AdminBy Amanze Chinonye
(Sits down on the floor and cries in memorial)
Brothers and sisters in the Lord!
Join our WhatsApp ChannelGrowing up in the streets of Lagos was serious business for me. I couldn’t wait to be called “aunty” or even “brother,” as I always wished to become a guy, but my wish never came to pass.
Back to my main story, it was during the holidays that I met this guy who came to visit his brother in my neighborhood. Immediately, he set his eyes on me, love happened! He seemed bold and intentional about us – my kind of man. You know they say you find love when you least expect it!
We started communicating via letters and short notes, creating a mailing channel for that purpose. (Love is sweet o!) He started writing letters to me, telling me how I’m the only egg in his egg roll, and without me, he was ordinary buns. I was always dashing into the toilet, curiously reading love notes while blushing, and then flushing them down to avoid my parents. Those two people can kill both the body and the soul.
I was on my way back from my mom’s shop one evening when he handed me a pack. I quickly ran into my usual spot and unwrapped it. It was a Nokia feature phone, plus an Airtel SIM card. I think I’m in love! It was only my spirit that knew I had a phone because if Margaret Thatcher (my mom) finds out, it would be “adiós”!
The gift was accompanied by a note suggesting we take things to the next level. He proposed night calls since we don’t get to see each other during the day, which I agreed to (a taste of love won’t hurt, right?). He later changed my SIM to MTN so that the midnight call plan could be feasible. That’s when the real love story started!
He would wait till 12:30 before calling, and that’s how we started discussing having four children – caramel skin and bright gold children, shared evenly in pairs. We went as far as discussing the number of cars we would buy, the names of our children, and the way they would look, especially when you mix my light skin tone with his sweet melanin tone.
Lest I forget, his name was Olakunle, but I preferred to call him K.K. (A finished girl!) I was enjoying my love life and swimming in different colors of fantasy until one fateful night. I was talking on my bed, grinning from ear to ear, discussing with K.K., and laughing with reckless abandon. I think the last word I mentioned was, “You know I don’t like saying it.”
When I heard a voice ask me, saying, “What?” Immediately, my brain deciphered the voice behind the word. My spirit left me to go find helpers or price coffins. It was over; I knew. Crying uncontrollably, Lo and behold, my end was near. Margaret Thatcher opened the door properly and asked me in a very calm voice that sounded like a sniper drum to me, “Who are you talking to?” “What don’t you like saying?”
Brothers and sisters, all the love songs K.K. used to sing for me, ranging from “African Queen” to “Olomi,” began to sound like Don Williams’ “This World Is Not My Home” to me. K.K. didn’t help matters at that point, as he was just there, singing to himself, not me, and shouting “hello” at intervals.
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And just when I thought my helper would come and supply me with lies that would pacify this woman from bringing down fire and brimstone on me, K.K. ended the call, revealing the light from the phone’s screen. Father Lord, accept me into heaven; I’m coming home!
Margaret Thatcher wasn’t patient for my helper to arrive when she unleashed the spatula she had grabbed earlier on me. She warned me not to wake her children (please, have I been disowned?) plus her husband, because if she met me there, I surely would know the rest. (Love has killed me eventually.) She collected my phone first and called K.K., telling him she was a police officer and that she would trace him, find him, and deal with him before she ended the call.
I had quickly vanished into the living room to seek refuge. She met me there, gave me the phone, and asked me to chew my SIM card. Brethren in the Lord, I chewed the SIM card that day.
After chewing the SIM card, the full season of beating eventually resumed. At that time, she was already unleashing her karate skills on me, which came along with knocks and slaps at intervals. In my very eyes, I saw my four blend of caramel and light gold children vanish without saying goodbye. The entire houses and cars K.K. and I were to buy weren’t spared. Margaret Thatcher probably used me to fight the battles she couldn’t complete in the outside world.
When I had a chance to escape her grip, I dashed into the toilet with no hope of opening the door. I don’t even know if I slept that day or if my spirit simply returned in the morning. I felt more like I had been run over by a trailer, as all my bones felt crushed. I particularly looked like a rainbow, as well; I had patches of different colors all over.
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Love, I did not enjoy. Children, I did not see. K.K., I couldn’t reach again; I had chewed his number.
Lesson learned: if you call me after 11 p.m., you’re on your own. If you’re a fine boy and your name contains “Ola,” please don’t bother mentioning the rest; kindly avoid me before I lose my temper!
Did I tell you my mom still reported me to Daddy that I got a phone (since I didn’t chew the phone too)? Well, that’s a tale for another time!!!!
Looking back, I’m entirely grateful for the gift of an amazing woman who did her very best in shaping me into a great woman. To all the mothers doing their best to raise godly and unique seeds, despite societal vices and economic constraints, I salute you.
Happy Mother’s Day to my dearest mother, Margaret Thatcher, and to all the wonderful mothers out there!
