a cooking pot and twisted tales
Thoughts and Tales…A Lifestyle Blog with a Zing.
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
The beautiful, haunting chords of music floated into the night sky. They gripped my heartstrings with their mesmeric and tranquil melody.
This has become my new opium of choice. I went to sleep and woke up with the tunes on constant replay in my head. My sleep was sound and my dreams were blissful. I had taken to humming the tune unconsciously even as I clattered away rapidly on my word processor at work. I was having a love affair.
I took to sitting on the bench under the Maple tree by the Hudson river walk path, right beneath the line of sight of his apartment window, where I permitted the poignant tale by music to soak into my dry, love parched heart. Even my pooch’s ears always twitched in appreciation.
The dips and high notes told a story of strength, of sadness, enduring love and passion.
I didn’t know who the pianist was, but for several weeks, Bella and I would take our walk down to the bay-side just to listen to the love notes of his talented fingers; his music a balm to my bruised soul.
It happened to me by chance. Falling in love with an unseen stranger.
I had grown bored of my usual walk route, my restless spirit decided to try the less trodden river path.
The depth of feelings which emanated from the music that floated down sounded like a version of Marvin Gaye and Barry White blues rolled into one. It was smoky, dreamy, deep and satisfying. I was hooked. Bella yipped softly along to this pure sound of music, her little tail stuck in the air. We were both lovestruck as silent unbidden tears trickled down my cheeks in throes of undistinguished emotions.
Walking down that path became a ritual. A daily fix like an addict, to fingers that coaxed the piano into giving so much and a deep, rich and sexy voice that caused my stomach muscles to tighten. My yearning to see the face behind these beautiful ministrations grew immensely.
I painted a picture of this elusive enigma and my mind willed him to take a look out of his window.
The window directly overlooked the river – with its constant stream of ferries, yachts, gliders and float planes. I was sure that the view would be awesome.
I felt as if the pianist had cast a spell on me; and that I would awaken from my slumber, thoroughly ravished and looking up into the compelling eyes of my lover. I knew that it was just a matter of time.
Our eyes had finally met, held and connected with a sizzle.
That evening, the air smelled like rain, yet I could not resist the siren call of my pianist.
I knew that he would be playing by now, and would be waiting for his one woman and dog audience. Tonight would be different I felt. So, I dressed in my soft cashmere pink sweater, figure enhancing stretch pants, hair packed in a chignon with a few tendrils left out to create a softer look, a dash of shimmery lip gloss and mascara – no saggy old sweatpants and rumpled tee-shirt; no, not tonight.
His apartment block was a flurry of activity. The flashers of an EMS van and a police car lit up the surroundings. Some people were gathered beside the sidewalk observing the goings-on and discussing in hushed tones as a gurney was loaded into the ambulance.
The unidentified victim was covered from head to toe in a white sheet. My ears strained above the din, to hear the sound of music, but the night was still; it was filled with all other sounds except that thrumming that I had grown to love.
I walked across the pavement, studying the faces as I approached, but none possessed the dark piercing eyes which had stared into mine three nights ago.
What happened? I asked one of the ladies out of curiosity. She turned to look at me with a face that looked pinched and eyes filled with despair.
A young man killed himself, she said. I don’t know him very well, but we have shared the lift occasionally and he was always very polite. It’s not so long ago that he moved in here, she continued.
A young man? I repeated. Which apartment? I asked in quiet fear.
502. She replied – pointing up to that window that I had gazed at intensely for the past few weeks.
I stayed up at night to listen to him play. His music touched me, she said. Sometimes, he played till the early hours of the morning. I wonder what was wrong? Why did he not seek help? She asked rhetorically.
He seemed like a beautiful soul. What a waste of human life! She intoned.They said he took poison and called 911.
A buzz was rushing in my head and her voice voiced wobbly in my ears as if it came from afar through a bull horn.
My heart was screaming its pain into my head. This was not how I envisaged it to end. My love affair had been nipped in the bud before its first blossom.
Tonight, I had felt sure that at last, he would invite me into his warm apartment for a cup of hot chocolate. He would play, I would listen and we would get to know each other.
I mumbled incomprehensibly to the lady; looked up at the apartment window for several minutes and with heavy laden feet, I walked into the night.
The wind had picked up, lifting dead, fallen leaves into the air.
Through the whistling of the swaying pines, I could hear his melody carrying through the night, through my heart and buried in my soul.
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
Certainly, I know that I am not perfect,
And that is perfectly alright.
Neither are you, or you and you!
Human flaws are characteristics we all share in common.
Some flaws are deeply entrenched,
Like the mandatory make up stripes on a zebra,
While some flaws are momentarily switched on,
As changeable as a flash bulb.
Some give it a posh title – eccentric, uniqueness, schizophrenic, deficient, myopic …and so on,
Or the simpler names – faults, shortcomings, intolerance, and so on. …
I call it exposing your humanity,
You being who you are.
In each of us, exists a beauty and a beast,
Like a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,
It all depends on which side of your humanity you choose to expose.
In each of us exists a redeeming quality,
As minutiae as it may be.
Consider the good qualities of a man,
Weighed against his faulty sides,
And judge his character based on that which outweighs the other.
Let us bear with each other,
For the fault lies in our differences,
And none of us is above such criticism.
Don’t spend too much time dwelling on those flaws,
Life is too short to waste on things that cannot change,
But by all means, change the flashbulbs as often as you can,
For better illumination on the path of your journey,
Your final destination will be worth the effort.
© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
With all the troublesome things jumping and nipping at your heels and begging for attention,
When was the last time you unveiled your inner mind to the splendor of nature that surrounds you wherever you are?
Achieving such feat of inner peace may seem far fetched with the constant deluge of horrendous happenings occurring at such rapid pace.
Its almost impossible to keep up and it seems to have our heads spinning in an unending tizzy.
Today has been one of those days. Between the constant alert of anticipated flash flood in neighboring counties and watching the mangled bits and pieces of the derailed Amtrak train; the faces of loss, pain and grief; I had to pause to ask myself..
If this were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am doing now?
What matters most in my life?
Am I holding on to somethings that I should let go of right now?
What am I doing about those things that matter most in my life?
Thus continued the nagging questions in my mind, with no immediate answers at hand.
I mute the television, I take a peek out of the window, I lace up my dirty sneakers and I walk to my favorite park.
The weather is mild and airy. The Earth still wet from the sprinkles of rain shower, which clung to plant leaves and flower petals like a lover reluctant to let go.
Taking those springy steps and inhaling deeply of the fresh earthy smell which is given off by the rain, I try to reconnect with the inner me. I think its a time just to be.
The park maintenance staff are quite engaged, replanting, mowing the grass, pruning and trimming the overgrown shrubbery.
The beautiful arrays of blooming flowers are indeed a good sight to cheer up a dampened spirit.
The fragrant mixed blend of fresh cut shrubs, of flowers and turned wet soil assailed my nostrils in a very pleasant manner.
I chat randomly with one of the workers, asking some questions about the plants. He was very willing to part with his knowledge at a little cost of a simple hello.
I decided there and then to try my hands at gardening. Who knows? I might turn out to have green fingers. Besides, I hear that there is something refreshing about nurturing a plant and seeing it grow.
I see the cautious old lady and her little dog. She offered a smile as we cross each other on the second turn across the park.
I take note of the much older gentleman who slowly sprints past me; I must be as slow as a slug,
I watch the squirrels darting back and forth in careless abandon,
I observe firsthand a bird fighting a poor squiggly earthworm to the finish,
I listen briefly as I pass a young mother pushing her little ones in a double buggy, she was humming a tune,
A sliver of sun breaks through the clouds, as I make my way back to the house,
Its a good day, I said to myself.
I am just happy to be.
If the tree could speak, what would it whisper, I ask?
Would it utter sweet words of comfort to the birds that nest’s in the shadows of its branches?
Would it chuckle at the antics of little furry friends who keep it company, scurrying and swinging from one limb to other?
Would it weep in utter despair at the reapers who harvest from its bounty of logs leaving no spares?
Will it gnash its gnarly vines and branches in utmost arrogance at those who strips it bare of its bark, exposing her to the
frigid elements or furnaces of hot rod melting degrees?
Would it look down in fondness on the young child swaying in a handcrafted swing tied to its boughs?
Will it welcome a tree house with the young boy and his friends who have found a resting place on its branches;
Listening in to their boyish dreams, adventures and antics, whilst swaying in agreement or caution?
Would it be benevolent to nimble ones, who brace its sturdy gait in search of succulent fresh produce?
Would it willingly offer its shady tops to the worn out laborer?
Or the secret lovers who meet under its shadows for a little tête-à-tête?
If a tree could speak…….
Tell me my friend, what do you hear?
Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha
a cooking pot and twisted tales 