How Safe is ‘Safe Sex’?

DJ Crosby was on the board and that statement alone tells you everything you need to know about the success of the event given that it was a salsa dance party. This guy handled the turntable with such finesse that I found myself wishing I was a turntable, being maneuvered masterfully under the tips of his fingers to produce sounds that were pure aural bliss. This was profound given that ‘Spanish Guitar’ was playing when I had this thought, and I have wanted to be played like a Spanish guitar for as long as I can remember. 

My dance partner that night was perfect, making an already awesome night all the more awesome. This guy was one of the most sensitive dance partners I have ever had. He made me look like I sashayed into the aviation social center after stepping off the plane from an international salsa competition where I won several trophies, a remarkable and commendable feat given my two left feet.

Despite my loving his partnering skills, I had only danced with Boris twice. His Barbie-proportioned girlfriend was usually an arm’s length away tensioning you with her perfect figure and flawless make-up. As if that was not enough, this girl had the most piercing brown eyes that made you feel guilty and want to confess even when you had done nothing wrong. She was a lawyer and I felt for those who would stand trial in her courtroom when she became judge.

Only one girl had been able to break her cool, collected, I-know-my-boyfriend-and-I-are-the-hottest-couple-here stance and that was my crazy twin, Robbie. When Robbie walks into a room, she immediately singles out the hottest guy in the room and introduces herself. The day I managed to drag her to salsa, she walked straight to the guy and introduced herself while he was dancing with his girlfriend. Chelsea looked at her with her best ‘back-off he’s mine’ look and Robbie, without batting an eye said “Oh, but it’s not him I was checking out. I was actually playing out fantasies with you in my head.” This silenced Chelsea, a first, and everyone cheered silently for Robbie. 

Chelsea was nowhere in sight tonight and I took full advantage to fulfill some of my tamer fantasies with Boris. I danced a little closer, popped my back a little harder to make my behind look bigger, and exaggerated every sway of my hips, using every turn to run my hands through my hair and slide them artfully down my nape, ending provocatively right above my bosom. 

The ever-sensitive partner, Boris quickly read my vibes and turned me in his arms, putting me in prime position to grind upon him during a particularly sultry Portuguese number. Caught in the sensual haze, I had not noticed the lights in the makeshift dance studio had dimmed until my furtive glance around to see if we were putting on a show. We were not. In fact, the couple next to us was bordering on obscene and no one was paying them heed because each couple was caught in their own cocoon of lust.

Emboldened by the darkness which assuaged some of my catholic guilt, I slowly unleashed some of the dance moves I usually reserved for my mirror at home. 

The song barely ended when he put his palm in the small of my back and led me outside. It seemed to have rained while we were inside, and the night was cool and dark, beckoning one into the shadows with sultry promise. For some inexplicable reason, Boris became shy when we found a step to sit on and he just held my hand and talked. He told me about his recent break-up with Chelsea (I cheered silently), and we got to know each other. In fact, he was regaling me with an anecdote about his time as entertainment prefect in PRESEC when I looked up and saw the sun had begun to rise. We had talked from 1am to 6am!

I bolted from his arms, remembering the wedding I had to attend with my mom later in the day. It was in Keta and we were scheduled to leave Accra by 9:00am. I should have gotten home eons ago.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

♪♪ Ai se eu te pego, ai ai se eu te pego ♪♪. I glanced at my phone.  Boris. We had spoken every day this past week, but had both missed salsa this Friday due to work commitments. Today was a week after the wedding.

-       Hey!

-       Hey!

-       Do you swim?

-       Some.

-       My buddy is having a pool party later today. Wanna come?

-       You don’t have to do this to see me in a bikini, you know? You could just ask.

-       Okay, Miss. I would very much like to see you in a bikini at this pool party my friend is having today.

-       Touché. Where at?

-       He lives near Midindi hotel, but I insist on picking you up.

-       I’ll be around Labone visiting with cousins so text me the address and I’ll have my cousin drop me. You can drive me home, though.

-       I’d rather pick you up from your cousins. But if you insist…

-       I do (I cut in)

-       Okay. I’ll text you the address. See you later.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

Boris in swimming trunks was truly a sight for sore eyes, but then I already knew that from the slim-fit shirts he sometimes wore to salsa. Besides, you don’t flip and lift all xxx pounds of the awesome I am with such ease without serious muscles. 

“Where can I change?” I asked. “I’ll show you.” He briskly whisked me off. We had scarce turned the corner when he slammed me into the wall and kissed me. “Hello!” he said, after a brief kiss. “Hi!” I said, leaning in for a longer kiss. “Behave!” He said slyly. ‘We are in somebody’s house.” I laughed, vowing to get back at him later.

Boris’ whistle when I came out was worth the $80 I had spent on the Calvin Klein bikini set I had bought on sale at Nordstrom. I stood taller and somehow flicked my kinky afro hair. After introductions to the group, we raced a couple of laps and sat down, legs dangling in the water to talk.

-       I got my test results back from the doctor yesterday

-       Which test results? 

-       Chelsea and I broke up because she was cheating on me with a girl. Well it turns out the girl was cheating on her with a boy who must have also been doing his own thing because he caught hepatitis B and passed it down the chain. Chelsea only told me because she had to.

-       Oh! 

-       Anyway, I had had the vaccine so knew I probably hadn’t caught it, but decided to do complete blood work to verify I was clean and see what else I may have caught.

-       And…

-       I’m clean

-       Oh, ok 

-       I would also like you to take all the tests

-       You’re assuming it will matter. You’re assuming we will…

(I gasped! He had snuck his hand behind me and trailed his icy-cold fingers down my sun-kissed back. I glanced sideways at him, the Ghanaian girl blush, as Mensa calls it. The heat in his eyes made me blush for real. Okay, so we definitely would)

-       Should I feel insulted because you are demanding this? 

-       No, you should feel taken care of. It’s not just for my safety. There is for instance no way to test for HPV for guys. Take the test, and get the vaccine. Let’s know what we are working with.

-       You can catch stuff from kissing too, you know? (I asked, musing.)

-       I know. You could have given me oral herpes already…

-       Among other things… (I solemnly said )

The rest of the afternoon went wonderfully, and as I lay in bed that night, I thought of safe sexual behavior and remembered a question Nana Darkoa asked last week. “Is ‘safe sex’ truly ever safe?”

This is a generation that tweets and blogs about one-night stands and having risqué oral and other sexual encounters in parking lots and backseats of cars.

A condom does not protect against contact-spread infections, and your faithfulness does not guarantee your partner’s.

With so much seemingly out of our control, it’s perplexing that we do not always control what we can. We have people priding themselves on being #teamraw. We have people thanking God they are not pregnant every month. We have people having unprotected side sex all the time and bringing back to their partners who may have been faithfully waiting at home, not just news of babies, but infections upon infection.

We see people brandishing Postinor as their birth-control method of choice, proud that they are baby-free, ignoring what infections they may be picking up of spreading.

How does one keep safe in the madness of it all? Aside the best bet abstinence which even then can only last till marriage, how do you keep safe? What are your rules and defense mechanisms? Are they truly enough?

Food for thought.

When the Heart Decides, and the Family Says No

Hello Blogsville,

Happy new year and yes, shame on me for putting up my first blog-post of the year in March. I have no excuse, and can only promise to do better. So without much ado, here goes...

You know how difficult it is to find that person who makes bearing the inherent risks of a committed monogamous relationship seem like peanuts to trade for the joy of being together in all the ways that count? No? Yea, me neither… 

You know how people are always saying a good man or woman is hard to find? Finding such a (wo)man seems to increasingly be a Professor Acheampong designed Calculus II proof question. You know the answer. It’s been given to you in the question. And yet, there are a myriad of wrong tangents you could go off on if one does not exercise utmost caution in one’s approach.

Imagine the exhilarating feeling of accomplishment when you are finally able to prove that when ‘x’ jumps to Mars and comes back, it is still ‘x’. You heave a huge sigh of relief knowing that at least you’re assured full marks for that question.

But wait a minute. You’re not home free yet. You have to ensure that you have not broken any mathematical law, and that you have used every relevant piece of information in the question. It is possible that you have proved that when ‘x’ jumps to Mars and comes back, it is still ‘x’. However, imagine the horror if you come out of the examination room only to realize the question asked you to prove that when ‘x’ jumps to Mars wearing a Speedo suit of 5 pounds mas

That, my friends, is my convoluted (forgive!) attempt at describing the sinking feeling you get when you find the (wo)man of your dreams  and s/he is from a part of the country or globe your parents forbid you to wed from.\

You know how football, the map of Ghana and Wofa Atta’s (bless his soul) funeral seems to suggest that we are one people? That oneness is in no way true when it comes to marriage, make no mistake. When it comes to marriage, all 56 or so ethnic groups are every vocal about what they will and will not accept. And ethnic stereotyping (a canker which unfortunately seems to transcend education, religion and football) rears its very potent, very ugly, timeless head. Almost every family has its list.

I hope I will not be thrown under the proverbial train for being that foolishly courageous one to point out that the chief priest has stained teeth when I say that most Ghanaian families, especially Akan ones, are not particularly enthusiastic about welcoming Voltarians into the family, or ‘sending’ one of their own into a Voltarian family, as the case may be.

 

I recently caught up with an old friend who was dating the sweetest boy I have ever come across, let’s call him Edem. I inquired after Edem, feeling smug for remembering his name only to be told Edem was history. “Mommy must have been crushed”, I said. Edem was in charge of the teen’s chapel in their church and Awo’s mom, having observed his service and dedication as the head of the youth ministry, often joked that she could not have picked better for her daughter if it had been up to her to choose.

Awo quietly disclosed, “That is what I thought too, but she confessed during one of our post break-up mother-comforts-daughter sessions that although she loved Edem, she was never comfortable with where he came from and so perhaps it was all for the best. Imagine that!” I could not imagine…

Apparently, within the Volta region itself, they are not holding hands and singing ‘Kumbaya’ by a fire-place. There appears to be a case of Northern and Central versus Southern going on, or as someone put it less diplomatically, everyone else versus the Anlos. Naturally, my Anlo friends insist ‘they just hatin’. It can however be quite serious. I recently sat down to lunch with a friend from Peki who was telling me about his parents’ stated preference that he NOT bring a southern Voltarian home. He further disclosed how this feeling was so deeply ingrained in the family that an aunt had three unmarried daughters between the ages of 33 and 38 still at home because these poor girls seemed to have acquired a taste for Anlo men.

I expressed the sentiment that one would think as a parent, one’s first priority would be the happiness of your kids. But the thing is, for most parents, they truly believe they are looking out for their kids and saving them from a lifetime of misery with these prohibitions. Many have personally witnessed or experienced things that made their minds up and so we may even say have valid reasons. But this does not ease the pain of star-crossed relationships, nor make it right.

Pardon my idealism but I just fail to see how it’s looking out for your offspring when you refuse to acknowledge your children and grandchildren after eight years of marriage to their ‘undesirable’ spouse (as in the case of my neighbor). I’m unable to see how denying your children and grandchildren your presence and support is in their best interest. A mother disowns her daughter and refuses to go to her bedside as her daughter lies dying of cancer at 35 because she married from a tribe she does not like. And whom does this help? How?

While we’re being idealistic, shouldn’t your ultimate goal be their happiness? Granted, you’ll sleep, and eventually, rest easier knowing they married someone from your village. But should you permit their not doing so to rob both of you of whatever time you have left together? Who knows how much time that is? And are there not more pressing issues in this life?

I know this will probably not change (m)any minds but can we at least think a bit more about it when it gets to our turn? No? Okay, then consider this writing therapy for me *sigh*.

On Forgiveness...

"To forgive is not to condone the offense, to say it made no difference, or to license its repetition. Rather, forgiveness is a decision to no longer hold an offense against another group or person. It's a choice, just like love. Choose wisely!" ~Robin Harford

Forgiveness is something I struggle with ever so often. One of the joys of letting few people close is that those who do, get really close and so have amazing power to hurt you. 

source: jameswoodward.wordpress.com

Another thing that brings me to the forgiveness struggle over and over is my need to understand things to let it go. When I have been hurt or let down, what caused me the most anguish was the 'Why?'.

For this reason, I am convinced that breaking up with someone without telling them exactly why you broke up with them is tantamount to emotional terrorism... but I digress.

So yeah, the forgiveness thing is not my forte and even less so is the forgetting part. And God being the patient teacher, time and again, I have been reminded of things that make nonsense of holding grudges.

1) Nobody can nor will wrong me to the extent that I wrong God. And if He forgives...

2) No matter how badly someone wrongs me, God wont stay mad at them because I haven't let it go. When they repent, He will forgive them. And will not withhold His blessings from them just cos I said so.

3) Whether we understand the actions of others or not, we are solely responsible for how we choose to process and react to them.

While the first one cannot really be debated, or at least elicits very little debate from me, the second and third have struck close to home a couple of times. 

When you seek closure from a past hurt and you realize your past tormentor doesn't remember and has changed and so feels bad and apologizes although they don't remember, you realize how futile holding on to past hurt and grudges are. You're often the only one who suffers... and remembers.

Makes you wonder who you hurt and may not even remember, doesn't it?

When you see a friend's ex who was cheating with like ten different girls become a pastor and marry an amazing minister of God, and go on to have an awesome life while your friend still harbors some resentment, you realize how God isn't waiting for your forgiveness to bless someone.

And even when they don't change but remember and feel no remorse, you see them later on and realize that allowing their decision to be deliberately evil to affect your soul is a complete waste of time and emotional resources.

And you realize how although the starting quote said it was a choice, it's a necessary choice.

source: randomthoughtsonlifeblog.com

How do you handle forgiveness? What makes it easier?

How are you really, friend?

Friends are those rare people who ask how we are and then wait to hear the answer.
-- Ed Cunningham

Three words, nine letters, and it can make all the difference in the world: “How are you?” At times I am convinced that a sincere “How are you?” says more about how much you mean to someone than an “I love you”.

We can gush out an “I love you” to a stranger that lets us go before them to the bathroom when they notice us dancing to the tune of a bursting bladder and totally mean it at the time. And of course, we can say it more times than we can count no matter how false it may be when we feel it is what we need to say to get ‘some’.

But I have noticed this; No matter how badly you want a person or want a favor from said person, or are grateful to said person, it is mighty hard to listen to the answer to “How are you?” when you do not care. Especially when the answer is anything other than “I am fine, thanks for asking”.

At times, I do not realize how far I have drifted from a friend until they ask “How are you?” If a reflex “I am fine” comes out when I am anything but, I know the friendship is going downhill and I need to decide if I’m going to try and save it or just watch it fall into that dark abyss of past friendships.

If I ask a perfunctory “How are you?” and cannot be bothered to listen to anything that is not an equally cursory “I am fine”, I know there is no need lying to myself about how little someone really matters.

It amazes me how amazed everyone is at a suicide. The amazement is even more amazing when the person has tons of ‘friends’ and loved ones coming out to say how sorry and sad they are and that they had no idea what the person was going through.

It makes me wonder, if people are such amazing actors/actresses, why are we being plagued with so many horrible movies these days? (JK! Ok, half-kidding)

It makes me wonder, would someone asking “How are you?” and waiting to hear the full answer, no matter how long and horrible it was, have made a difference? I don’t know… but I wonder.

A failed suicide attempt had parents and friends ask; “Why?” “Why didn’t you talk to us?” “How could we not know?” Still shaking from the visit to the no man’s land between life and death, Anna said, “You did not ask”. Mary looked away and said ‘I did. You didn’t listen’

While some people would judge and say you should be proactive about seeking help when you need it, blah blah blah, I think of how often we ask ‘How are you?’ and neither expect nor wait for a real answer.

Sometimes all we need is someone to listen. So what if the next time I ask a friend ‘How are you?’ I ask in a way that told them they could get vulnerable? What would I learn? What could I prevent?

#thingsIthinkaboutat4am

I know the internet has made long-distance relationships 'easier' and our loved ones are more available to us now when they are not with us than they've ever been. Yet, sometimes, like a sick child or a pregnant woman who will refuse any food that is not the vegetarian pizza sold 50 miles away when they are not even vegetarian, no amount or mode of communication can fill the void of their absence.

There are just those times where you want to go and find Celine Dion and hug her for her song 'When I need Love' because you're detesting the miles and miles of empty spaces and realizing a telephone can truly not take the place of a smile...

It sucks that Long-Distance is inevitable at times. Watching the army wives and girlfriends around me, I don't know how they do it. Even people with ah-so-frequent communication are crying for more. I asked my friend how she did it and she said no matter how little of him she gets, she'd rather have 0.001% of him that 0%. I guess that sorta kinda makes sense...

I’d rather have you here…

I know I could text you, IM you, ping you, etc.

But I’d rather hear your voice

I’d rather feel your stubble

Gently grazing my neck

As you whisper into my ear

I’d rather breathe you in

With my arms around you

Holding you near

I’d rather not text,

Or Skype, or IM

I’d rather have you here

And it hurts,

That I can’t have

What I’d rather

But through all the pain,

If stopping the pain

Means saying goodbye,

I’d rather miss you

I’d rather hurt

Although above all,

I’d rather have you here.

(Right now)

PS: Distance can go play in traffic right now.
PPS: I just realized this is my 100th post. 

Why I know I will 'always' love you

• Because I couldn't grasp the dictionary definition of euphoria until you held me away in your arms after a long hug, looked me in the eye with wonder and kissed my forehead with reverence. 

• Because I, Miss flippant and nonchalant began to do crazy, fiercely possessive things like envy the sun its ability to touch any and every part of you, right there in the open.

• Because the light and heat from your smile that greets me when I enter a room makes me wonder why energy is still an issue when there's enough light and warmth for an eternity in that smile.

• Because your hand holding mine is more than enough backbone to face whatever obstacle life may think itself clever to have thrown my way. 

• Because I never understood Romeo and Juliet until I stood by your bedside, machines beeping and wondered what would be left to live for if you didn't make it.

• Because I never understood leaving the 99 sheep to pursue the lost one until I stood in my dream house, dream job in hand and realized I'd gladly give them all up to have you back from beyond

• Because I can't bring myself to talk/write about you in the past tense after all this while.

• Because I've never stopped asking God why

• Because, just because

Letter from the Other Woman III

(This is the final part of a three-part story. You can read the first part here , and the second part here ).

In spite of my growing jealousy, I’d panic every time he would mention that you two were having problems because I didn’t want you two to break up.

Then it would mean that I’d have to decide whether I wanted to be with him for real. And I didn’t want to be with him. By now, I was sure.

Whilst I wish I could say it was because I didn’t want to be a home-wrecker, which I didn’t, it was more because his being with me showed his home was wreck-able.

And I didn’t want to become another ‘If he cheated with you, he’ll cheat on you’ statistic. Yes, I’m ashamed to say my ambition had been reduced to not becoming a statistic… when I was already one.

Did the shame make a difference? No. There I was counseling Paul back into your arms whenever he was in a place where it seemed he would break up with you… whilst he was in my arms.

There was I temporarily withdrawing and breaking off communication with him whenever I felt he was getting too attached to me during one of your rough patches, only to run right back when it ended.

Once in a very long while, my near-dead conscience would draw from the last vestiges of its strength and reprimand me. But by now, it was so weak that a roll of my eyes returned it to its comatose state.

It fought valiantly. It just never won. It kicked and screamed when it noticed the time I spent talking with, thinking about, planning for and being with Paul exceeded the time I spent on everything else.

It reminded me that an idol was anything you put before God. I wasn’t even praying much anymore. I listened for a short while, and then gave it a generous dose of Valium.

What is the point of telling you all this now? Forgive my rambling. Poor man’s therapy, they say. But then again, being the psychologist, you know this more than I.

Yesterday, at 19:47 GMT, Paul got down on his knees and asked me to be his wife. He said he had asked you for a divorce and your response had been a resigned “ok”.

He said that your recent miscarriage had made him realize that if a child came into the picture, he would be stuck with you forever and it was me he wanted a forever with.

He said it was the worst acquiescence he had ever obtained and that the loud thud of a broken woman throwing in a towel heavy with her hot tears was not a very pleasant sound.

He said, “The worst part was that I couldn’t even hold her as her frail frame racked with sobs. All I could think was, stop crying so I can go to Gifty”.

He looked at me expectantly and I saw his heart sink from his eyes to the bottom of his stomach when he saw the horrified look on my face.

My comatose conscience miraculously leaped back to life and filled me with remorse deeper than I ever imagined a human could feel. I’d become the woman I said I’d never be; the home-wrecker.

The engagement ring, supposed to be one of the things a girl looks forward to most, slapped me like a glass of ice-cold water poured into one’s face at 4:00am on a cold Harmattan morning.

I sank deeper into the sofa. Good thing I wasn’t standing. Someway, somehow, I found the strength to pick up the ring, put it back in the box, and send him home.

I didn’t see that coming. I guess I should have known when he stopped talking your problems over with me. When he stopped getting angry at things you did.

Or maybe when he told me he loved me and instead of the usual “get away!” I found myself saying “I love you too” and he smiled as if he’d won the biggest ‘try-your-luck’ balloon.

Or perhaps even when he was in that recent car-accident and his siblings and close friends were calling me, not you, to ask how he was doing… but I didn’t.

I had received a transfer letter earlier in the day. I was re-locating to Brussels in three months. I told him I had a surprise when he came over and he said he had one too. His surprise was obviously bigger.

I never thought I’d be the other woman. I read my bible and prayed since I was a little girl. I still blush when a kissing scene comes on and I am not watching the movie alone. I’m no Delilah.

I had the Cinderella dream once upon a time and whilst I realized I’d let go of my happily-ever-after dreams when I turned 17, I never intended to take yours away… and certainly not this way.

I hear Paul never made it home last night. A drunk driver hit him, they said. The one time I decided to do right by you and Paul… and this is how it ends.

So whilst I’m the last person you’d want to hear from, I needed to confess my pending man-slaughter (I may as well have put a gun to his head if he dies) …and to explain the request for divorce …

… and why Paul insists on holding on to an engagement ring as he fights for his life in the ICU.

Gifty

Letter from the Other Woman II

(This is the second part of a story. You can read the first part here ).

I met Paul at a particularly low point in my life. I had just ‘broken up’ with the love of my life who claimed he loved me to bits but wasn’t good enough to date me. (Yeah, right!)

Of course, kind courtesy of ‘He’s just not that into you’, we all know it’s one of the oldest lines in the ‘Douchebaggery for Dummies’ manual.

I wasn’t looking for a relationship and I wasn’t looking for a fling either. I’m not that kind of girl, you see. Yet that first night, drunk on excitement and cheap wine, we kissed.

I apologized the next time we spoke, telling him I had a boyfriend and so we couldn’t go anywhere although I was sure he was a wonderful chap.

He also apologized and told me he also had a girlfriend so we could never go anywhere. This was you, by the way. It should have been the end of our story. Sadly, it wasn’t.

Many a boy/girl dreams of that friendship which defies all latent and overt sexual tension and remains a platonic, life-long friendship. We found we both had that dream.

Of course we could have been using it as an excuse to stay in touch, chasing the thrill of playing with fire and escaping unscathed. I don’t know. I am not the one with a PhD in psychology. You are.

Paul and I had this amazing conversational chemistry that I hardly find with others. Our phone networks definitely benefited from our virtual time together.

We could talk for four hours without a lull in conversation and resume two hours later groggy from sleep with a good morning text and text back and forth all day. O, the folly of youth! (Wistful smile)

And so I kept him around, for the witty conversation and friendship, or so I told myself. The lies we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night!

Every lady knows that the guy who can make you laugh more than anyone else in the world has your heart. I found our senses of humour were 97% compatible. Enough said.

And so the friendship deteriorated into friendship plus casual make-out sessions where you would disappear and all thoughts of the future would disappear too, for we insisted we didn’t want one together.

Time would however betray our lie. For as many who have tried to divorce biology from psychology have found, the heart, head and hormones rarely stay in their boxes when we separate them.

Whilst I convinced myself that I didn’t care that whenever we were together, he’d have to leave if you called, I found myself getting jealous whenever he left to be with you.

I found myself getting annoyed with him and myself whenever he would pick a call and end it with a smile on his face and it wasn’t you he had been talking to.

I guess I had accepted the hierarchy and that you came before me; but refused to share second place with anyone else. The depths to which I had sunk! I was jealously guarding my second-best position. (Stay Tuned) 

Letter from the Other Woman I

Dear Chrysta,

You do not know me but I know you very well. For whilst he cannot talk to you about me because you do not know I exist, I know you do and so he does.

I know when you have a bad day and when you get a promotion or raise. I even know when your PMS causes you to snap at him and throw him out of the house.

No, he does not come to stay with me. He calls but I turn him away. Nature has played this cruel joke on us where our cycles are perfectly synchronized. God has a sense of humor and the joke’s on us (him).

Oh, where did my manners go? There they are! I guess I should introduce myself. In case you haven’t already guessed, I am the other woman in Paul’s life. Or am I one of them? You never know these days.

I am not your average ‘other woman’. I am not trying to steal your husband nor get back at my father. I am neither a sex fiend nor exceptionally good in bed. He says you’re much better.

In fact, many a time, he comes to me complaining how you tired him out in bed, his half-hearted complaints belied by the fact that he is usually grinning like a Cheshire cat. You’re doing it right there.

My name is Gifty and like the name suggests, I am both gifted and a gift. Lead soprano singer in the choir, Sunday school teacher, CFA, and ladies wing vice-president are a few of the titles I can claim.

Over the weekend, I volunteer at a school for special needs children. They love me. Everybody does, including your husband but we will come to that.

If you are shaking your head whilst going through my profile and asking incredulously “…and other woman?” you are right. It does not fit in the picture.

But like I found out from my childhood obsession with picture puzzles lasting well into my teens, sometimes, not every piece fits... (To be continued)

Risky Business (A Mother's Pain)

 Everyone’s heard about the pain of motherhood, but the tales from the delivery room don’t begin to cover it. As I held my daughter who was trying with herculean effort to contain her racking sobs, I understood more than ever the utter pain and despair of a mother who would give anything to take her child’s pain away and yet couldn't.

I think back to a happier day, the day my husband, by custom, slaughtered a fattened ram to celebrate the birth of our tenth born. I remember the smiles of my own mother, and the pride I felt at having nine children dressed in white, seated at my feet with the tenth in my arms, contentedly suckling at my breast, validating my womanhood.

Today, I had buried six out of the ten, and my husband had taken the lead into the afterworld. And as I sat in the sterile room consoling my daughter as my grand-daughter fought what was by all indication, a losing battle against cancer, I knew the exact measure of that pain.

My daughter was an insurance expert; risk management was right up there in her alley. And yet when it came to the greatest risk of all, she was just as unprotected as the rest of the world. I remember when her husband was killed by friendly fire in Afghanistan days after her daughter was diagnosed with Ewing’s Sarcoma. My broken daughter looked up to me in despair and asked. “Why is there no insurance against such pain when you can insure your fingernails if you so desired?”

I’d had no answer for her then. And I didn't have any for myself now. I too had been dealt no better cards in the gamble that is motherhood. I always believed the greatest gamble we took with our hearts was falling in love. Now I realize that while it’s true, it’s not the love that drives us to the altar, but the love that wells up when we’re handed that new-born baby that was the costliest chip.

Human Banking?

Why is it so difficult to let great people go when you KNOW you do not love them the way they deserve to be loved, the way they love you?

Is it perhaps because in our minds, we have created human banks where we can keep relationship prospects until we have need of them? Prospects who have all we should ideally seek in a partner, but do not inspire in us, the grand passion every great love story, from sleeping beauty to Romeo and Juliet, swears is the sign of true love?

So we say 'sorry, let's stay friends' to these gems we do not want and administer a tricky combination of just enough sweetness to keep hope alive, and just enough distance to remind them we're not theirs. And just when that begins to sink in, add that spicy tang that says 'well, I'm not yours, but I could be... sometime  never in the future' *insert horned devil emoticon*

We service this relationship like we would a savings account or investment. We make timely deposits of phone calls, text messages, tweets, wall posts, etc. We make the expected rare withdrawals here and there. And basically, expect the people to lie there like our cash does, waiting for the day we decide we do want them after all, or that we'd settle for them.

And when we hear of a wedding, we reluctantly sell our shares in that investment, unless we're into the married man/woman booty-call scene...

Has any of this sounded familiar at all?

I was blasting a certain guy for toying with my friend's emotions, by putting her in a bank and not letting her move on, when I let the words sink in and realized, we all probably do this on some level - keep people we are not particularly fond of close just in case we ever need them.

What do you think of 'human banking'? When does it cross that line between prudent investment and toying with another's emotions? Any stories?

Melt You... (A response to my last post 'I Break Too...')

Sometimes, you're speaking and formulating your thoughts as you go; and as you pause to catch your breath or find an appropriate word, someone completes your sentence for you.

Sometimes, you may not have known at the time the person volunteered the words, exactly what you were going to say next. And yet, they say exactly what your unformed thoughts would have said if they had fully formed...

Sometimes, they say it better than you were thinking it would be... and your brain just goes to rest knowing that it's mission to communicate thoughts and feelings has been accomplished with very welcome help.

That is how I felt yesterday when Nii Amaah at Mouse's Musings wrote Melt You and credited the inspiration to my post. Like I commented on his post, If my monologue was to be a dialogue, I couldn't think of a better script for a response myself.

It may not have been meant as such but It's the best compliment my writing has been paid to date :) :) To be able to inspire such beauty! *sigh!*

I present to you... 'Melt You...'

Melt You

so i read this piece called 'I break too' which inspired 

this piece which i wrote off the cuff but i hope you enjoy. 

Melt You

I am asking for your love to flow, 

I know, I know,

you don't need me and you want me to stay away, 

but i can't help myself but to come close anyway, 

besides, it seems as if you want me close because 

you are everywhere, 

you claim its a glare but all i am reading is a wanting stare, 

engrossed in your book only to build a caricature of my smile,

with those "thees and thous", thine heart pleads to be mine, 

YOU need love and your thoughts of "leave me be" 

to my heart calls, 

your attempts to repulse, my passion engulfs, 

hidden behind the clothes and attempts to act aloof, 

is a want to care, a woman desiring to be loved 

and i am not fooled, 

so this time, my touch on the shoulder will only soothe, 

my tender hug goodbye will make you swoon,

I will pick at that crack, barge through that gate, 

i beg of you, don't fight this, don't push back 

because there is a twist, 

i can promise you this, 

i will not break you, 

i intend to melt the ice around your heart and ask 

that you drench me in your love, 

i will not break you, i will melt you, 

so please, let your love flow.

Credit: Nii Amaah (2011)

PS: If you don't melt, abeg, go and see a cardiologist. 
Your heart may have turned to stone. True story!