Memories

Once Upon a Boarder: The Beginning

QC GirlI vividly remember my first day in Secondary School. I woke up that Sunday morning with a spring in my step. I was finally going off to boarding school and not just any school, the famous Queen’s College aka QC! Every single item (useful and useless) on my check-list had been bought. Between my mother and myself, we knew that I didn’t need 12 dozen name tags or 10 dozen handkerchiefs…but if the school said I needed it, so be it!

I walked through the gates of Queen’s college in my oversize Sunday wear, dragging my matching suitcases behind me. I had bought the cases while on holiday that summer and refused to tear the protective covers off until that morning; I needed everything to be brand spanking new. The confidence with which I approached the check-in desk was impressive. I refused to let my mother speak on my behalf, determined to handle the process like a big girl. I banished her to a corner while I sorted out the formalities. I didn’t want her escorting me to my dorm room either but she insisted so I grudgingly let her. The corridors were filled with the sounds of JSS1 girls bawling as their parents left but no, not me. I all but shoved mine out of the door so I could explore my new found independence in peace!

The reality of my situation didn’t dawn on me until I woke up at 1am the following morning needing to pee. There was no light (power cut) and the silence that engulfed the boarding house area was deafening. All the stories I had heard about witches, wizards and some female spirit that wore stilettos (madam koikoi), visiting students in the middle of the night, came flooding in. For the first time I wondered why the hell I was not in my mother’s house where her fervent prayers were sure to keep demonic forces at bay. I didn’t want to be the newbie that wet her bed though so I grabbed my Rosary, flicked on my torchlight and sprinted to the toilet. I have never peed so fast in all my life. I raced back to my dorm and buried myself under my bedspread in record time. Clutching my Rosary, I chanted Hail Mary’s until God had mercy on me and put me to sleep. That was how I survived my first night.

My first shock came when I was woken up a couple of hours later to have a shower. I stared at the well-meaning junior dorm captain (JDC) like she had lost her mind.

“But it’s 3am!”

She patiently explained to me that junior girls didn’t dare venture near the bathrooms after 5am, especially not a fresher like me. Earlier was better if I intended to attend my first day of classes smelling fresh.  And that was how I found myself having a shower at roughly 3.30am. In the coming days I discovered that that shower had been a welcome present from the gods; for it was one of the only times that year, water flowed in the bathrooms!

If you went to boarding school in Nigeria, you will know there is a hierarchy and JSS1 girls are at the bottom of the food chain. I didn’t know this till I had my first encounter with a senior the very next day. I was lying on my bed hatching my escape plan when my thoughts were rudely interrupted by a senior shouting my name.

At first I ignored her, I really wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but the third time she screamed my name, I sensed danger.  It was too early in the game for drama so I dragged myself out of bed.

“Take this bottle to slabs and fill it with water.”

It didn’t occur to me that I didn’t have the right to refuse, so refuse is what I did.

“Sorry but I’m not in the mood to go anywhere.”

I knew I had said the wrong thing when all the seniors in the vicinity, who had been lazing in bed half naked, sprang to attention.

Shouts of, “Ehn, junior girl what did you just say?!” filled the dorm and in hindsight, I would like to thank God for sparing my life that day, for only He can explain how I dodged a bruising!

The senior, under the influence of grace, sat me down and gave me the lowdown on how things worked. In this new order I found myself in, I was the equivalent of a slave, the property of my seniors. If I dared disobey them or be rude to them, they would send me to join my father in the afterlife.  Once she was satisfied that I understood my place, she thrust the bottle in my hand and ordered me to find my way to slabs. The JDC pulled me aside and kindly informed me that slabs were the rows of taps by the Sick Bay, where students fetched water.

And that was my first encounter with a senior. Much as I hated the fact that I was rudely ejected from my bed without a choice in the matter, I like to think I won that round. If she looked closely, she may have spotted traces of saliva floating through her bottle of water. Or maybe not.  After all, I did give it a good shake!

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New Series: Once Upon a Boarder

Hi folks!

Guess who’s back, back again. Waila’s back, tell a friend! #hieminem

Yes, we’ve been here before but let’s not dwell on that.

It feels good to be writing again but I must admit I’m a bit rusty. I don’t remember it taking me this long to churn out a post. I guess that’s my punishment for neglecting the craft for so long.

I’d like to thank the Twitterati for shaming me out of hiding. I’d been meaning to snap out of the funk and resume blogging but when one of my old blog posts suddenly started making the rounds on Twitter, I logged into my blog and was shocked at how long it had been since I had last published a post. I honestly thought it had only been a couple of months. Somebody say deluded!

Well, I’m back with a brand new series!

QC LogoYou know I like to document my memories and what better memories to pen than those I amassed at Secondary School?! If like me you went to a government boarding school in Nigeria, you will know that it was a life changing experience. For those of you that don’t know, I am a QC girl…that’s Queen’s College to my non Nigerian readers. It was one the most popular schools in the country and while I will admit it was one of the better government schools, there was nothing posh about it. Really, nothing!

Lack of ‘poshness’ aside, I don’t regret my time there. It taught me so much about the world and life in general. I always say that QC was a pretty good replica of the real world. There aren’t many schools where you will find the daughter of a driver sat next to the daughter of a multimillionaire. We had students cutting across the tribal, class and financial divides and it really did give you a glimpse of real life.

Many of the relationships I made there are still going strong and while academically I didn’t learn a damn thing, I did learn how to pass exams, iron without an iron and rebel without appearing rebellious!

In this series, I will share some of my secondary school stories with you. Each story will be complete so there’ll be no waiting for part two. It will be interjected with other posts though so if you find that next week I write about something different, be not confused.

The first story will be up this week. I am not active on Twitter so it’s not the best place to look for me. If you subscribe to this blog, you will get an email alert when the post is published. You can also follow me on Facebook and Instagram for updates!

Facebook: https://m.facebook.com/waila.caan

Instagram: @wailacaan

Happy Wednesday!

xXx

Waila

SOME OF US ARE REALLY JUST HOT!

Many years ago I took a trip to Abuja to visit my mother. It was my first visit back home in circa 8 years, my first trip back since I left. Very little had changed but the things that had, had changed dramatically. For example, before I left, mobile phones were the preserve of elite business men and looked something like this.

 

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I arrived to find that just about everyone had mobile phones and you could buy one for as little as N5000. It really was revolutionary that my mother could call her ‘hair person’ in Wuse market to pre-order the hair extensions I wanted to cart back at the end of my trip. Let’s not try and understand why my mother, who has no hair, has a hair person.

At the time, she lived in a block of flats and unknown to me, everyone in the building was eagerly awaiting my arrival; rodents and household pets included. Such was her excitement. She could finally prove to people that she REALLY did have children. I spent more time than I cared to visiting neighbours and parading myself like a show horse so one morning, when she informed me that she had organised a play date for me with the daughter of a neighbour I was yet to meet, I was not impressed. It was one thing to pop in for a quick hello but a play date?! On what planet do parents schedule play dates for their twenty something year old ‘children’?! The family were expecting me though and it would have been rude not to turn up so off I went to meet my new play mate.

As we walked into their living the room, I spotted a girl who I figured was my play date. I smiled at her and said a hello that was accompanied by that nervous wave that we humans tend to do when we walk into a room full of strange people. Or maybe it’s just me.

“I know you. You went to QC didn’t you?”

Ah, she was one of the millions of QC girls roaming the face of this earth. I didn’t recognise her but she remembered so much about me for someone who wasn’t in my year that I was a little embarrassed. I’m pretty good with names and faces and I’m not one to pretend I don’t know people for the sake of seeming cool. Not that there’s anything cool about it. Unfortunately, try though I did, I just couldn’t remember the girl. She seemed pretty irritated by that and it annoyed me a teeny bit.

Is it by force for someone to know you?!

Aware that we’d gotten off to a shaky start, I turned on the charm and started asking her a load of questions. We got chatting and she asked the question I’d been asked by pretty much every soul I’d met since I’d stepped off the plane.

“How are you finding Abuja?”

Abuja was Abuja. I’d visited the city a couple of times before I was exported over the seas and while it was busier and more densely populated than I remembered it, it was essentially the same place. The only thing I hadn’t been prepared for was the scorching heat. If you’ve ever been to Abuja, you will know that the sun that shines there is not the same sun that shines in the rest of the world. If you venture there at the wrong time of the year, it is melt-your-skin-and-dissolve-your-bones hot. To compound matters, I’d broken out in heat rashes within 24hours of my arrival. All in all, the weather was dealing with me severely and given that I didn’t know what else to say to the girl, I thought I’d share that.
“It’s been good. The heat is crazy though, I don’t remember Abuja being this hot!”

“I beg jo, stop forming! Why are you behaving like you didn’t grow up in Nigeria?!” she replied, disdain dripping off every word.

“Huh?!” *confused face*

To say that I was stunned would be an understatement. Since when did being hot become something to feel superior about?!

“Sorry, I’m not allowed to be hot because I grew up in Nigeria?!”

That was the end of that. I stood up, said my goodbyes and went home. I was FURIOUS!
Umpteen years later, thinking about it still annoys me. I don’t remember the girl’s name and I wouldn’t recognise her if I saw her again but the stranger still has the ability to rile me. There is a perception of Nigerians who live outside Nigeria that like every generalisation isn’t true of everyone. The perception is that we are stuck up, fancy pants that live for opportunities to announce to the world that we have spent a portion of our lives living abroad and therefore deserve to be treated like crown jewels. I have no doubt this stereotype is true of some people, but to tar everyone with the same brush is not just unfair; it is ignorant and downright ridiculous.

My first winter in England, I was convinced the cold would surely kill me. I would stand at my front door for minutes trying to grip my keys with numb hands. I thought people were MAD for wearing skirts in winter, never mind that they were wearing tights. I honestly though I wouldn’t survive my first winter yet, thirteen odd years later, I don’t own any thermal underwear, live in skirts and 20 denier tights and wear peep toe shoes in the thick of winter.

What my dear playmate classed as ‘forming’ was far from it; I was simply being human. It really doesn’t matter where you grew up, it is human nature to adapt and acclimatise to new environments. That aside, even those that were born, bred and never left Abuja are surely entitled to be hot too!

I have written far more words than I intended to so I will end this with a few words for my play date.

 

Dear play date, not every “diasporan” you meet is “forming”. Some of us are really just hot!

xXx
Waila

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.

Free Writing: Write About Someone You Used To Love

goodbye

I will never forget what I was wearing the day it all started. A canary yellow v-neck jumper from Zara, black wide legged pants and pointed black court shoes. I’d met him a few months before at a party my cousin invited me to.  We didn’t talk much at the party and to be honest, I only noticed him because he was quite light skinned. He had a girlfriend at the time so there was no thought of a possible romance.

The day I met him again, in my yellow jumper, I was at church waiting for the first service to end so I could go into the second service. There were quite a few of us waiting in the foyer and I was surprised when my roaming eyes connected with his.  He remembered me and seeing as we were both alone, ended up sitting together during the service. Afterwards, he had a few hours to kill before he had to go to some lunch soirée and asked if I’d like to catch up over drinks. I said yes and that was the beginning of a rather interesting year and some.

We got on so well over drinks that when he dropped me off home, we swapped numbers. It was the summer holidays and I was working my first ever job at a photography studio selling makeovers to members of the public. He worked for a hedge fund and in that period was as working Japanese hours.  His working day started at midnight and we would be on the phone talking about Lord knows what, till I had to get out of bed and get ready for work. I got the raw end of the deal on that one! I couldn’t use my phone at work so he got to sleep while I was working. I was seriously sleep deprived that summer.

I will never forget our first date. We met up in the west end, grabbed a bite to eat at Wagamama and then walked the back streets of central London. It really was perfect. Well until we headed to the cinema to watch a movie during which my bag got stolen. Actually, even that was perfect. He went into superman mode and called the police and my bank to report the theft. We walked to his office because he had a shift to start and he called me a cab, paid for it and shoved a couple of twenty pound bills in my hand to tide me over till I got my replacement cards. I tried to refuse the money but it was a Friday and in those days, banks didn’t open on Saturdays. After convincing me to swallow my pride and take the money, I did.

For a whole host of reasons, things didn’t work out between us. He was and still is an amazing guy and we are good friends to this day. At the time things fell apart, I was convinced I’d never find anyone like him again.

I was right, I still haven’t found anyone like him and to be honest, it’s a good thing I haven’t. In hindsight, amazing though he was, he wasn’t right for me.

Love,

Waila

How Not to Lose Weight

One of the downsides to having worked in customer service is that I am well aware that no one gives a flying banana about moaning customers. If you have the misfortune of dealing with an irate customer, you stick your phone on mute and do your crossword while they rant and if you have the even bigger misfortune of dealing with them in person, you imagine them naked and bent over a chair with you flogging them unconscious.

For this very reason, I always try and maintain my cool because there are few things more annoying than going off at someone who you know couldn’t care less.

Where am I going with this?

I dragged my lazy self away from my desk at lunchtime and headed to the gym to Spin the calories away. I changed into my gym gear and kept telling myself “think wedding dress” as I grudgingly approached the studio. I opened the door and alas, the class was full!

How can the class be full when I booked in?! Ko possible!

I marched toward the instructor.

“Excuse me, I’m booked into this class and there’s no bike available for me to use.”

“Are you sure you booked in?”

I gave him a murderous look.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

I’m sorry if you booked in but the class is now full. Let me just ask if everyone else booked in.”

Turning to face the class, he announced, “Did everyone book in for this class?”

Yeah, like the culprit was REALLY going to fess up! They all nodded their coconut heads but at least one of them was lying. I tried to spot the culprit but my powers of discernment failed me.

I was furious but I knew kicking up a fuss in front of their entire class would only make me look like an idiot so I left them in peace and went to unleash the dragon at reception.

“Excuse me, can you please check if I’m booked in to the 1pm Spin class?”

“Yes you are.”

“So is there a reason I turned up to the class and it’s full?”

“Well, it’s now 1:05pm so any extras would have been let in if because you were late.”

“It is now 1:05pm because I have spent the last five minutes debating with the instructor. I turned up on time and the class was full. What’s the point of a booking system if you have no way of monitoring it?”

I’m not even sure why I went to complain at reception. I know the score, no one but me gives a flying banana! She wasn’t about to go and interrupt the class to do a roll call so I knew there was no point to the discussion. Anger blazing, I marched back to the changing room to wear the clothes I’d grudgingly stripped off.

I have this churlish habit of wanting to close accounts and cancel memberships when organisations annoy me but I’m learning to give second, third and tenth chances (but not to you T-Mobile or whatever you call yourself these days!) so I talked myself out of cancelling my membership and headed back to work.

The anger wasn’t abating though and I really needed something to make it go away…so I stopped by the Thai takeaway place and ordered myself some Penang chicken curry and egg fried rice.

It did the trick! *wink*

xxx

Waila

The Things We Learn Randomly

At my station, without fail every Thursday, stands a Shortlist vendor. This same vendor is present on Wednesdays handing out copies of Stylist. On Wednesdays my hand is stretched out, ready to collect my freebie, well before I’m within reach. On Thursdays, I spend the steps leading up to his pitch fishing out my Oyster card from my handbag. He smiles at me, magazine dangling from the tips of his fingers and I smile back and politely decline the offer.

That was before he discerned my weakness.

One Thursday as I approached his pitch, I began my routine as normal. He began his but this time, added a little something extra. Accompanying the smile on his lips was a look of desperation in his eyes. It was hard to ignore. He looked like his life depended on my taking the magazine from his hand. I felt really sorry for him but heck, I wasn’t interested in carting around a magazine I had no desire to read. I smiled and declined as usual and almost got away with it. Almost.  The subtle nodding of his slightly tilted head broke me.

I was transported to Lagos, sitting in an air-conditioned car, people watching through the erect window. Obscuring my view, bowl in hand, stood a malnourished child. Head tilted, nodding a silent plea. Eyes haunted by hunger and poverty dared me to join forces with life and compound his suffering.

Before I realised what was happening, I had stretched out my hands and collected the magazine. A few steps on, I realised why the magazine felt heavier than it looked. He had shoved three copies in my hand! I laughed at the cheek of it but felt taken advantage of. Yet every Thursday since, at the sight of his pitiful face, I stretch out my hands and collect my three copies of Shortlist.

He has me down for a mug, I know it, but I’m powerless to stop it.

This morning, I was surprised to see a different face handing out magazines at his pitch. Surprised but relieved! This new face looked bored, like it would much rather still be resting on a soft pillow. I stared at its eyes and they stared back, blank. It gave me great pleasure to shake my head, walk past and ignore its offering.

This morning, for the first time, I understood the power of begging.

Photo by Mikhail Evstafiev

xxx

Waila

Marrakech: Medina Schmedina!

I recently got back from Marrakech, where my friend and her hubby chose to tie the knot. It was an awesome wedding. The ceremony and reception were out of this world and my roomies were greater than great!

That said, Marrakech, I have a bone to pick with you.

Long before I reached the city’s shores, I’d heard and answered the call of its famous Medina. I couldn’t wait to explore the souk (market). Who cares about museums, smelly camel rides and the YSL garden when there is a souk that supposedly sells stunning kaftans, magic dresses and an assortment of real leather goods?!

My first foray into the Medina was at night for the pre-wedding dinner party. The entire medina is walled in and somewhat reminiscent of a fortified city. If you’ve watched Disney’s Aladdin, you have an idea of what the streets look like…the reality being a million times magnified of course.  We were literally walking through a giant maze; there was no way we would have been able to retrace our steps without the help of a guide. The windy roads, twists and turns, clothes hanging out of windows, monkey handlers, snake charmers, street food, henna women…it was a circus. It was exciting in the way that new experiences are. So much so that the following day, as soon as I got out of bed and got the wedding rehearsal out of the way, I dragged my poor friend Mo to the souk (in the medina) in the scorching heat.

When you go to a market you expect to haggle. When you are a tourist in a market, you expect to Haggle. When you are a tourist in Africa coming from Europe, you expect to HAGGLE. I went ready to stretch my pounds slack. What I wasn’t ready for was aggression and racial abuse!

MEE: How much is this kaftan?

Trader: 800 Dirhams (€80).

MEE: 150 Dirhams or I go elsewhere.

Trader: Why you want pay small money for this quality cotton? GET OUT OF MY SHOP!

You should have seen the shock on our faces. After telling him off for bad behaviour, we stomped off in search of better behaved merchants.

MEE: How much is this kaftan?

Trader: 1000 Dirhams (€1000).

MEE: Next door this same kaftan is 600, why is yours so expensive?!

Trader: That one not quality, this one authentic.

MEE: Yeah, I’m sure it is. I’m not paying more than 100.

Trader: GET OUT! No money. I know, black people no money. Even me have more money than you. GET OUT!

Where the self control came from, I don’t know. I’m just glad it came.  There was no point getting into a slagging match with the ignoramus. I walked away.

Next door, there was a local canteen and I poked my head in to see if they had cold water for sale.

Ignoramus: Yes, enter that one. Very cheap, you can afford.  Black, no money. *spits on the ground*

If he believes himself to be better and richer than I am, who am I to argue?! Let him keep his money, I’ll keep mine. It was important to me to maintain my dignity so I carried on walking. Besides, it wouldn’t have been take on the mad man on his turf.

As we walked through the souk, shouts of ‘Black!’ ‘Chocolate!’ ‘Obama’ and ‘Rihanna!’ followed us. It was surreal I tell you. Most of them weren’t trying to be offensive and I wasn’t offended. I was just shocked and disappointed that in this day and age, that level of ignorance still exists.

In the process of HAGGLING we got shouted at and insulted so many times, my friend lost her cool and got into a heated argument with one of the traders. There was only one trader we met who treated us with the respect that every human being deserves. We sought refuge from the burning sun in his air-conditioned shop and he was so impressed with my haggling skills, he proposed to me!

I left the Medina with a couple of leather bags and candle burners but I also left a few shades darker and with a bitter taste in my mouth.

Whoever said ‘ignorance is bliss’ isn’t nearly as intelligent as I once thought.

xxx

Waila

Let’s Talk About…TRUST

Trust: The firm reliance on the integrity, ability, or character of a person or thing -free online dictionary

Some things come naturally to me but trusting my fellow man, isn’t one of them. Like many, I have seen too often, displays of the the desperate wickedness that lies in the heart of man and it terrifies me no end. It’s one of the things I’m working on changing though because to live life unable or unwilling to trust people is to live life crawling on your belly, afraid your feet will fail you.

You know me, I like to think I’m a hard nut to crack but truth be told , my unwillingness to dole out certificates of trust is an unwitting admission of my vulnerability. After all, I should have no qualms trusting if I’m really that unaffected by people’s opinions and actions, no? 

This being human thing sucks eh?! *wink*

I know you’re waiting for my sob story but I’ll spare you, this isn’t reality TV and there’s no million pound prize awaiting me post public therapy.

Alright alright, relax those twitching ears. I’ll share some stories with you and yours too if you’re willing to write them up and email them to me. Let’s have group therapy, it’ll be fun!

By the by, have you decoded the message behind all this waffle? Well done Sherlock, you’re right; it’s time for a new series! *whoop whoop*

We’ll be exploring all things trust; the lack, the loss, the restoration, the beauty.

If you’ve got any stories you’d like to share, I’d love to read and publish them! Please email them to wailacaan@gmail.com and as always, you can remain anonymous if you’d prefer. Your identity is safe with me.

Hopefully at the end of this new series we would have exorcised some of our demons and freed ourselves of some of the baggage we carry around.

Stay tuned!

xXx

Waila

REQUIESCAT IN PACE (RIP)

Death, a rude reminder of man’s mortality. 

It sucks but die, we must.

I lost someone, it knocked me for six.

We had our issues, the source of my grief.

Life is short.

Too short not to be open and honest with the people around us.

Too short not to iron out disputes, settle misunderstandings.

To short not to paint our visions, live out our dreams.

Too short to sit around twiddling our thumbs.

Too short to live in the past, neglecting the present.

Too short to live each day in fear and despair.

Too short not to laugh and enjoy living.

Too short to lose faith, give up on giving.

Too short not to embrace the things that matter most.

Too short to turn your back on blood; your flesh, your bone.

Life is short.

What do you die leaving?

What memories, for the hearts, here still beating?

Sleep in peace, we’re no longer at war.

I’ll remember you, without your scabbard and sword.