Tales From the Underground: Silly Me!!!

The cutest little boy was sat opposite me on the DLR yesterday. He had the most gorgeous curly blonde hair and his eyes were a sparkly green. He had me all gooey even before he smiled at me. That smile! It made me want to rush home and create my own little heart stealer. Not that the son I will (some day) produce has any hope of having hair; blonde or otherwise. You should see his father and his grandfather’s gorimapa, all hope is lost I tell you. They didn’t try for my son at all.

When I returned Blondie’s smile, he giggled and buried his face in his mum’s jacket. And so our game began. I’d wait for him to look my way and then give him a mega watt smile. He in turn would giggle and duck behind his mother. After a few minutes, I thought I’d up the ante of the game so the next time he looked my way, I crossed my eyes and stuck my tongue out at him.

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His eyebrows shot up in surprised and he doubled over laughing. When Blondie managed to right himself, he held my gaze for the first time, shook his head and said in a rather adult voice, “That was REALLY silly!”

His mother looked mortified.

“Brian, that’s rude!”

“But it’s true!”

“She was only trying to make you laugh!”

“I know mummy and it was funny BUT it was also silly!”

At this point, I couldn’t hold back my laughter any longer. He did have a point, at my old age I shouldn’t be sticking out my tongue at people and making faces! His mother, obviously relieved that I wasn’t offended, offered an apologetic smile.

Funny as it was, he’s lucky we’re not in Lagos; I’d have pulled his ear and ‘konked’ his head!

The Case of the Walking Wardrobe

6a00e54fc798d0883401630338f9cc970d-800wiMany years ago my family played host to a friend’s daughter for a couple of months. Her mother was critically ill and her father had his hands full nursing her.  On the day her mother died, we took her home under the guise of going to visit her dad, as we often did while she was with us.  My mum had called me aside earlier and asked me to secretly pack up her stuff and put them in the boot of the car.  I will never forget the paranormal sounds that pierced the air when her dad broke the news to her. Till this day, I have never heard anything like it. I sat with her for hours while she wailed and I shed a few tears myself. My tears weren’t’ for her mother, they were for her. Her pain was palpable and I shared in it.

In the following weeks, we were constant visitors at their house; my mother, to help with the funeral arrangements, and myself, as a companion for my new friend. New because the few times I’d met her prior to her stay with us, I’d established that I didn’t like her. Her abrasive personality grated on my nerves. I groaned inwardly when I heard she was coming to stay but smiled and made her feel welcome. I knew better than to be ungracious.  My mother expected nothing less from me, and rightly so.  But seeing her breakdown and holding her in my arms as she wept inconsolably changed all that. Her shared pain drew us together.  I had just turned 13, she was 17.

I remember being concerned about her. I knew what it was like to lose a parent and I worried constantly about how she was dealing with it. Having her turn up unannounced one afternoon was a surprise as she lived an hour’s drive away. I was in the middle of a piano lesson so I told her she had to wait a while before I’d be free to hang out with her. She said she couldn’t stay, she’d only come to collect a few things I’d forgotten to pack for her. I couldn’t remember seeing any of her stuff lying around but I told her to feel free to head up to my room and grab whatever she forgot.  She left before my lesson was over.

The Sunday after her visit, I decided to wear a new dress my mum had bought me a couple of months before. I tore my room apart trying to find it. Running late for church, I decided to reach for my favourite cream brocade skirt with the black floral embroidery instead. That too was nowhere to be found. As I rummaged through my wardrobe perplexed, I realised there were quite a few items missing. I sat on the floor, confused, and it was there my mother found me. Before she could scream at me for not being dressed, I told her half my wardrobe was missing. At first, she thought I was being silly, surely, my clothes couldn’t have developed legs and done a runner?! Perhaps if I’d tidied up my wardrobe like she’d asked me to umpteen times, I’d be able to find things more easily? It wasn’t till I mentioned that my favourite skirt was missing that she took me seriously.

“The cream one with the black flowers? Didn’t you give it to Anita?! She was wearing it the last time I went to her house.”

I didn’t need to be a graduate of the police academy to realise what had happened to my missing clothes. Many of the clothes that were missing were new and I was determined to reclaim them. I needed to confirm my theory so my mum and I took a trip to her house. Under strict instruction not to utter a word, I sat quietly while my mum calmly asked if she’d helped herself to my clothes.

At first she vehemently denied it but after my mum gently reminded her she’d seen her wearing my skirt, she came clean. She went off to her room and returned with a suitcase full of my property. Underwear, clothes, jewellery, books, shoes and some random bits and bobs.

The look of furious shame on her father’s face is beyond description. He made several attempts to hit her but my mum stood in his way.  After calming him down, she encouraged Anita to apologise to me and her father, which she did.

What happened next shocked me to my core.

As we made to leave, I reached for the suitcase of clothes but was halted by the sound of my mother’s voice saying, “leave it.”

Leave it?! How could I leave it?! Some of my favourite possessions were in that case!  Besides, most of the clothes wouldn’t fit Anita (who was two sizes bigger) so what was the point?! I knew better than to argue though so tears running down my face I walked away from my belongings. I’ll never forget how hurt I was. I felt betrayed not only by Anita who in spite of my reservations, I had embraced, but also by my mother who had taken the side of a thief over her own daughter.

On the journey home, my mother tried, unsuccessfully, to console me. Whatever happened to justice? Didn’t I deserve to have the things that had been unlawfully taken from me returned? Surely that WAS the right thing to do?!

Understanding didn’t come till many years later. My mother’s actions were a lesson in mercy; compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one’s power to punish or harm.

Supernatural Things

Miracles-Happen

Supernatural things happen in this world; deaf people regain their hearing, the blind see, the lame walk, the dead are raised back to life, I am writing this post…and I cried watching a Nollywood movie. Not ‘a lone tear escaped my tear gland’ type of crying, proper crying, complete with sniffles and things. That I was not alone when it happened completed my shame. I blame that Mercy Johnson, her crying spirit leapt out of my laptop and entered me. Now I know that it is time to stop watching those movies, evil spirits abound therein.

The last few weeks I’ve been running into random people that read my blog and I tell you, I’m surprised that you people still bother to visit this site given how sporadic my posts have been. See what I was saying about supernatural things happening in this world? God bless you all and abundantly too!

It’s was my birthday last Saturday (this isn’t me begging for birthday greetings, walahi!) and for the first time in a very long time, I decided not to just sit at home, drink tea and estimate how many more years I have till I can no longer get away with wearing hot pants. Not that I wear hot pants, I don’t have the legs or courage for them but a girl is allowed to dream, no? I dragged a bunch of my friends to a private hip hop dance class and we left the studio with sweat, aching muscles and choreography to Usher’s Yeah.  Shame will not allow me post the videos on here.

On the topic of things one should or shouldn’t wear, my poor Pastor suffered from a severe case of melancholy when his eyes beheld some of the latest fashions at my wedding. So much so that it found its way into the sermon he preached at church the following day…not that I was there to hear it. I was holed up in a hotel room staring at my band clad finger and trying to understand how I ended up married to a man I always thought would make a great husband for some girl, that girl not being me of course! See what I was saying about supernatural things happening?!

Lest I digress, most of the people who were at the wedding and heard the sermon were surprised by it and when I looked through my wedding pictures, though I did spot a couple of sexy dresses, I couldn’t find any that I deemed scandalous. It got me thinking about the times and how we change with them, sometimes rightly and sometimes to our detriment.

There are some clothes sitting in my wardrobe now that I would never have bought, let alone worn, a few years ago. My lover girl MrsOhgee (see how I’ve upgraded you!) found an old picture of herself wearing jeans under a dress that stopped just above her knees and though we laughed at how ridiculous she looked, it symbolised the point we were discussing. In those days, she considered a dress that stopped just above her knees too short but today, she would wear that same dress, legs commando, and not think twice about it. A demonstration of how we relax our standards over time. Sigh.

Speaking of relaxer, the other day I ventured into Toni & Guy to find out how much it would cost to relax and trim my hair. I showered the receptionist with saliva when she gave me a quote of £130. The shock was that shocking.  I blamed the splutter on ‘that blasted hay fever’ and apologised profusely. I guess I’m not a big enough girl yet to be venturing into such establishments. I shall respect myself and my pocket and nosey on down to Upton Park or Burnt Oak. Better still I might just invest in a second mirror so I can see the back of my head and do the thing myself. One day, I will be great.

On a final supernatural note, and people, it’s a big one, my consumption of Indomie has fallen by 80% in the last six months!!! Somebody needs to get on up out of their chair, throw their hands up in the air and wave ‘em like they just don’t care!!! This is a serious miracle, more miraculous than me collecting aso-ebi for your wedding. Don’t get me wrong, I still LOVE Indomie and that ain’t ever gonna change (Lawdy, my hubby has infected me with his American spirit!) but the desire to consume the stuff all day everyday has faded into nothingness.

If I didn’t know my husband was a praying man before, now I know!!!

XxX

Waila

Waila Rants: Manners 101

Today is rant day. Are you ready? Let’s go!

Courtesy, the showing of politeness in one’s attitude and behaviour toward others, is a dying concept and I am sincerely worried for mankind. Whether you are an eighty year old pensioner or a three year old running around in diapers (do three year olds still wear diapers?), there is absolutely no excuse for bad manners.

I concede that some human beings have the capacity to invoke rage in a dead man but provocation is but a temptation that can be overcome.  It is easy to succumb to and justify bad manners when provoked but hanging on to good character against the odds is a thousand times more admirable.

At the very least, we must learn to say please, thank you and sorry. All it costs is the parting of our lips. If you capable of opening your mouth, you are capable of being polite.

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Why all the grammar?

I got a message from a strange number on WhatsApp (another rant for another day). The message read;

“Get me a bottle of cologne. It is my entitlement as Chief.”

I was convinced it had to be a mistake, there was no other explanation for such nonsense finding its way to my mobile phone.

I replied, “Huh?! Who is this?”

“Chief xxx. Buy me a cologne.”

I recognised the name and realised it wasn’t a mistake; the person is a member of my extended family. Words cannot express the depth of the anger that possessed me, not least because my relationship with the person does not exist beyond the realms of “hello” and “goodbye”. His sense of entitlement knocked me for six, grandiose delusions of the nth degree. Even if he was my brother, same mother and father, and not just any kind of brother; my Siamese twin who was still attached to me and sharing one brain, he would still be bang out of order sending me a message like that.

For the sake of my own moral standing in the association of the moralistically upright, I ignored his subsequent messages. I was sorely tempted to give him a lecture on begging etiquette but I had to take one for the team.  Team, and by that I mean mother, you owe me.

I’ll rant no more but I beseech thee, if you do nothing else in life, please do manners.

XxX

Waila

If You’re Suffering, Move to Ghana

London Underground; my lover, companion, friend and most bitter enemy, I miss you. I miss my Finchley Central Station. I miss my friend in the phone shop on the corner of Hervey Close. I miss the Nigerian guy at the station who made it his business to ask why I was running late for work, when I was running late for work. I miss battling the temptation to enter Tesco every time I walk past it. This is what marriage does to people; it makes them move…and miss things!

My new locale isn’t nearly as interesting as Finchley. I haven’t made any shopkeeper friends because there aren’t a lot of shops separating me from the train station. I haven’t made any commuter friends because they don’t look as friendly and the train ride isn’t as interesting because it’s full of married commuters who are by definition, boring. Unlike me, of course.

I only have the pleasure or journeying one stop on the Underground and yesterday, in the time it took for me to get from Moorgate to Bank, I struck gold.

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Two young gentlemen were having a conversation that I couldn’t help over hearing.

“So what are you doing these days bruv?”

“I work in a call centre innit, customer services.”

“Cool cool, I’m still in retail but I’m like a supervisor now.”

“Yeah? Sweet!”

“It’s aight, pays the bills, you get me?”

“Yeah bruv, I know the feeling. I’m so sick of this life. You know, I’ve been thinking of moving to Ghana but I’m too westernised for that shit.”

”You think Ghana’s better than London?”

“You know Kwabena we went to school with yeah, he moved like two years ago and he’s living the life!”

“For real, what’s he doing out there?”

“I’m not sure you know, he’s making bare bucks though. I might just move out there man, I need the good life.”

“You been Ghana before?”

“Yeah yeah, went last year, first time and it was live. They treat you like royalty bruv. You have maids and shit that do everything for you.”

“Seriously?!”

“Trust me bruv, if you want to live the good life, pack your shit and move to Ghana. Africa’s the place to be man. I wanna do it man, I wanna do it bad but I think I’m too westernised for that shit.”

In those two minutes, I struck gold. I too am tired of the life I’m living. Waking up early, going to work, paying bills AND council tax (because you know council tax is not a bill, it is THE bill)…and not being able to afford ordinary Louboutin Pigalles. I don’t like pointy shoes but that’s besides the point. If I cannot buy myself a pair of Pigalles while living the London life, there is only one solution.

I am moving to Ghana… I’m not too westernised for that ‘shit’.

XxX

Waila

Waila Reads: Americanah by Chimamanda Adichie

americanahA few years ago I heard Chimamanda Adichie speak and something about the way she came across didn’t appeal to me. Over the years I’ve watched interviews she has given and heard her speak at literary events. While I respected her success, there was something about her demeanour I wasn’t a fan of. I concluded we weren’t destined to be friends…until I watched her Channel 4 interview with Jon Snow. Chimamanda, we can now grab a coffee when you’ve got a minute. Now that’s we’re friends, I am of course allowed to call her Chimamanda, just Chimamanda. Experience, training or perhaps both have awarded her a degree of charm and grace that in my probably irrelevant opinion, she previously hadn’t mastered. I like her new aura and I like it a lot.

Her second novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, won the Orange Prize but despite several attempts, I haven’t managed to read the entire book. Hard though I’ve tried, I can’t connect with the writing and characters and that makes it a tedious read. I’m in a minority though because it’s a best seller and most people I know who have read the book, sing its praises. I much preferred her initial offering, Purple Hibiscus. It’s not a Waila favourite but it is worth a read.

If you follow me on Instagram, you will know that my copy of her latest publication, Americanah, landed in my hands six days ago.

Americanah is without doubt, her best work yet. And I say that like I’ve read every word she’s ever written, which of course I haven’t but I quite like how it sound so I’ll say it again. Americanah is without doubt, her best work yet.

I was hooked from the first page and she had me reeled in till the very end. The central character Ifemelu is witty, sassy and charming in equal parts and on occasion, a little annoying. Obinze her love interest, sounds like a man I’d quite like to date. I know next to nothing about Chimamanda personally but I can’t help but think that Ifemelu’s character is a type and shadow of her creator. Americanah bravely attempts to tackle issues of race, identity, migration, prejudice, stereotypes, and love (and that’s not the half of it) and in my opinion, she did a brilliant job of it.

As always I won’t say too much because I’d quite like you to make up your own minds but what I will say is if you don’t own a copy, I suggest you get yourself one… it’s a Waila likes a lot. If you’d like to read a review before you commit your pennies, here’s a link to a brilliant one in The Guardian online.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2013/apr/15/americanah-chimamanda-ngozi-adichie-review

And no MrsOhgee, you can’t borrow mine.

xxx

Waila

A Memory Time Erased + Waila Reads: On Black Sisters’ Street

I was in Lagos a couple of weekends ago to marry off one of my lover girls, Shally of ForStyleSake. The detailing on her dress gave the analyst in me a lot to analyse. Goes without saying she looked stunning on her big day, what bride doesn’t?! Actually I take that back. I almost had a heart attack when I saw the wedding pictures of one the vendors my mother enlisted to plan my traditional wedding. To each their own but seeing her in her rather interesting bridal get up gave me reason to intensify my prayers. Thankfully, God is and was kind to me.

Much as I profess to be anti-weddings, I love watching my friends get married and I’d trek to the moon to see it happen. I’m amazed at how far we’ve all come in our lives, with or without men, and I’m pretty excited to see what the future has in store for us.

I digress.

Yes, Lagos. The city never ceases to amaze me. It’s a pretty cool place to live if you have enough money in the bank to create your own world but it can be scorchingly unkind to the poor and struggling. That said, it’s such a vibrant city, it’s easy to get caught up in its vibe.

I was in Lagos for all of 52 hours but it was long enough for me to run into a reality I had assumed was long dead. We were driving along the streets of Ikeja late Friday night hunting for food when I noticed a voluptuous girl in a miniscule white Lycra mini skirt striking a pose on the sidewalk. Her ample breasts were spilling out of her umpteen sizes too small top and her makeup was like something out of a how-not-to tutorial. It took a few minutes for my brain to register that she was a prostitute. I was stunned.

Growing up in Lagos and living pretty close to Bar Beach, spotting prostitutes was part of everyday life. I grew up knowing too well that they existed and on occasion, watched them get picked up by punters. Somehow, my brain had deluded itself into thinking such things didn’t happen in 2013.

In the age we live in, there are many sophisticated forms of prostitution but like my grandma says, “Pikin wey resemble goat no be goat, na pikin.” In other words, you are what you are regardless of how you choose to portray yourself. It’s no less heartbreaking to meet a girl who dates a man purely for financial gain but to see a woman standing on the street corner, body parts hanging out, desperately trying to attract the attention of every passing male, stripped it back to its most basic form. I really had forgotten that standing on the streets is still a viable option for some.

As I watched them sashay from car to car trying to reel in dinner, I couldn’t help but fear for their physical safety among other things. Absolutely anything could happen to those girls and the soles of their feet would be none the wiser. I slept uneasily that night.

Prostitutes exist because there is a demand for them.  If no one was willing to pay for sex, no one would be selling it. It’s that simple. Much as I worry about the women who sell their wares, I also worry about the punters who part with their cash. I call it the meeting of troubled souls.

People prostitute themselves for all sorts of reasons and contrary to popular belief not all prostitutes are women struggling to put food on their tables or a roof over their heads. Sometimes, it’s an act born of pure unadulterated greed. I’ve met a few. That said, I am weary of condemning such women because personally, I am yet to encounter circumstances, financial, mental, emotional or otherwise, that would make selling my body a viable option.

I earnestly pray that someday, somehow, these women find a way out.

Seeing those girls reminded me of a book I read a while back and leads me on to a Waila Reads recommendation.

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On Black Sisters’ Street by Chika Unigwe isn’t a Waila favourite but it’s definitely worth a read. It tells the story of four young and rather naive women who make their way from Lagos to Belgium in the hope of raking in serious cash. It’s a story full of clichés but sadly, these clichés are born out of an embarrassingly stark reality.

I won’t say too much, I’ll let you read and make up your own minds. For the curious, I’ve included a link to a review by The Independent below.

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/on-black-sisters-street-by-chika-unigwe-1728899.html

I hope you enjoy reading but more than that, I hope that the next time you get on your knees to pray, if you pray, you remember to say a prayer for these women.

Love & so much more,

Waila

Mrs Waila Calling!!!

Hello People!

I know, I know, I disappeared on you. Forgive and forget? *puppy eyes*

The last six months of my life have been manic but thankfully things are winding down. You’ll be pleased (I hope) to know that I am now married and can reclaim my life from the clutches of wedding planning and the many darts…emotional, physical, spiritual, financial….it sends flying one’s way. Do I miss wedding planning? Heck no!

For the curious, I have a couple of pictures up on my Instagram account (WailaCaan) and will be sticking a few more up over the coming days (seeing as I have hundreds of them) so feel free to nosey on down there. For the non Instagramers, two pic stitches  for you right here. Photos are the work of our super photographer Iain Gomes who you’ll hear more about soon.

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So many stories to tell and some will be revealed in due course.

Those of you who blog will understand how hard it is to keep up with it. It really is a struggle to juggle blogging with my job and other things I’ve got going on in my life but I will keep trying and I will overcome the writer’s block that has been plaguing me…so help me God.

In other news, I deserve a handwritten note of gratitude from the CEO of IKEA, no jokes. I have spent so much of my humble earnings in that store my account is flat packed. On the plus side, I am now a dab hand at hammering and screwing so if any of you need a handyman, please see me in my workshop. I’d have volunteered the hubby but what he offers in physical strength, I more than make up for with my can-do-must-do-who-cares-what-time-it-is-will-do attitude.

On the day we moved house, I was working so the poor guy was left to haul all of our belongings without my help. By the time I got home, he’d done half a day at his day job, another half day carting bags and boxes and was in the middle of putting together a bed. By the time the bed was up, it was pretty late and he looked ready to keel over. Caring wife that I am, I fed him and then swiftly handed him a hammer to begin knocking together one of my wardrobes. You should have seen his face. He who marries a wife finds a good thing…what does he have to complain about?!

Lest I ramble on, I’ll stop now. This is just a quick note to say I’m still in the business of blogging and I am now certified by law to do married people things. Pure minds people, pure minds!

Stay tuned!

xxx

Waila

Why I Hate Wedding Receptions

Ladies and gentlemen,

I found this in my archives and cracked up at the irony. I’ll let you know how my own wedding reception (which I refuse to call a reception. LOL) goes when I get round to getting married.

I’m still very finicky about wedding receptions but since writing this eons ago, have discovered that some of them are out of this world fun. Just depends who’s getting married!

Must have just returned from a disastrous reception when I wrote it so read with a pinch of salt! Lol.

xxx

Waila

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Everyone around me is getting married and exciting though it is, I’m reminded of why I hate wedding receptions so much.  Yes, I am not a fan of weddings. Not unless it’s a destination wedding. I love travelling and have a long list of places I want to visit. If you really want me at your wedding, do the deed as far away as possible. You want to drastically slash numbers? Pah! Go as far away as possible, I’ll be right there waiting for you. You can’t slash me!

Anyway, back to the topic at hand; why I hate wedding receptions.

Guests arrive and wait a million years for the couple to turn up, all the while, slowly dying of starvation. The couple finally show up but before they can enter the venue, both sets of parents must spend at least 30mins dancing to their seats. Why they never do that while we’re sitting and waiting, I know not. Couple finally dance into the venue and this bit I must admit, can be fun. They take their seats and then some MC who rates himself quite highly on the comedy scale takes the mic and dulls the crap out of us. Just as your brain cells are beginning to dry up, the chairman of the occasions takes the stage. He collects all the drying cells, arranges them in a neat pile and crushes them with the soles of his feet. Only then do the gods feel sorry for you. The smell of jollof rice fills the air.

A hostess stops you as you attempt to rise up from your seat.

“We’re going table by table. Please wait till your table is called before approaching the serving points.”

Otherwise, you have to haul your behind up and stand in line to get served. By the time you get to the front of the buffet queue, all the good stuff’s gone. All you’re left with is a few grains of cold jollof rice, an anorexic chicken drumstick and a few squares of shrivelled up plantain.

You really should have gone to McDonalds before coming.

You’re so hungry you’re grateful for whatever is left and you wolf it down like a starving urchin.  Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you register that the food is crap and you bank the knowledge for a day when you are well fed and gossiping with your girlfriends.

A couple of friends give mildly funny speeches and the bride’s sister balls her eyes out as she proclaims her love her irreplaceable sister. You’d think the poor bride was suffering from some sort of terminal illness. (No Imeme, I’m not talking to you. Muhaha).  Okay okay, I’ll be honest; speeches are one of the few things I like about wedding receptions, even the emotional ones. You need a few tears shed at a wedding to make the day that bit more poignant.

Just as I’m managing to convince myself that it’s not been such a bad reception, some strange aunty wheels out the wedding cake and annoys the crap out of me by insisting the bride has to kneel and feed her husband. Sure aunty, why not insist she spend the rest of her life crawling after the man?

The bride and groom take to the dance floor for their first dance and this bit is dicey. They have the power to either redeem my mood or send me plunging into the abyss of manic depression.

By the time the party starts, I’m so out of there. That’s if the bride and groom failed that pivotal test. If they succeeded, you’ll find me dancing off my sorrows… assuming Mr DJ doesn’t fall my hand!

Free Writing: Write About Your Feet

feet

You don’t want to see what my feet look like at the moment. All I can say is thank heaven it’s winter! Every day I tell myself I need to get rid of the chipped beyond chipped red nail varnish and trim my claws but do I do it? No. Action Waila, action!

On a good day I have quite pretty feet if I say so myself. I reckon I could be a shoe model, well if not for the corns on my two little toes; my reward for stuffing my feet in undersized shoes. It’s not my fault most stores in Blighty don’t do half sizes for those of us with abnormally sized feet. That aside, my feet look nice in shoes. I can pretty much wear anything and they’re guaranteed to look hot. I can think of other gifts I’d have preferred (long full hair, longer leaner legs…) but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

Trips to Nigeria are my saving grace because they’re the only times I get pedicures. Those Nigerian nail salons sure know how to transform crusty feet. Call me stingy but I can think of better ways to spend £30. A bowl of designer stew from Lekki Kitchen, those animal print sandals on sale in Zara that I can’t seem to find anywhere, new nighties so my hubby to be never finds out he’s marrying a tramp…the list is endless.

Have I mentioned that the nails on my little toes are abnormal? They look nothing like nails. I inherited the strange looking things from my darling mother. Many years ago I thought it would be a good idea to rip out the entire nail on my little left toe. I was convinced it would grow back looking the way a nail should, just like some girls whose parents are thoroughbred Africans go natural thinking their hair will grow out looking like Corrine Bailey Rae’s.  Now now, I’m not hating on natural haired girls, I’d quite like to go natural myself. I’m just saying be under no illusions that your hair will grow out looking like your father married a white woman…or vice versa. The same way that relaxing your hair won’t make it look like Giselle Bundchen’s. How crazy is that woman’s body?!

I digress.

Yes, foolish me ripped off my little toe thinking it would grow back looking normal. The pain was out of this world and I bled like a ram at slaughter. Surprise surprise, the nail grew back looking exactly how it did before I yanked it off.

Lesson learned? If you want perfect lookingtoe nails, tell your father not to marry my mother.

Love,

Waila