a cooking pot and twisted tales
Thoughts and Tales…A Lifestyle Blog with a Zing.
Make haste, make haste!
Grandma kept saying.
A stitch in time saves nine!
She reiterated.
And I kept ignoring,
Not trying to understand.
Her imploring words to make haste,
Were but a sign.
Now I understand,
Quite literally, I say.
That little hole in my pants,
Just turned into one major tear.
I now need fifty stitches plus more,
Not even nine will suffice.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
In shocked disbelief, I stared at the face on the boxed inset on TV. The headline news was making its evening rounds again on the local news channel. They had shown her in the morning, but as I rushed around for my morning engagements, I had glanced with vague interest at the strangely familiar face without recognition; but now, it was all coming back to me.
It was a couple of days to Valentine and I was growing heartsick and overdosed from seeing all the love shaped hearts stuck on store windows, the heart shaped chocolates, the balloons and cakes, the little teddies with their sugary messages, lovers making moon eyes at each other, even all the television channels seemed to be peddling the same syrupy valentine messages. I felt like the loneliest person on planet Earth. I was just getting over a broken passion and part of my therapy was to venture often to the Starbucks cafe tucked inside Barnes and Nobles where I immersed myself in strong cups of coffee, or chocolate brew coupled with decadent slices of double chocolate cup cakes whilst flipping through the pages of a romance where everything always ended with happy forever afters.
That day was nondescript and I couldn’t wait to get to B & N after my shift for my new found dose of romance in the pages of a book. I was starting a raunchy book by Lorelei James and I needed to see if it would be worthwhile buying it. It would serve as my pick me up over the valentine weekend with a nice tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream and my very own box of sinful chocolate eclairs.
I got to the cafe and to my delight the comfy armchair in the corner was vacant. I quickly established ownership by putting my bag on it before placing my order for a caramel macchiato and cheese cake. I fetched the book, exhaled to let off pent up steam from a busy but uninteresting day and settled down to some sensory delight.
About half an hour later, they walked in. I did not pay much mind to them initially, I just gave a cursory glance. I thought they were passers-by and only took serious notice when they finished their purchase and chose to seat a little distance away, yet in my direct view.
The gentleman was just above average height and would not necessarily be referred to as handsome. He looked quite ordinary with his semi-bald hair, dressed in a black woolly pullover over a deep navy jeans, blue tennis shoes and an ear glinting with a tiny stud earring. Still, he had a well-bred, well put together look, imposing in an unobtrusive way.
His companions, the two ladies were complete opposites. One had raven black shoulder length hair and was quite slim and tall. She was sensibly dressed in a cream top and black pencil skirt, with her glasses perched on her nose. Her looks were as plain as an ordinary day – but she had exceptional red painted full bee stung lips which stood out in such stark contrast with her appearance.
Now the second lady with her golden toned skin, her layers of highlighted blond locks, and a well made up face with kohl lined eyes, was a head turner. She had a fuller face and a curvy body that exuded strength and gracefulness simultaneously . Not your typical description of beautiful, but magnetism oozed from her pores. From her droopy ecru sequined top worn over fitted jeans, to her expensive looking coach shoulder bag, nice brown high-heeled boots and the Burberry striped scarf carelessly slung around her neck, she spelt class.
After my sleuth-like observation, I turned back to my reading, but their soft talk and giggles kept pulling at my attention. The golden toned ladies dark eyes glinted with naughtiness as she threw her head back in a throaty laugh. They shared chocolate bars, nibbling often from each others fingers. A fleeting touch here and there, which to a non-discerning observer would have appeared innocent. However, from my vantage sitting point in the corner, I could see their footsie play going on under the round table they occupied, and the flexing grips of both ladies hands on the mans thighs now and again.
My ears strained to catch a glimpse of their conversation but their voices were low and did not carry far, yet their discussion was interjected ever so often with a throaty giggle and a sigh.
I tried to mind what I was reading but my voyeuristic senses had been stirred. I took discreet peeks at their shenanigans, uncomfortable at such an open display of questionable affection. I did not try to rationalize their open display. It was valentines day tomorrow and who knows?
Eons later, after liberal shares of bites and sips, and a lingering kiss planted on the gentleman’s lips by the lady with the golden tone, they got up to leave. Just as they were exiting the entrance, I watched as the gentleman gently squeezed the bum of the lady in pencil skirt and glasses.
My question as to the nature of their friendship was halfway answered, yet I wondered….
Now, right in front of my eyes, on the screen of my 32″ Samsung TV, the lady with the golden tone has just become the body bundled in a blanket and dumped on a beach in Galveston. Cause of death; asphyxiation from strangling.
Within me, I knew that I had some vital information, but I struggled with the decision of getting involved in a possible murder case. My imagination went into overdrive and all sorts of monsters started hiding in my closet.
After a nightmare ridden sleep of seeing the woman’s beguiling eyes, I picked up the phone and called the police.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
I love to cook,
seriously, I do.
But seriously,
Not when the lightning flash and sparks,
of threatening flying tomato sauce,
are jumping out of the pan,
and chasing me around my kitchen counter,
almost cowering in the cupboard,
for safety 😉
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
Photo credit * doonidesigns.
In deed, nothing I have is truly mine,
I am simply a beneficiary,
Of the benevolence of a Supreme Being: God,
I am only a conscious receptor of goodwill and grace,
I am simply a custodian of blessings bestowed upon me,
A mere guardian of gifts innumerable.
Not to be taken for granted.
However we look at it.
I know this.
I am just a sojourner, a wayfarer.
Nothing I have is truly mine.
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
The cool early morning breeze seemed soothing and refreshing, but Jen did not think so.
She was chilled to the bones. The night had been very cold with rain drizzles.
Her lightweight jacket and rucksack were barely enough barrier against the chill,
and the park bench was not made for a good night’s sleep.
She knew she could not linger for too long,
constant fear of being accosted by the groundskeeper,
kept her as uncomfortable as a colicky cat,
but she had no energy left to undertake yet another long trek,
to a county soup kitchen.
She had chosen this quieter place, to keep out of the way of the officers,
who diligently monitored the obvious public ones, and were quick to shoo you along.
She stared blankly into the lush green fields,
the early morning tweets of birds, reminded her of home,
of the birds that had built a nest in the old oak in the front-yard.
Her heady dreams of finding that pot of gold,
at the end of the ever elusive rainbow,
had tugged and pulled at her,
until she left her small hometown, to the city of fortune.
She could remember ma’s tears as she stubbornly sought her way.
Her cupboard had quickly run bare, her rent a history to be told,
items of value pawned at such an accelerated rate.
Still pride would not let go, nor a cry for help uttered home.
The intercessions were getting busier by the day,
With people clutching individually inscribed cardboard’s.
Eyes silently pleading, in hope of a hand out.
She had grown tired of the pitiful stares,
Of the leers with suggestive looks on their faces,
Of the eyes reluctant to make contact,
Of the eyes that looked as if they had seen vermin or vomit.
She resolved to find a way to go home to ma,
At least a warm bed and food she would find.
Hunger pangs were gnawing her insides,
Last nights sandwich had barely been enough.
The sprouted dewy mushrooms glistened in the morning light,
Their toadstool shapes looked so pretty, clean, soft and edible.
Grandma gave us some of those, when I was a little girl she recalled,
but grandma forgot to educate the little girl,
that most times, those attractive ones, would surely pack a wicked punch.
She gorged from desperation, and drank from the water fountain,
Several hours later, she slept and was no more.
P.S. Remember to show compassion to the less privileged around you. You might very well be saving a life. 🙂 Thank you.
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
Who created the weighing scale, If I may ask?
Who was that overzealous person that apportioned clothes sizes?
Can someone please tell me?
Who was it that decided,
that my pudgy good self,
my sexy and I know it self,
Is just not the cutting edge shape?
Well, if I must tell you,
since you need to know,
its just my awesomeness spilling all over.
Besides, I need my extra curves,
to keep me warm on cold nights.
That’s all! 😉
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
P.S. Photo credit: The comedy card company.
I met her!
At long last!
Now, I can satisfy my curiosity and also put my aching desire to rest.
I fidgeted as we stood in the quiet restaurant sizing each other up. She was calm.
I had chosen an exclusive restaurant, to give our brains an opportunity to assimilate each others presence,
without getting consumed in the distractions that comes from the busy-ness of a crowded place.
My stomach was filled with butterflies. I could almost feel the rushing flow of my blood in my veins.
This was a moment that I had thought of all my conscious life.
The when? The what if? The how?
I felt that meeting her would be a glorious turning point in my stable life.
We would cry, laugh and take selfies.
We would talk non-stop to cover so much ground.
I came clutching the photo album, that I had put together.
I needed to slay my demons and I felt that she had the sword.
Finally, she would bring some rainbow and sunshine,
into the deepest parts of me that had lived for 27 years with the question; WHAT IF?
I wanted to get rid of that feeling of rejection; that feeling of inadequacy and doubt,
which had been constant shadowy companions, peeking over my shoulders.
I searched her eyes,
They were gray like mine; but they bore no warmth in their depths.
The curve of her lips which were shaped like mine; drew hard on the elegant E-cigarette which adorned her lips,
yet they could hardly shape into a smile.
Her raven black hair was devoid of any grey hairs. No strand was out of place. She was perfectly groomed.
She was still a very attractive woman; for her age.
I subconsciously smoothed down my floral Sunday best. I had dressed to impress.
Her facial features were stiff; I figured that it was due to the use of botox and not just the harshness of life.
A puff and a sip later,
Without much ado, she dove right into the matter.
I think you are grown up enough to understand, she said.
You came when I was least prepared to have a child, and the truth is that I am still not sure that I want that responsibility. I have never had motherly instincts, and at my age, I should know. I agreed to meet with you after all these years because I felt that was the least that I could do; so that you can move on.
I do not apologize for my decision to let you go. I did what I did because it was the best thing for me.
Does that make me selfish? Maybe?
But, look at you! You turned out very well. I am happy about that.
She picked up the tab, picked up her expensive looking leather pocket book and walked out of the revolving door,
without a backward glance. Only the whiff of her perfume and the trailing puff of her smoke lingered for a while.
I sat in utmost silence and bewilderment for quite a bit.
I polished off the remaining Cabernet Sauvignon as my idling brain struggled to process the entire episode.
For some reason, I did not feel a heavy crash of disappointment.
Some odd sense of burdened release seemed to be my most paramount feeling.
I felt like a captive whose shackles had been released. Free to love freely,
the woman who has nurtured me all these years, without any sense of guilt or boundaries.
I realized what my biological mother was,
a mere vehicle that providence used to bring me here.
That a good moment of feeling sexy and conception,
Did not automatically make you a good mother.
Through the figment of my imagination, that I had built over the years,
I had accorded so much what if’s and possibilities to her.
I was happy that I met her.
Happy to have the what if’s, the how and the when answered,
All in one fell swoop.
I may not have slain all my demons,
But I left my doubts and shadowy companions,
back in that exclusive restaurant.
I went home to my mother, my mum.
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
I looked in the mirror,
Arrrrgh!
I frightened myself!
Who is that crazy looking lady?
Surely not I?
Her hair was sticking out at all angles,
Her eyes bleary, like she had spent the night on a witch hunt.
Is that a hair I see on my chin?
Oh my!
All I need is a hooky nose,
To complete the look.
Now, where is my wand?
So that I can do SHAZZAAM!
And in a POOF!
Cinderella, I am.
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha 🙂
The days in our lives are too short,
To live the precious hours on a slow lane of regret.
Most of us pray to live to a ripe old age,
but as most of us know,
It sometimes does not work out the way we plan it.
Life happens!
A brief analysis of your age in days,
Would make you realize that indeed,
We are all impoverished!
An Eighty year old has a total of 29,200 days on Earth
A Ninety year old has 32,850 days on Earth
A Lucky 100 year old person has 36,500 days on Earth
I chose to write in figures,
So that the length in writing,
Does not deceive your eyes,
Into believing, that you have all the time.
No! You don’t!
Now get up!
And make each day count,
No matter how small.
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
a cooking pot and twisted tales 