#worldviews

the dilemma of saving a life – The Christmas Story

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The law was clear on adultery: stone both parties. (Leviticus 20:10). Eventually, patriarchal enforcers flipped it to – stone only the female. Father-in-law Judah, without blinking, passed the sentence on his widowed Daughter-in-law. (Genesis 38). The Pharisees swiftly sentenced the woman caught in adultery (John 8 ) So why did Joseph spare Mary? Instead of … Read more

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.

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.

 

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.

 

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.