#amaraYa

adventurous outdoorsy soul. possess the pen of a ready writer. impacting lives through storytelling.

watch me live, survive and thrive without you

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          Little Kifi, the fish, gleefully sprang up into the air, gulped some air and flipped her tail. Then dived back into the ocean.

Swimming leisurely along, she reminisced on her recent encounter with another older fish, Azu.

“Your life is tied to the Water. Outside of it, you cease to exist”

“Must be a pitiable state to live” mused Kifi as she recalled the conversation with Azu.

Although, Azu was white and bent with age with glazed over eyes, his senses of hearing and touch were still razor-sharp.

The Renegade

Meanwhile, earlier that day, Azu had noticed Kifi join a school of others who went by a funky name. They tagged themselves ‘The Wokes’.

Led by a renegade herring by the name of Eja. Recently, Eja has began to stir up discontent among the younger school. He encouraged them to become daring. Do more. Be more. Crave more. Eja sold the idea of how their lives in the ocean was boring and there was a better life out there on the shores.

Furthermore, at odd hours when he presumed no one was watching; he would swim away from the sea bed, close enough to the shore to watch the fishermen.

Also, his eyes twinkled when he saw the humans pick some of his mates out of the waters. They never returned. Eja’s mind dreamed up all colourful scenarios about life outside. And as is the nature of unsatisfied yearnings, Eja began devising a plot to follow the humans to their exotic lands.

The Caution

However, Old Azu heard about it and went in search of Eja.

“I hear you are dreaming of killing yourself and taking other naive fish along” he began

“Who have you been talking to old one? Eja chuckled

“My source is not important. I have only come to remind you that there is no life outside of these Waters.”

“Get a life old man. Your limiting mindset stinks. No wonder your life is boring. If there is no life outside why do the others who go away not return?” Eja scorned as he glided away

“I promised your father to do my best for you” Azu had gone in search of little Kifi. “This thing with Eja will only lead to trouble” cautioned Azu

“Thank you Old Azu. You have kept your promise to my parents. I can now take care of myself and know what is best for me” Kifi replied cheekily and dived up again for air.

The scapefish

Then that evening, old Azu woke up to a cacaphony.

Eja was surrounded by an angry school lashing out at him.

Turned out he had led a team towards the shore so they could feel the sand on their skin. They did not see the net until it closed. Kifi was among those captured. Her cries were the loudest as she wriggled frantically inside the net. Eja had no idea how he raced back into the safety of the water. From that vantage point, he stared helplessly as Kifi and the others finally suffocated and lay still.

As Azu approached, Eja hung his head in shame.

“I tried to rescue her” he lied

“I tried to warn her about you” Eja angrily remarked

“Constantly reminding her that there is no life outside of the waters. In it we live and move and have our being”

 

If you like this. You will also like https://amarannaji.com/navigating-anger-and-faith/

#principles #statutes #itishowitis #rulebook #deviants

 

the influencer who went viral and lost his life

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This guy I follow. The baddest of Influencers.

I call him Mr Loco. Because he is very weird.

Met him offline before online became a thing. Very vociferous. Spares no one. Bucks the trend. Delights in annoying the establishment.

“I do not care for my life. You are going to kill me anyway so I might as well say it as it is”

As he stirred up more ruckus, his following grew. His followers got into arguments and fights. Became Voltrons, the defender of his Universe.

“Stop defending me. I can take care of myself” he cautioned restraint

Mindset upgrades. Lifestyle switches were his mantra.

How to think/do/be better were all his teachings.

As his Goodwill soared. He also accrued resentment and hatred.

The competition did not like him. Like we say in Nigeria, he was pouring sand inside their garri (frustrating their schemes) and needed to be taken care of.

Therefore, the law of in the face of a common foe enemies become friend was activated.

A hit was commissioned on him. It would be an inside job.

“We would protect you afterwards” the hitman was reassured

A lie it turned out eventually. Because after he carried out the hit, they turned their backs on him. And he committed suicide.

And Mr Loco?

Of course they killed him. Then they rued the day they did. Because his Influence and following then spread like wildfire

So viral even the #covid pandemic was child’s play. Trans frontiers, transcending social strata and demographics, his fame soared.

And lives changed.

If you have guessed who this is by now, let me know.

cancer missed this birthday

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“Amara are you crying?”

“No, you are not”

I shifted under the Comforter in bed. Sniffling.

“What is it?”

“Why are you crying now when you are almost drifting off to sleep?

I sat upright as the strains of a song filtered into my room from the hallway.

‘God You’re So Good’ A Duet by Passion, Kristian Stanfil & Melodie Malone.

That song always gets me. However this night was different. I have been a mesh of emotions for the last week. And it culminated today when I was writing that letter to him.

You see, tomorrow is my son’s birthday. The threshold of his teen years. A new phase of life entirely. This morning before he went to school, I did what mothers across generations have always done. Laid hands on him and prayed out the old year. Reminding God of how grateful I am. And thanking him for the helpers, teachers and guides he has positioned on this boy’s path for this new season of his life.

Then in the afternoon, I wrote him a letter. It is not even that I will give him the letter. I left it inside a journal he barely uses. And left a caveat that I do not know when he would find or read it.

Writing that letter though, unlocked a surge of positive emotions. As I regaled him with stories from way back, a fresh realisation of how blessed we have been floated all around me.

This night again, I paid him a visit where we played and laughed on his bed.

Then laying in bed, I hear the words of this song weave through the air. And I can relate to every lyric.

His Goodness is why I am here, alive for another birthday. If God had dropped the ball, who knows whose house my son would be in this night? Maybe I would have been like that woman of whom my mother always recounted her story. The one people find her ghost wandering around. Yet each time it was that one question she asked anyone – “did you see my children? have they eaten?”

Both of us have lived the experience of God’s faithfulness in all shades. From the day I found out I was pregnant, I have not lacked for anything. God has set up a community around us so much so that even in a strange land, dealing with cancer, he remains our portion in this land of the Living.

punish me now

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“I am sorry, I did not mean to” He stood by the door of my room pleading again

“Go away please. Leave my room” I responded calmly

“I was trying to pick it up and….”

“Young man, just go. Have you finished the mopping?

“Yes. It was an accident”

“Go. it is not a big deal. Just go”

Watching him leave apprehensively, an image popped up in my head. Watching Iyawo-Urhobo hurl a can of Saturday Night powder at her daughter Edirin as she chased her round the compound angrily. Then just as quickly, another vision superimposed itself over that one. Mama Oche walking away from her son who had mistakenly dropped her flask on the floor.

Then this popular Nigerian saying came to my head. About not flogging a child on the day he spills palm oil.

A saying which simply means deferred punishment.

“Why do you even need to flog him at all?” I countered

Right at that instant as my son walked away almost dejectedly I called him back. For the first time in my life I was only realising how faulty the premise of that saying was. It was a passive-aggressive thing to do to a child. To any body. Ignore the elephant in the room yet expect the person to run around freely.

As he sat down on my bed, we got talking.

“I said it is okay so do you keep apologising?”

“Because I broke your glass and you are not saying anything”

“is this not your house too?”

“Yes. But you bought it with your money” he answered, shoulders still hunched while looking away

“I am the parent. Who else is going to buy it? you?”

He was silent.

“Hey, sit up and look at me” I chided him

“Have you ever broken something?”

He searched his memory bank. Then came up with one incident of a cracked plate at my friend’s house when we visited.

“Listen, I used to break stuff most times growing up in my auntie’s house. Quality crockery she returned home with from England. It was so bad that I felt sad for her. It was like my hands were accident-prone. Yet she never gave me grief.

“I am your mother. I do not recall you ever breaking anything. Even as a toddler, you did not break any of my devices nor throw any into water. So why should I make a fuss because you broke a cup for the first time in your life?”

We hugged and he left. Leaving me relieved. I have always worried that I was living with an old soul because which child does not break something?

playing god in a human world

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A simulation of Mordecai selling the idea to his niece

Intrigues, lies, deception, sexual sins, greed, jealousy, unequal yoke, gambling, treachery, hatred, subtle manoeuvring, disobedience to God’s laws, imbalance of power, hatred, harlotry, wickedness,

These are some of the plots which makes the bible The bestseller.

Lying on my bed during my teen years, the adventurer in me would be lost traveling with the Isrealites through their journeys. I envied them their adventures. For me, they were living the life.

I love the Author’s authenticity. No filters. We get a front row seat to see the foibles of humanity.

Even after God regretted making man he still did not reconfigure the original formula.

The story of Esther is one which today would not be retold in the Church. It would have been tagged ‘unequally yoked’ and hidden under the pews. Imagine the narration; a teenage born again sister from a believing home entering into a secular beauty pageant. She was taking a gap year to go study how to spend one night with the king. A night of orgy not vigil. Then after the fornication, if he does not like her well enough; makes her spend the rest of her life in seclusion and competition with other women. Instead of releasing her to go and marry someone else. Did I mention that the king was a divorcee too?

Yet, it was worth the gamble.

Meanwhile, I have no idea how Mordecai pulled off that move. Although we do grasp the fact that females have always been vassals.

At that point, the Torah which is the National Law Library for the Jews was conveniently ignored by him. How that family must have become a reference point. Negatively. A marker for mothers with their daughters. Reminding them not to be as that girl who has lost her way. Shaking their heads in derision because if only the poor girl’s parents were alive, her uncle would not have forced her into defiling herself. The Pharisees probably ex-communicating Mordecai for that.

Yet, out of that, God makes something great.

When he uses her to rescue them all from imminent death, I do not see any of them preferring to die than be saved by ‘that girl’.

Like a thread, redemption is a constant theme through the bible. Be you Cain, Lot, Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Esther, Gomer or even Mary.

What do you think? share your views below.

 

on the road to shangisha 2

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  click here for part 1

“I always have Altars commemorating my encounters with God”

“Altars kwa?”  I responded

“Yes.  Altars like Bible times”

I knew about Altars.  I mean, both of us are Old-time religion, faith-based bible followers.  We shared similar foundational upbringing and the bible was one common area for us. 

However, when I thought physical Altars, the image which drew up was the type in my friend Esso’s Catholic home.

Howbeit now, my Pentecostal friend was talking Altars

“Tell me about it” I returned quietly across the line.

“I learnt to set up Altars.  For each major encounter I have with God I set up an altar at the location where it happened” 

And I listened to my friend go on about memorials as statutes of remembrances of God’s faithfulness. So much so that by the time I drove off, that billboard location became an altar for me.  I would eventually set up others.

Years later, after I had moved away from Magodo, that location remained an Altar. A place which held the presence of God for me strongly.  It also served as a place of Refuge for me. 

For each time I drove through that environs, I would cast a glance to that landmark and say a prayer. 

I recall during the Pandemic when I was super-stressed and floundering.  This particular day, driving to the Fruits market at Ketu; I stopped by the First bank after Caleb College to use the ATM. 

Overwhelmed, I parked and walked down to the billboard.  I stood there for quite some time seeking solace.  I felt the security which you would find when you run into a Safe House.  Then, feeling grounded, I left. 

Now, as I stand 110 metres above sea level drinking in the views, I feel so relaxed and peaceful.

I recall the first time I was up here – the week before the surgery.  Crushed and groping my way to understand what this new drama was all about, I had stood at this same spot closer to the heavens monologuing to God.

“Cancer?” 

“Surely Lord, you know I trust you enough to make this this disappear and we would not have to go through this process?”

I reasoned.  Pleaded.  Argued my case as I stood up there.  By the time we left there, I had built an altar on the clouds of the Spinnaker Tower.

God did not make the Cancer disappear. 

Yet, standing at this altar again today, I know that victory comes in shades. 

 

 

on the road to shangisha

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“I vividly recall where I was when Uzoejiagaaro spoke to me about Altars.

Pause.

“What type of name is such a mouthful?”

Please come with me.

Uzo. Eji. Aga. Aro. [The road to Aro. Where Aro is short for Arochukwu a local government in Nigeria].

Arochukwu is the third largest city in Abia state. Initially inhabited by the Ibibios. it would later become a territory for the colonial imperialists. The Ibibios, are a riverine tribe from the coasts of Akwa-Ibom – a neighbouring state to Abia. And thanks to their proximity to the Coast, they were exposed to civilization as all Coastal areas are.

Therefore, between the Ibibios and the imperialists, Arochuku boasted of Economic development which included an Ashpalt-paved road.

Back then, a tarred road was a rarity. It meant a smooth and easy journey for you if you were travelling to and fro Aro -no speed-breakers, potholes, bumps or delay.

Thus, names like Uzoejiagaaro, *Uzoejiabaliaga, **Uzodinma and other forms of Uzo became popular names which connotated a prayer for an easier ride through Life.

Subsequently, the next time you hear Uzoaru, Uzoma, Uzodi etcetera, you now get the picture.

*Uzo. Eji. Abali. Aga. = the road you travel at night because it is so smooth you have no worries

**Uzo. Di. Nma. = A good road.

Now, back to where I was when Uzoaru called.

I was on my way home from Banana Island to Magodo after a full day’s job.

I had crossed Alapere and veered in to buy fuel at that Service Station just before the Apostolic Faith Campground at Ojota.  As I drove out of the Station, my phone rang. 

By the Anglican Church at Ikosi Junction, I turned in. 

and parked in front of the Zenith billboard. Yes, the conversation was that captivating. Besides, with police presence only few metres ahead, I felt safe from the dangers of the infamous robbers on that Ojota bridge…..click here

 

 

nigerian idioms and preserving history

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I began this series with the intent for it to;

     

      1. serve as a store of cultural & historical knowledge 

    1. bring back pleasant memories of years gone by to some and teach those who do not know

    I have had this idea for more than a year now. It began from the days of dealing with Chemo fog and all I did was write out the titles in a book each time any dropped.

    Then this week while praising at dawn, a particular name of God dropped off my lips and I quickly hurried to seek out the book. After writing it down, I went back to prayers. But heard the words “start now”.  And here we are.

    This series is about some of the idioms we as a people use in our daily interactions. 

    Some we use in songs. Others are inscribed on trucks. 

    Those passengers and trucks-carrying trucks which traverse our roads daily. 

    Trucks like Bolekaja, Gwongworo, Hakorankura, Tipper, Molue, 1414 amongst others.

    We kick off this with ‘Oke Mmiri N’ebu Ogbe’ = the hurricane which carries off landmarks

    Back in the villages, our streams served the same function as the ancient Roman baths. Besides the basic functions of bathing and laundromat, they also provided a safe space where women bonded. All kinds of information passed through a stream similar to a hairdressing salon today. The Washing machine usually was a boulder or a fallen tree trunk positioned at the shallow ends of the water.

    Boulders or trunks [Ogbe] eventually become like ancient landmarks. They are that basic feature of the stream that you grew up seeing and well into your adulthood, they remain.

    Irrespective of the tides, storm, rain and all, those boulder remain across generations. They serve as a store of memories, mostly fond memories.

    Now, imagine you go to the stream one day and those boulders are no longer there!

    Who moved them? Certainly not any Earth moving equipment. And not the men either. So what happened to that trunk then? Something that has remained fixed in that position for decades? How did it move?

    Enter the hurricane!

    From what you know of a hurricane, it should have decimated most if not the entire village, right?

    Wrong!

    This particular hurricane only removed the ancient landmarks. Left everything else untouched.

    How?

    Simply for the fact that he can.

    When we tag God as ‘Oke Mmiri N’ebu Ogbe’, it is a call to war. A reminder to ourselves, God and our situations about his powers. We reaffirm that he alone does the impossible.

    However, unlike a hurricane, God’s feisty winds leaves no collateral damage.

    He simply swoops in and sweeps away that which needs to go. That thing which had spurned every attempt at resolution.

    Next time you listen to an Igbo song and hear Oke mmiri n’ebu Ogbe; remember that there is a higher power who intervenes in the affairs of men and does the seemingly impossible.

    of worldviews, perspectives vs lived experiences

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    “What is that?” I asked her while pointing to the carton of fruits

    “Lychee” she said.

    “How does it taste? I enquired further

    “It is very sweet” she responded as she picked more into her paper bag.

    Inside the Mediterranean shop, I quickly picked up a handful and tossed it into my shopping basket. If this teenage girl says it is sweet then I might as well explore. Besides if I lose out on the money, I would have gained an adventure.

    Soon after I got home and tasted the impact on my smoothies, I chalked it up on my next shopping list.

    Then few days ago, as I bit into the last lychee with a grin, my head sent me a reminder about the abandoned article I started months back on Frames of Reference.

    What image jumps at you when you see the term ‘frame of reference?’

    Maybe, a cartesian frame, if you are a scientist. 

    While someone else more in tune with their feelings may relate better with Carl Rogers’ definition.

    I pride myself on possessing an above-average exposure of life. An exposure derived from an early background of growing up in diverse locations across multicultural settings.  Settings which exposed me to the unfettering power of travels, reading, writing, languages and diverse human interactions.

    Such a privilege enabled me build rapport with diverse peoples anywhere I found myself. I also presumed I possessed a deep understanding of the Bible. That is, until living in Europe – which opened me up to a cultural background of the lands and Peoples of the Bible.

    Clawing my way through the fog of a brutal cancer treatment opened me up to WWII literature. That in turn opened up a cultural exposition of the Jews to me more than the Bible. 

     Between Khaled Hosseini & Deborah Rodriguez, I ravenously sought out other Middle-Eastern and even found my way to Far-eastern works. At that point when I was down in the trenches, those stories helped ameliorate the nostalgia of Home. Simply because they were relatable.

    Prior to here, my northern Nigerian background helped me  with the Easterners I had come across so far. Then when I got here, relating with the various Eastern communities was hitch free. Most share similar cultures which of course is an offshoot of Islam. Islam itself steeped in the Middle-Eastern background like the Bible.

    As we bond over the similarities in our cultures and eat Pomegranates,  sunflowers seeds, apricots and other exotic fruits and seeds which were not present in my former life, the realness of it all strikes me. 

    I have come to know that the widow of Zarephat was a Lebanese, Ruth was a Jordanian. Abraham was originally an Iraqi and Euphrates is not just a river in the Bible while Babylon was close to Baghdad. The Kurdish man selling my fish could be from Ephesus or the Greek Gyro man, a Macedonian. I interact with my Iranian friends and visualize Queen Esther and all the stories about the Persian Empire. 

    I recalled posing under an almond tree and thinking of Aaron’s rod.  Plucking figs from a tree and an image of Christ cursing the fig tree came to mind. Or that time we were shown an olive tree which was more than a 100 years old.

    My grandparents who were missionaries never stepped outside of Africa. For they and countless others like them, what images came to mind when they read the story of the fruits that the 12 spies brought back?

    When we read that the Israelites cried out for the artichokes of Egypt, and our limited worldview limits us, do we simply lump it under vegetables?

    As I sat on the kitchen Island and relished my lychee, I smiled again.  Amazing how a shift in position can enrich one’s perceptions.

    From time immemorial, man has fought wars over the figures 6 or 9. Battles not because of the figures themselves which are fixed, but because of our viewpoints.

    We take stances which even when are discovered to be flawed, remain too proud to admit to the little girl in the shop that we do not know what a ‘lychee’ is.

     

    he lost his marriage to this relocation

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    “A family broke up as a husband and wife were sleeping with each other when their spouses were at work” the black man who sat across from me proffered in halting English

    “You mean the student who left her husband for another man and he had been sent back to Nigeria? Ola turned towards him

    “No. This woman was the dependent so the man is still here. He is my colleague and not Nigerian. Said the black man.

    I cannot recall his name now. I was meeting him for the first time. Earlier during the introductions, he mentioned his friend prevailed on him to attend the session. I do remember he is from Equatorial Guinea

    It was a new week and we were back for the Wellbeing session. We seem to be getting more men now. Black men too. As a black woman myself, this speaks volumes. It says that these men – finding themselves away from the enabling patriarchy of the African continent – now realised how much out of their depths they were and willing to try something different.

    “How do you mean sent back to Nigeria?” asked Ashley, the coordinator for today

    “She took him off her visa” Ola volunteered

    “They were working shifts and never home alone together” Equatoguinean remarked

    “Please, let’s take this in turns” Ashley stated as more two other women interjected

    “You go first” Santos, she pointed to the man whose name I did not recall.

    “They were our neighbours in the flat upstairs. Two families with five children living in a 3-bedroom flat. When the second family moved in, they informed us it was the wife’s sister and her family who had newly arrived. It was only after the issue escalated we find out they were total strangers to each other”

    “So what happened?”

    “They were all working different shifts and home at different times. The older kids go to school but both families has little ones out of school. So one partner would be home with the child and all that” One husband was a student though. Well it happened”

    “How were they found out?”

    “The student came home impromptu at a time when he was meant to be at work. Met them in the bathroom. His wife was not remorseful and that aggravated him so he began beating her. The other man intervened and both men started fighting and throwing things”.

    “It was so bad she was screaming, the two toddlers at home were crying too. We do not know which neighbour called the police. Their saving grace was they claimed it was the men fighting, not a wife-battering”.

    “And now, two families with kids are scattered. The children attend the same school so this is quite messy”

    “Different families with various challenges” Anna opined. An Espanola who grew up in Morocco before migrating across the Channel.

    “Still want to share Ola?” Ashley asked

    “Not today” Let’s talk about something cheerful.

    I came in here to cleanse my head. Ironically, it is now muddier. I find that despite my limited social life, these unsavoury harrowing stories seem to keep floating in the air anywhere I go.

    How can I help my people? remains the constant refrain in my head.