#mentalhealth

the song and dance of battles vs blessings – a lesson from the seashore

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Gamziavo! That was my father’s second favourite mantra. Mr. Gamziavo, as he told us the story, was a stoic who puzzled all the villagers. He always seemed unnerved by happenings around him. While others rejoiced, he stood aloof.  When others cried, he remained unaffected. Why was he like that? According to Mr Gamziavo there is … Read more

enslaved. abused. deported. a tale of the vulnerable migrant.

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“One more footstep and all these will be over” Hajara looked at the sea entreatingly “You are too young and still have your life ahead of you” her heart remarked “What life does she have? Is this a life?” her head jeered “This life. She is here. Things can turn around, you know” “Ever the … Read more

how walking with lions helped me walk through cancer

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It was the summer of 2021. And we were at the Cap Vert Peninsula. Seated inside a restaurant at les Pointe Des Almadies.

I hoisted myself onto the low wall separating the restaurant from the Atlantic Ocean and sat on it. Knees pulled up and arms folded across, I stared mesmerised at the beauty as the evening sun messed with the waters. Streaking its rays across the surface which purred idly like one being caressed by a lover.

We sipped Bouye and Bissap while we waited for our A la carte seafood. The Senegalese somehow found a way to combine both drinks [baobab & Hibiscus] into an exotic blend. In Northern Nigeria where I grew up, we drink them separately.

Dinner over. And a little bit of sightseeing, my friend dropped me off at the hotel.

Later that night, my phone rang.

“Did you see what I sent on WhatsApp?”

“No. Let me check”

“I saw this and I know it is your type of thing. Maybe you can talk to them?” her message read

The only thing I could make out of the flier was that it was a Safari plus the amount in USD. Then it was at 6am the following morning.

I was still staring at it piecing my basic French together when she called back.

“But babe I do not understand French. Moreso, this tour is by 6am the next morning, they must have closed out”

“Send them an email. Forward it to me for translation and if you really want to do this, then let’s do it”

It was a back and forth. The tour had closed off. Accommodation booked with the resort for the weekend. Tourists paired in rooms. If I wanted to come along, there was an extra late charge in addition to paying extra for a solo room. I jumped on it. Afterall, I had no plan.

And that was how I had one of the most adventurous weekends ever. Click here for link

In that single weekend was packed a safari.  In addition to crossing the Atlantic to a tourist village in the interior where the oldest Senegalese woman lived. Overnight stay at an exotic resort nestled by the Atlantic Ocean – this included kayaking, fishing and sumptuous 3-course meals. When I got back to my hotel room on Sunday night, my memory trove was richer.

Little would I know the part that weekend would play in my life in the following years.

Nevertheless, as I faced off with the battles this phase of life presented, that memory served as an anchor. On days when I could barely put one leg in front of the other; when I came close to ending it all, my mind would call up the triumphant feelings of walking through the jungle with the lions, that feeling of squatting beside them and touching them. It felt like God saying

“child, you already walked with the lions and they did not consume you, so what is this one?

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. 

 

 

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. 

adjusting to life as an immigrant.

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“Your children have never seen you naked? How is that possible? I saw the wheels spinning behind Lucy’s eyes as she blinked astoundingly at Soraya. Two worlds were colliding here.

“Yes. This is the first time they would share bathroom with me. What business does my children have in my room when each person’s room is ensuite?

A few blank faces met other comprehending ones around the room.

“Each of your kids had their own room? Lucy asked again

And few of us nodded like the question was thrown at us while a black woman sitting beside her remarked “well that is a normal thing for us”

We were at a Wellbeing group for women run weekly by a Charity. I began attending although sporadically, after a referral when I was newly diagnosed of the Cancer.

Priceless. What this group has become in this new journey of mine. This space is a buffer for your sanity. A gathering of women from different walks of life talking over chai and coffee. This journey of cancer has redefined therapy for me. I am still redefining the word – cathartic.

In this space, language is not a barrier. Between; translation apps, gestures and someone else from your community with a better grasp of English, we understood ourselves.

Soraya is a Persian. The first time we met I had been impressed by her command of the English language. An inkling of her privileged background.

“Yes, we have a big house. And servants. My house is always full. Parties, laughter, we cook fresh food. But here, some people look at you like you are a beggar and do not know anything”. Her voice cracked as she wiped at her eyes

One of the women beside her rubbed her back.

“See my pictures”

Brandishing her phone; she circulated pictures of another life. One I grasped from where I sat. I had acquired enough social intelligence growing up in northern Nigeria to know what it means for a Muslim woman to share facilites with her teenage sons.

“Here. Said a volunteer pushing a cup of tea towards Soraya.

“Ladies, we can take a break if you want” Lucy announced. I felt sorry for her. She seemed totally out of her depth dealing with women across cultures.

We agreed to continue.

Asya, an Afghan and a first-time mother of a two month old baby, began speaking tentatively. Her baby was in the arms of another woman.

“I still find it very hard here. My husband says I will get used to it but when?”

“When I came here to the UK, I was ……… she searched her mental files for the word. As she grappled with her basic English, Soraya intervened. They both spoke Farsi.

“shocked”

“Yes. Shocked.

“Small houses. No parties. No markets. No people come to your house”

“As new wife, you alone and my husband go to work.”

All my life, lot of people inside house and outside. Children playing everywhere. Here, it is quiet like everyone run away.

“When I was pregnant, no mother, no grandmother to help. My baby take long to come and then they cut me to bring baby out. In hospital, they give me cold food.

Her voice quaked as she tried to compose herself. Some women nodded.

“Only me with baby until my husband come back from work.” Sometimes we don’t know what to do. sometimes I call my mother on phone”

“Do you not have help from other women in your community?” Lucy enquired

“Not same. They come and go. Nobody to stay with you and care for you and baby”

Her pain pierced me. It was one most BAME immigrants related to. For everything she described, an image flashed across my mind.

Nonetheless, the ironic use of the word ‘community’ abroad constantly amused me.

Even the people who felt inundated by community and craved their spaces back home, now cry out for community.

The other day, a Nigerian man had remarked how he missed the cacophony of the streets. Another missed waking up to see your neighbours setting up canopies knowing that your entire day was already lost to the noise of their party.

Yet, another missed the ‘disturbance’ from the church beside his house. How he disliked going home from work because of them but now willing to have them pitch their tent right back beside him.

Everyone now missed and craved ‘community’ including their mothers-in-law.

Listening to Asya share her story, my mind popped up an image. The countless times I had spent wishing a knock on the would be my mother showing up for duty.

Navigating Anger and Faith: A Candid Conversation on Suffering and God’s Goodness – 2

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…..missed Part 1? here

getting stronger” his plaintive tone cut into me

At some point in the conversation; Ruth stood up to get more coffees and after much insistence from both of them, I agreed to a Cappuccino.

Although it had begun to rain on a day with a sunny forecast, my stomach roiled at the thought of another coffee. I have already had a latte and a mocha within an hour of arriving at camp. What I craved now was some steaming food. Yet, my Social Intelligence prevailed.

“My grouse is from the fact that God can disallow this from happening yet he chooses not to. I mean look at the Holy Spirit and his exploits, have you seen him move and seen the things he can do? he remarked resignedly

“I totally get you”. I replied. Like I said earlier; I moved from anger to gratitude as I realised that if he had let me die, he would have still been God. When my friends lost their 25-year old daughter recently, the first thing I felt was

“That should have been me and it is so not fair. I mean I had cancer. This girl was barely in the hospital before she died! I had some kind of guilt not knowing how to relate to them. I still have a mental picture of my friend coming down to Portsmouth to see me during Chemo. They attended the graduation up North and she came all the way to see me and even spent the night. Yet, here I am and her daughter who recently graduated is gone. What can we say then to these things?”

“My mentor says peace comes from acceptance, not knowledge” he remarked

“True that” I concurred

“All I know is that God can tackle our questions and feelings. He clearly gave us a front row seat to see how it played out when his heroes cried out – Elijah, Jonah, Jeremiah & even the Job they throw in our faces, also did cry out.

“Even Paul who was given a heads-up during conversion about his impending sufferings still cried out. God did not rebuke but offered him grace. And I amara relate to him from a place of sonship instead of slavery. All these God-handlers who are laundering his image for him are doing more harm than good. If I cannot keep it real with my father, how then can I minister to someone else who is confused and comes to me? We cannot all be like David who picked up himself after crying and moved on”

This was the only point that Ruth chipped in jocularly with “by the way did you notice they were all men crying?”

“Oh, David had his vulnerable moments too. A whole lot all through the Psalms. Maybe that was what earned him the man after God’s own heart” Peter opined

We chatted some more and thanking them for my coffee; I stood up then with a wry smile noted “by the way you are in the prayer team” pointing to his purple wristband worn by those who pray for others

“He has been trying to hide it” His wife reached over to pull his sleeves lower

“I am” he grinned. “But I still got my questions”