do to affect lives from far and wide. When it was break time, I went to the board and began to write. What it was I scribbled on that board, I cannot remember but I remember the look of concentration and awe on my classmates faces. I remember smiling at the chalk in my hand. I was not ordinary anymore, I had just discovered the secrets of the old and the wise history changers; I became a writer.

How I Became A Character
I had always been a character, I just never thought of myself that way. I had often thought I was just a creator of characters, breathing into them and making them come alive but I thought wrong. Talking about becoming a character may have me telling my secrets and I know you already know that a writer never reveals his secret. All I know is when I read through my stories, I see myself, my attributes, my experience in some of the other characters. I find myself mingling and befriending them. Sometimes, I cater to them when they are sick, sad or traumatized. I am sometimes a mother, a father, a brother, a sister or even a spouse.

No matter how hard I tried to deny it, I became a part of my stories. I shared their pain and fed their love for the other or maybe they did mine. I nurse them and give them the life they deserved, it doesn’t matter if it is bad or good. My stories are me and I am my stories. When they need to be fought for, I fight for them. I take their pain as mine and when they are happy, I am too. The character is the important part of the story and I had always wanted to be important; to be loved and to love. Being a character gave me all that. So, I embraced my duties as a character; weaving in too deep with the other ones. We were inseparable, they were my best friends. Do I care when people say I keep to myself a lot? The answer is no. I enjoy my own company a lot; too much. When I walk down the street and I laugh at their jokes, people look at me like I am crazy. Explaining to people make me look even crazier.

Like a chocoholic that can’t do without the delicious ecstatic feeling of the candy bar melting on your tongue and finding its way down her belly, I became addicted; costing me real life friendships. Loner, hermit, weirdo were some of the name I have been called but nothing affected me. I lend my voice to my clan; it was not important to me they are virtual. The most important thing was I became part of history, I became a character.

How I became A Victim
How do I explain this without sounding really crazy or maybe I am crazy and just would not want to admit to it. Fact is, I don’t even know myself any longer. Whether this is the voice in my head telling its own story or it is my own story, I can barely tell the difference. Sometimes, I do certain things and have absolutely no memory of it afterwards. Some days back, I was talking to someone, it was more like I was arguing. I was sweating and my voice had gone croaky due to my parched throat. I stood up to get water from the dispenser in my always locked room and when I turned back, there was nobody again. I could have sworn someone was in the room with me, screaming along with me. And as I was looking about in my room for the person I was arguing with, I realised I actually could not remember what I was arguing about. It felt as if it never even happened at all. Maybe it was a figment of my thought but my parched and sore throat told me I had actually been screaming some moment ago.

I know you are already asking how possible that is. Fact is, I am confused myself. Sometimes when I talk, I often wonder if I was actually talking. Maybe I was just listening to the many voices in my head that sounded so much like mine. I wonder if my fears are real or I am just acting out one of my stories. I could love this minute and hate the next. I can be so alive and at the snap of a finger, I can be dead. It is scary as I my life take on a pattern not so clear to me anymore. Maybe I have given too much of myself to my virtual world that I have lost out on the real world, I cant say, all I know is I don’t think I have a real life anymore.

How I became the victim to my not so real world, I can’t tell. I just woke up one day and could not differentiate the worlds anymore. I lived and ate like a zombie, controlled by things you have no idea are significant enough to cause you damage. The unreal has become real to me. I clutch my duvet at night, scared of an intruder that’s never going to come. I run from shadows, afraid it will harm me, not knowing the shadow is mine. I go about with pocket knives waiting for a serial killer to just bump into me. I anticipate playing detective even there is nothing to find out. Sometimes when I do certain things, I wonder why motives are.

But being a victim opened my eyes to the truth, that I can’t run into myself hoping to find the help I need from another person or a higher being. In being the victim, I saw the pattern in the real world I ran from. The manipulation, the deprivation, the maltreatment, the controlling. Being a victim makes me want to tell a story I have vowed to keep to myself. Like I said earlier, I am a work in progress and my story may be confusing at the moment but understanding comes soon.

Finding Redemption – Part 1

Hey darlings, thank God it is Friday; time to relax and do some posting, that’s if electricity provider in Nigeria will be so nice sha…. Anyways, I have really good news and I’m so excited. The e-mag I’ve been talking about is almost finished and I’m so happy. I’ll be moving to http://www.theinkheartblog.com in a bit!!!! The blog is still very much intact, in fact, the blog will be incorporated with the site and that means you still get to read regular stories alongside the contents of the e-mag… As I normally say, I can’t pull the whole thing off without you guys… I need you guys to keep on liking my Facebook page: The Inkheart’s, join my bbm channel: C00446F02 and follow on IG: the_ardent_inkheart and tell a friend to tell a friend. If you have stories, articles , interviews; anything buzz worthy and fun, please send to theardentinkheart14@gmail.com. Thanks for the support from the very beginning, you guys are amazing. The regular commenters, the ghost readers, the ones that come to my dm and bbm to leave their comments, I appreciate every one of you… You guys are the bomb.. To today’s agenda, I will be posting a four part story I wrote for oga Topazo a while back and could not really do justice to sharing it. I want you guys to read, SHARE AND LEAVE COMMENTS!!! Enjoy the 1st part

                ★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

I am a storyteller.
I spend every minute of my life telling stories to anyone who cares to listen. It doesn’t matter if the story is real or not, I will tell it so good, you will have no choice but to believe me. I know I’m good because I see the awe registered on people’s face as they listen to me talk, I see the trust in their eyes. Most of them wonder in silence how I came about my stories. They debate in private that I get them from experience; either mine or another’s. Some say it is because I have seen too much, heard too much or read too much. Only few have been bold enough to question the authenticity of my stories but I never tell. A storyteller must keep his source a secret, my mentor had once told me and I believe him.

I am a writer.
I spend my spare time typing furiously on my tablet, recounting those stories to total strangers. Some days, I break the stories down into tiny fragments, doing my best to capture the emotions that come with the stories and others, I just summarize them, trying to keep the secrets that come with the stories secret. People say I am too good, maybe it is my life experience I am sharing with the world. Some tell me my stories are too emotional; almost too sad and it makes them cry. Some condemn me for being so outspoken, advising me to wash my dirty linens in private. Some sneer and make jest of my stories, thinking my imagination is on overdrive. Either the stories are true or not, some really want to know but like my mentor will always say, a writer never reveals his source. My secret is my weapon and I believe him.

I am a character
My secret, I will never tell but what I can share with you is that the voice in the story are all mine. Sometimes, I shed real tears and laugh so hard just to capture the true emotions. I have once walked my street on barefoot and unkempt clothes just to understand what my characters are going through. I skip meals and welcome the pangs just so I can relay vividly these things. I live with my characters and nurse them like my babies. I am a character in my stories but the part I play, you may never know. You may keep guessing who I am in all my stories. Fact is, you may never get it right because I can be male or female, I may be young or old but I don’t want you to stop guessing. My mentor says when I stop keeping my readers and listeners in suspense, I have failed as a character and failure is not one of those attributes I appreciate.

I am a victim
This is the part where I should stop writing and run back to my shell but I have reached a breaking point where I need to talk. It may not be what you are expecting, it may not even be real to you but I am a victim; a victim to my stories. And this is the story I want to tell. This story may not even have an ending as I am a work in progress. Either, you believe this or not, I will let you decide. My story is a simple one yet complicated. It is the type of story that confuses you and then boom, like a big knock on the head, you have clarity. This is the kind of story that will make you cry and then make you smile. This story has a beginning but the end is uncertain as I do not know where I am headed, I only know the one taking me. To make my story a complete one, I have to tell how I became each of these persons. Like I said earlier, I am a work in progress.

How I Became A Storyteller
I was born like every other girl to a family that desperately wanted a boy. Whether they were happy or not, I could not tell; I was too little to know what anyone was feeling at that time. If they liked me or not, it never mattered. I was already born and there’s nothing anyone could do about it even if they wanted to. I grew up like every other girl, wanting to love and be loved. Well, I did not get my wish. I tried everything I could do to make them love me; I read hard, played little and did many chores but nothing worked. At an early stage, I learnt no matter the sacrifices you make for some people, they may never feel the same thing you feel for them. My childhood passed in a blur and frankly, I have little memory of it. I grew like every other girl depraved of love. No, I was not a rebel, I just became my own favourite companion. My childhood was almost nonexistent but it is an important part of my story. It is an important part of my life because it is amazing how something you could barely remember, shape your life and form a future you are yet to have. It is important because something you see as insignificant can create a significant part of your life.

I grew up like a stranger in my own home. I felt like an alien, like I have been picked up by the roadside by kind couple and brought to live with people who just looked like me. I grew up surrounded by faces almost like mine yet I was so different. I was like a cat, raised amongst the wrong pack. I was the wild one; the one always wanting to jump out of the jungle to explore the world they termed dangerous. I craved the things people said were abominable. I wanted things that were deadly, I was not afraid of death. I only feared dying while still alive. I wanted to live. I remember they called me crazy and some other not so nice words I dare not mention but no matter how different I was, I could not be myself. I lived by the standards set for me by their own standards. I was hindered, stopped from spreading my wings to fly.

Because of my restriction, there was always to tell someone how I was feeling, what was going through my young mind. It did not matter there was no one listening to my stories, the four walls of my room became my audience. My voice echoing in the room brought me comfort and I discovered the power in talking. My voice gave me the surge of energy I needed. It felt as if I was out in the wildest jungle mingling with the fiercest of animals. I was not ordinary any longer, I became a storyteller.

Hey darlings, how are you guys?!! Been neglecting this blog but not anymore as I’m taking things to the next level… All the talks of change will be fully implemented soon but on a more personal and better platform. As usual, I’m going to need you guy’s support as I can’t do it without you guys. First I will like you guys to like my facebook page: TheInkheart’s, Follow on IG: theardentinkheart, and join bbm channel: C00446F02… A twitter for the site will be announced soon (I’ve been having issues with twitter and verification). To the story of the day (or night), please don’t forget to leave comments and share too (both are very important and helpful)… Thank you guys for sticking with theinkheartblog, you guys are awesome!!!! Enjoy the story
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The day sped by as we stared at the waves struggled to reached the shore first before the other. The bright blue beach had an orange tinge to it from the sun that was already setting. We knew we should leave the shore and go into one of the tents set up for tourists like us but we just could not; our legs felt glued to the wet grounds and it was not just our legs that were heavy, our tongues were too, at least, I knew mine was. There was so much I wanted to say, needed to say but I found myself swallowing my words. I knew I should speak up and tell him what was on my mind but I was so afraid.

I wanted to tell him how badly it made me feel that I was just an extra wheel in his life, how it hurts that I could only be his woman in private and never in public. I wanted to tell him I was tired of being just the other woman; the one that was only good enough for random escapades when the main girl was “getting on his nerves”. I wanted to know what it would be like to be his only girl in his life, I wanted him to run to me at all times and I wanted to be there for him at every turn. I knew it was too much to ask a man that was married but what could a girl want more than to be loved the same way that she loved her man.

I turned to him again and saw him smiling down at me. My heart did a little tap dance in my chest and before I knew it, I asked him
“What am I to you, Vic?”
“You are my little sunshine even when my days are not dark. You make me so happy and I’m proud you’re in my life”

His answer weakened me and as he placed tiny feathery kisses all over my face and down my neck, I became weaker. Today, I’m contented to play this role in his life; tomorrow, maybe, I’ll have the strength to speak up…

Before you get comfortable to read this, I will like to warn you that this is really a very personal issue to me; I have tattoos and so, I may be taking things overboard. Pardon me if my words will sound like I’m criticizing or condemning; maybe that’s the point of the whole article. You may also think I’m trying to justify people’s reasons for inking their bodies; that also may be the point of writing this too. Either ways, this article may offend you, condemn you, you may like it and you may be indifferent to it; the choice to continue reading this is absolutely yours but I will like you to read this to the end, to understand a little bit of how painful it is to have your body inked in an almost complete Afropolitan society like Nigeria’s.

Welcome to this part of the world where everyone thinks tattoo is a billboard that announces to the public how “bad” you can be. You see someone with a tattoo; no matter how insignificant or little whatever drawn on the body is, you become judgmental, concluding in your mind the person sporting the tattoo is either loose or a tout. Here, tattoo is as bad as the 666 mark or even worse because the devil has suddenly turned more trustworthy than you. People start to question your integrity, your intellect, your belief and all that. If your tattoo is the bold type or in a very obvious part of your body like your hands, neck etc and can’t be hidden by clothes, you have your work environment streamlined to only certain places that won’t mind having a tattooed worker on their payroll. Even then, they watch you with eagle’s eyes waiting for you to commit the littlest crime or you become a prime suspect in every crime committed at the office.

I can’t count how many times I’ve been told I would never get a job if the company about to hire me knew I have a tattoo. In my mind I would go “Really? Not even if whatever I have in my head can turn the company around for good? Even if my ideas and intellect can set the company at Dangote level?” Talk about discrimination of the highest order and this is even worse and foolish because the so called permanent tattoo is not so permanent, it can be lasered off. People judging and condemning all because of a body art that can be removed; that’s like a white man hating on another white man all because he coated his body with a temporary dark paint. Everywhere you turn; even on social media, there is someone pointing and deducing the kind of lifestyle you have based on the tattoo on your body. To them, the girl with the tattoo is promiscuous, bitchy, dumb, possible drug addict, alcoholic and has no plans for herself and her future kind of girl. The guy with the tattoo is the bullet popper, always cursing, pants sagging, drug addict, street urchin, alcoholic, no plans to be a better person kind of guy.

Even the media, through movies, billboards, music videos, has somehow helped to promote these images about people sporting inked arts on their body. And because of these thoughts or crazy distorted images, we are not “fit” for good jobs, good relationships, good lifestyle; in fact, everything good should be taken from us and it gets me thinking a harmless tattoo makes us the bad guy or deserve the worst when there are people out there with terrible habits and characters. What happened to the rapists, the sociopath, the ritualists, the woman beaters, the real thieves, the drug addicts? They deserve better than us because their is nothing on their body to show who they are? It’s okay to be evil in private and then point fingers at innocent people in public because of body arts? You may think that some people with tattoos are these things, yeah, you’re correct and so are people without tattoos too. Tattoos are bad cos the bible condemns it? Yes, very true. The same bible points to us that even if our sins are as red as scarlet, God is ready to wash us as white as snow. The same bible pointed out how “all” have sinned and come short of God’s glory, not few people, not certain people, not only those who have tattoos but everybody. As far as I know, we all have one really bad attitude that is worse than having the body inked.

So, stop with the condemnation already. We may have marred our natural skins with beautiful work of artificial arts but that does not stop us from being good people, devout believers, intelligent, ambitious, creative thinkers and a lot more; there is so much more to us than tattoos. Don’t judge us, we are more than who you think we are….

The Wrong Kind Of Love

Hands caressed everywhere on her body as his lips sought hers in a very deep passionate kiss, sending delicious thrills down her spine. He one of her breasts with one hand while the other removed the pins that held her hair in place. He stopped kissing her and pulled her face back for a while to watch brownish mane cascade down her shoulders; she looked so beautiful, almost too beautiful. He wanted to stare for a while but she started doing deliciously wicked things that made it almost too difficult to breathe. She would bite him so softly and then place tiny kisses around the area she bit. She started from his ears, his nose, mouth and before he knew it she had gone from his chest towards his navel. He wanted to scream for her to stop, at the same time wanted her to continue. The soft bites, her tongue, her lips were driving him so crazy, he just laid on the bed purring like an overfed cat. She began to trail her fingers down his sides while she continued her mouth ritual and that even drove him crazier. She moved down the lower part of his body, blowing tiny kisses as she went. He was in highest of clouds, anticipating more pleasure to come but the plop on the bed made him open his eyes.

    “Babes, why are you stopping?”, he could barely get the words out without stuttering. She played deaf and walked to a fridge near the bed to retrieve the bottle of vodka she had kept there earlier, removed a pack of cigarette from her bag and walked back to the bed. Ignoring him totally, she lit the cigarette and opened the chilled bottle of spirit. She was not in the mood to answer his questions; she was afraid to. How could she tell him she was leaving him? It was going to break his heart to tell him she was going away for good. Would he even understand the need for both of them to stop seeing each other? She took a long drag on her cigarette, allowed it to sit in her mouth for a while and then exhaled.

     “Come on, what is going on na? Why did you stop na?”, he gave her his best “I need you badly” look and made an attempt to take the bottle and cigarette out of her hands but she would not budge. When he saw the look was not working, he started kissing and biting her earlobe. An almost silent moan escaped her lips and he saw that as an encouragement to go further. As he trailed wet and hot tongue down her neck, she closed her eyes and moaned even loudly. She wanted him so badly, she wanted to push him down the bed and climb on him. She wanted to kiss him everywhere, show him how crazy he drove her but she did not do that, she could not. Why torture him further when she knew what was going to happen afterwards.  “Crap”, she thought as weak hands pushed him off her.

     “What is wrong with you na? Since you got here, you’ve been acting all funny, coming on to me and then pushing me off. What is in the world is going on?”, he shouted more than he wanted to but he was getting irritated and junior was getting really impatient to be sated. He watched arms akimbo while she guzzled liquor and took a long drag on her cigarette with shaky hands. He knew she was nervous but he hated suspense and she was being so dramatic, the suspense felt intensified.

     “Ade and I are moving back to the states.”
     “The states? With him? I thought you were going to divorce him?”
     “Oh dear”, she moved towards him to touch his face but he moved away from her.
      “You told me you were going to leave your husband so we can finally be together. Why are you running to the states with him? Such cruel and heartless beast? I thought you wanted better, I thought you wanted love and affection and all that”
     “Oh, yeah, I want all that but Ade…”
     “Ade what? You want to go off with a man that treats you like crap? That doesn’t appreciate you? I love you, I am ready to give you all your husband is not giving you, you know that. I will go miles for you”
    “See, I know you love me but Ade is my husband. He may not love me or respect me as I want him too but I love him”
     “You what? Repeat that again”
     “I love my husband. He may be terrible sometimes but I love him. I love him enough to travel back to the states with him to make things work. Besides, I have my kids to think about. He provides for them and gives them the best. He is a good father”
    “I told you I can take care of you and your kids. I love you enough to go more than extra miles from you”
     “Oh honey, you don’t have enough to give to my kids. They don’t want a boy who still has wallpapers of his star crush hanging everywhere in his room or a boy who still sag his pants and who thinks lil wayne is good enough to be his fashion icon. You are great but they need more, stability, good flow of cash and a good father figure.  What we had was good but it’s not enough to start a life. I love my husband a lot and I can never substitute him with you. What I have with you can be gotten with any willing young boy. Good bye, Drew. Don’t bother looking for me or try to contact. I will wire enough money to your contact to buy your silence and if you dare try to blackmail me, I will make sure you pay dearly.
    “I don’t need your money, you bitch. Just get out of my house”
    “You do, people like you always do”, she laughed sarcastically as she began dressing up. When she was done, she dropped the spare key he had given her on the fridge and went to kiss him but he pushed her lips away. Chuckling, she walked out of his apartment while he sat perplexed on his bed with half an erection wondering what just happened. As if on cue, his phone rang and Rihanna’s Cry filled the room, singing out loudly the words that burnt in his heart but unlike Rihanna, he cried; like an ailing child….

      

The other day, I saw one of old school mates I used to play pranks with and it got me thinking about my life and the dreams I had neglected due to lack of money and more, like of dedication on my part. Unlike me who was waiting in the sun for the one of the cheap “sole” buses to pass by, my friend was driving her very own 2014 BMW; the third of her babies as she had said. When the car had stopped by my side, I had been thinking of how to play ignorance if the driver asked for direction. Not that I was bitter as you may have thought, it is just annoying that car owners usually presume bus hoppers like me knew every route. I’ll be in the sun waiting to for a bus that will be shield me from the scalding heat for a while and someone in a fine ass ride, AC blowing will just stop me and ask me where that bus stop is. I just look and shrug; playing deaf and dumb. If they could afford such expensive cars, GPS should not be a problem.

As I was saying before I digressed, my friend got down from the car and gave me a really fierce hug that almost pushed me inside the gutter. I was going to pour the annoyance of the heat on her but I stopped when she screamed my nickname. No one had called me “Pringles” since my university days and even then, only few people did. I drew back and recognized her, it was Yetunde; the scrawniest of my friends except she had added flesh in the right places and she was looking so radiant. She wore a black statement tee with “I’m A Go-Getter” wriiten on it on a blue ripped jean and a pair of brogues on her feet. Her aviator glasses was placed on a wavy black weave-on that could have been mistaken for her hair except for the length. Her makeup was so simple yet classy and was intact unlike that had been smeared by my hands trying to wipe sweat off my face. I felt suddenly so conscious and wished I had worn something more classy than my pair of faded jeans, sweatshirt and slippers.

I consciously used my hand to put loose tendrils of my hair back and wished I had made the long overdue trip to the salon I had been postponing because I was a bit broke. Yetunde, being her usual over friendly, always chatty and smiling, she volunteered to take me in her ride to wherever I was going to so we could play catch up. I wanted to jump at the offer, if not for anything but for the artificial cooling machine but I refused because I was so ashamed of myself. How could I allow her drop me at the shop where I work as a sales girl after all the times in school I had bragged I was going to be my own boss at 25. I was nearing 30 and not even close to having a good job. Gosh, what went wrong with me? What happened to that girl with life plans and the zeal to be a better person?

Yetunde was too happy to have noticed my discomfort. She pushed her card in my hand when I told her I was waiting for an imaginary fiance to pick me up. She wanted to talk, she wanted to play catch up and see what more pranks I had up my sleeves since I left school. I just smiled and promised her a call. Watching her as she drove, I could feel the tears burning, threatening to be free from their confines. I could not even bear to look at the card, I dumped in my worn out hand bag. Work; no longer on my mind. I suddenly felt so ashamed of myself; ashamed enough to fix myself. I turned back and started walking back to my one room apartment. It was time for me to pick up that forgotten journal and start working towards achieving my goal. If Yetunde the scrawny, not so brilliant kid could do, why couldn’t I. It was high time I bid farewell to mediocrity and started living as the more I was created to be…