Perfect

Beautiful… from head to toe
Perfect imperfections, I’m sure you know

Nothing will ever be the same again

My parents’ screams echo through the house, again

Threats and insults, injuries coated with salt

I don’t recall how it started, I’m afraid to see how it ends

Tonight, like many nights recently, my family is not one

Why am I still here, with this stranger I used to love

How did their existence become so intolerable

Whence are these quirks and habits

How do I leave a hell that was home, that was us

O! How I hate the cacophony of that alarm

With it comes yet another morn of same old shit, different day...

a cluster of lifeless Zoom lessons, nought but the pretentious

endless interaction… with my computer

From Russia with Love

Sitting in a coach travelling east, way past Poland, almost into Asia.

Destination: Mother Russia

Mission: Family

Back in 2001 when I moved to Poland, the top position of my things-to-do list read “Find My Sister!” I knew she lived in Russia, and the belief was that it would be quite easy to find her since Poland was much closer to Russia than Nigeria was.

I had old postcards and baby photos, with names and addresses in Russian, her mom had sent to my dad years earlier. Google was my friend and my guardian, and thus my search began.

I remember being frustrated each time I had to translate the content of a Russian page only to find myself at a dead end. I remember the exhilaration I felt the first time I saw her grownup picture.

A gorgeous, caramel-flavoured Queen…who shared a slight resemblance with me.

I think it was thanks to her being in a pop group that made her easier to find than it could have been. She sent me her phone number, and we spoke on the phone. I remember crying during or after the first call.

For different reasons neither of us has been able to make the trip across the border (3 actually). Over the years we kept in touch, and more family members reached out to her. We’ve both become parents, but I won’t be meeting my first nephew this time around. I hope this will be the first of many visits to Russia (or to Poland), because after all

“Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family: Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.” – Jane Howard

(Tina’s post, translated from Russian)

“Tomorrow I will have a very important and touching event. My brother Olatokunbo Ogunleye is coming to visit me
Mom and Dad got divorced when I was very young. My father really wanted me and my mother to come to Nigeria, but it so happened that we stayed in Russia. I don’t think that it’s bad or good. It’s just that the universe ordered it that way ..
In the early 2000s, through my social networks, my half-brother found me. Thus I learned that in Nigeria I have brothers and a sister. Then, in time, my aunts, uncles, and cousins ​​contacted me. As a result, it turned out that I am part of a huge Nigerian family, who love me and are looking forward to meeting me.
Tosin lives in Poland. He is a football fan and he’s coming to see the World Cup. For the visit, he chose St. Petersburg so he could meet with me. This will be our first meeting and his first trip to Russia. Unfortunately our dad passed away a few years ago. If he knew that his children would meet, he would be very happy.”

Pierogi vs Jollof Rice

 Leading up to the Poland – Nigeria friendly match, I truly believed I would be a neutral spectator.

Having spent years growing up in both countries as a member of two diverse societies, one would think the match would be an opportunity for Poles, Nigerians, as well as those with dual citizenship to come together and celebrate the beautiful game of football in an amicable atmosphere. After all, this is one of the chief reasons for friendlies.

I was slightly surprised (I think) to find out that I was completely rooting for the Naija team. I wasn’t upset when Lewy nearly finished the beautiful counter with the ball that struck the post, and I was highly amused by the comical misses served up by both teams AND the Polish goal that didn’t stand (how blind can English refs be FFS?), but I was truly and deeply excited when the Naija team put together some sexy moves (albeit frustrating that they kept choosing to be so extra when a simple pass would have sufficed).

Across social media platforms, I noticed many Polish-Africans openly celebrating the Nigerian win, and that has led me to wonder if/when people with dual citizenship are every impartial in matters that affect both nations they call home.

I am pretty sure I will be Biało-Czerwoni when Poland play Senegal in June, but I don’t think I’ll ever choose Pierogi over Jollof Rice.

P.S. Still on the subject of belonging somewhere: Over the years both White and Blacks have repeatedly claimed that I do not look or act Nigerian. Kenya is the country many people say they thought runs through my veins till I “confess” to being Yoruba. Last weekend a YT Polish lady told me it’s a good thing I don’t look Nigerian because of the bad reputation of Naija lads (she didn’t give me details :/)

Have you ever encountered anything similar? Leave a comment.

Yoruba Demons 1.0

5 years after my older brother’s wedding, I went back home to Lagos for another celebration. My mom found love…and she said YES. Family from a few corners of the globe came together for a euphoric weekend of love & life, singing & dancing, Amala & Hennessy…

My first gist from the trip – the engagement ceremony.

Alors…I got to the venue early to lend a hand to Auntie Susan (the wedding planner), and to encourage other family members to be less African for once.

Of course, it didn’t work. Long story short, it took a lot of phone calls and prayers before either the groom’s or bride’s entourage showed up. In fact, everyone came late.

But when everyone finally arrived, the ceremony was a joy to behold. It is always such a joy to witness Yoruba traditional weddings; all the prayers and praises and pomp involved, all the happiness and energy flowing through everyone present. And after the couple had been joined together, we danced and danced and danced. 

Much earlier that day, I had had a rude awakening though. A painful reminder of why I avoid elderly people who I don’t know well.

As soon as soon as I got to the venue, I walked into the hall and made my way over to greet one of those Aunties every Black person has in abundance…but rarely remembers the exact degree of family relationship (someone’s sister’s cousin’s younger brother’s wife’s cousin twice removed)

I did a half body prostrate, as a good Yoruba lad…and this woman looks at me, gives my dreadlocks bad eye, and asks the Auntie next to her – “Ṣe ọkunrin nii eleyi tabi obinrin?” /Is this one a man or a woman?/

The European in me said “Cmon bruv! Clap back! You can’t tolerate such disrespect!”

The African in me said “Oya, use your church mind and smile the pain away. Say something nice to appease her”

I chose the middle ground and simply walked away.

The Night My Father Died

 

 

 

It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

– Anne Sexton

 

I feel so sorry about Dad. I haven’t seen him for almost my whole life, but I love him so much.
My mom and granny have been terribly sad since they heard the news. They remember him as the most wonderful person. I feel so sorry that I had no opportunity to grow up with him, and I’m so upset that I can’t come to Nigeria to see him off.

– Tina Charles Ogunleye

 

I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.

– Sigmund Freud

 

When we were kids, our Dad spoilt us. He was always able to provide us with some of our wants and all of our needs. In the early years he used to work in Warri and only spent weekends in Lagos, so we always looked forward to Fridays with ripe anticipation. One of my oldest memories is most probably the story behind my sweet tooth. Back then every time Daddy came to Lagos, he came with gifts of Scottish shortbread. It is still my favourite biscuit.

We have always been a family of film fanatics and book readers. On most weekends Daddy would drive us down to one of the shopping plazas to pick up a couple of films from the video club. Being a gang of stubborn kids, Daddy would save himself the time wasted and stress caused by arguments over which films we could take, and he would let each of us take whichever films suited our personal taste. This was also a way to keep Simisola from being bullied. Last borns always have it tough. We often ended up taking home close to 10 films.

Whenever I asked my Dad for cash to buy a new book or comic, he would give me enough to buy 2 or 3. Those roads to a million worlds and windows to a billion lives were revealed to me at a very young age, and I still sneak away as often as possible from reality hiding away in a book.

 

Proverbs 13:1

New International Version – UK (NIVUK)

13 – A wise son heeds his father’s instruction,

   but a mocker does not respond to rebukes.

 

Charlie wasn’t very religious when we were kids. Compared to Mummy, he was more of a “when will the pastor stop talking” kind of church-goer. But he was a good man with a good heart. And he did lay the foundations for strong, good characters in his children. Our Dad drummed the ills of smoking and taking drugs into our heads as soon as it was obvious we knew Marlborough wasn’t the name of superhero. It’s probably thanks to him that I have always seen cigarettes as a dirty, disgusting and “lower class” habit. Charlie never smoked and he rarely drank, although those bottles of cognacs, wines and whisky he brought back from his trips abroad are the reason for my good taste. Don’t tell my Mum, but I do my love my Merlot. A glass a day keeps the doctor away.

I remember a beach party I attended in my teen years in Lagos where I had a little too much palm-wine to drink. When Daddy came to pick me up, he helped me into the car…and all the way to my bed. How many Dads do that these days?

My Dad taught me to always make sure I am my own best friend. He said “people come and people go…it’s dangerous to place your trust in anyone because people usually only think of themselves; he advised me to be careful who I call friend. As a teenager, I noticed he had stopped taking his own advice to heart – a discovery which saddened me. These last few years I’ve been asking myself if I shouldn’t have done a lot more in order to to set my parents back on “the right path”.

Daddy always told me I could achieve any and all of my dreams, as long as I was ready to work hard to reach my goals. He always emphasized the importance of education. Knowing he went all the way to Russia to study Chemical Engineering was always an inspiration for me. As a child, I used to think everyone in Nigeria had Charlie to thank for having petrol in their cars and gas or kerosene in their kitchens.

Tina and I are deeply saddened that we can’t be there with you right now, our family and friends, to share all these memories of Daddy, Charles Oladele Ogunleye. We regret not having spent more time with him. We regret the distance that appeared between us as the years went by. We regret that someone who meant a lot to so many people had to slip away in such a manner.

The good memories, the good stories are what we’ll fill that empty place in our hearts with. Charlie, missing you already…

 

1 Kings 2:1-4

New International Version – UK (NIVUK)

David’s charge to Solomon

1 When the time drew near for David to die, he gave a charge to Solomon his son.

2 ‘I am about to go the way of all the earth,’ he said. ‘So be strong, act like a man, 3 and observe what the Lord your God requires: walk in obedience to him, and keep his decrees and commands, his laws and regulations, as written in the Law of Moses. Do this so that you may prosper in all you do and wherever you go 4 and that the Lord may keep his promise to me: “If your descendants watch how they live, and if they walk faithfully before me with all their heart and soul, you will never fail to have a successor on the throne of Israel.”

– Olatokunbo Oluwatosin Omo-Ogunleye