Tag: childhood

A link to my neighbours/Community · Family · Humor - Bellyful of laughter · Life · Personal story · Quotes For You

Are you overlooking the Small Clay Pot?…

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Learning to cook started at a young age for me; not that I remember being asked 😉 it was just the way things were. African proverbs 4

From assisting mother in the kitchen in preparation of all sorts, to going over during the holidays to help grandma prepare her classic agidi jollof/wrapped corn meal and oil bean flakes which we would also help her sell at the local market; commercial trading was also learnt in the bargain.

Naturally, as a young child and a bookworm, often, I would get distracted or sneak into the restroom to read a quick page of my fave of the moment and the quick page turned into several; meanwhile my absorbed mind has forgotten that I was meant to be watching the pot of beans and ensure that it didn’t burn.

Needless to say, it was usually the aroma of burnt offering that alerted my nostrils to the disaster on fire and mothers voice raised to power two exclaiming away “Hia! this child will not kill me!”

The burnt level of the beans knew many degrees and the instruction to wash that burnt pot until it was gleaming enough to show the reflection of your teeth was never a small task. It kept you on the straight and narrow corner of the kitchen for some good days 🙂

Yet mothers patience never gave up on us. She continued teaching and we continued attempting to kill her, but thankfully never succeeded and turned out to be responsible adults today.

Let me leave you with this African proverb:

“When you overlook the small clay pot, it will boil over and put off the firewood.”

This can be translated in so many ways, but a quick example is: when you overlook a small bad habit, it becomes a character trait.

Once again Oba thank you for extending this invite. I am enjoying it.

To participate in the 3 quote challenge, I would like to invite:

Obscurasomnia

Oneta

Tony Burgess

Good day and blessings.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

The lion

Blogging · Family · Hope · Life

Multiple Dreams…

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Good evening. From BlogQTV, these are the headlines…yada, yada, blah, blah, blah…Believe

The attraction of young unjaded bright eyes to legendary newscasters beaming their lovely dentition through our black and white television stoked a childish dream and aspiration.

“What did it feel like to speak into that microphone and have others listen to the words that came forth?” I was enthralled. I made my ever loving younger brothers my audience with my fabricated microphone of an empty plastic bottle 🙂

Then again, so did so many other things mesmerize me even things that turned out not to be good for me.

In my head, I often became a renowned newscaster, artist, actor, dancer, singer, sportswoman, astronaut, detective (yes I fancied myself a George in famous five, a Nancy Drew and even Sherlock Holmes at some point in time; I wrote a detective story and called myself Sherlocka Homer 😉

It was a case of whatever caught the fancy of this impressionable young child which I think was an excellent exercise. “I wonder if my younger siblings think so?”

I was always the nurse who gave the injections and they were my patients ;-), or the cop and they remained the bad guys.

Then came crunch time of university and choosing a course. Theatre Arts was vehemently refused by my parents. Back then in Nigeria, artistes were hungry and viewed as a bunch of charlatans.

Communication Arts was also not highly favoured. There was a need to have a prestigious lawyer in the house, so I tried to become one.

To cut a long story short, lawyer I am not. I have evolved into so many things over time and have learnt as I went along, “that though sometimes, life wants to chose what it wants you to become, you have to take pliers and grip that which you truly want.’‘

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

In response to NaBloPoMo prompt – Tuesday, November 3

What did you think was the coolest job in the world when you were younger? Do you still feel that way now?

Hope · Life · The Daily Post · Writing

Friends of my heart…

jacquelineobyikocha20 Comments

Friends

Growing up in a small university community like I did, had lots of plus sides and that included having lots of childhood friends with whom I played and carried out our escapades until the ever present flow of life’s change caused us to drift apart.

I was lucky to have such childhood friends of my heart who occupy such special place in my memory bank and between these friends and large family, you had no need for an imaginary friend.

Thankfully, I am able to reconnect with a lot of them with the help of social media, while, unfortunately some of them have crossed over to the other side of the divide where the links of social media cannot traverse.

There are some of them I am yet to trace and a number of them come to my mind ever so often.

Dear Chinyelu Okonkwo,

Now and again I think about you and wonder if life is treating you well and where you are.

I haven’t seen you since we were ten and in my minds eye, you have stayed the same ten year old, precocious, vibrant friend of mine.

Naturally you would have aged like everyone else but for some reason, I can’t seem to visualize you beyond this age.

Whenever you come to my mind, I remember our child’s play of running round the school block of University Primary School, Nsukka, during break time and singing silly song’s.

I have searched now and again on social media, to see if I can find you but it hasn’t yet yielded any result.

Who knows maybe one day in this lifetime, if we still walk this side of the divide, we may yet reconnect.

Another childhood friend whom I wonder how she has fared with life is from Bangladesh and I had no idea that the name ‘Anu Misra’ was quite common until I attempted to trace her.

I found so many Anu’s, I have searched so many faces, but I couldn’t recognize any.

Maybe, this splendid exercise might yet yield some positive results. We never know these things.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

In response to The Daily Post prompt Imaginary Friend

Many of us had imaginary friends as young children. If your imaginary friend grew up alongside you, what would his/her/its life be like today? (Didn’t have one? write about a non-imaginary friend you haven’t seen since childhood.)

Family · Hope · Life · Love · Personal story · Writing

It was always enough…. a personal story

jacquelineobyikocha28 Comments

contentmentBack in my parents home, we always had what we needed and the most important thing was that they were enough.

My dad was no Adnan Khashoggi and I am not going to paint a picture of any silver spoon.

Our home was a respectable middle class Nigerian Lecturer’s home where the basic things were provided and on special occasions, such as birthdays a communal party was organized for the celebrant with other children within the neighbourhood.

In my family back in those days, we had no idea that we could ask for presents or the likes. We just did not have the mentality of such entitlement or expectation that exists today.

So, as a result, the presents you received on your birthday tended to be something more practical that you had need for and during Christmas your presents were based on what was currently in vogue for children: a doll, books, football, a mouth organ, an accordion, a flute etc.

We were contented. Like my mother always said, ”you don’t miss what you never had.”

I missed nothing because I had everything that mattered.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

In response to The Daily Post prompt Out of your reach

Was there a toy or thing you always wanted as a child, during the holidays or on your birthday, but never received? Tell us about it.

Family · Life · Love · Personal story · Poetry/Poems · Writing

Ude-Aku…The tale of the wrinkled hands

jacquelineobyikocha62 Comments
Grandma dancing on the occasion of my traditional/customary marriage.
Grandma dancing on the occasion of my traditional/customary marriage.

I held your frail wrinkled hands in mine,
They were much smaller!
Now! You were old!
The skin of your hands had waxed, waned and tautened over decades;
Toughened by ages of farming and weeding, from lifting innumerable hot clay pots from the burning firewood, from bathing babies; lots and lots of babies.

I caressed them lightly; noting the veins that stood out more prominently; noting the traditionally placed tattoos and the story behind the tattoos;
Beautiful age worn hands that had nourished,
Beautiful wrinkled bejeweled fingers that lightly applied ”Ude-Aku” on my scalp whilst shaping my unruly hair into a bouffant style.

Those fingers were my preferred hair stylist because, you did not pull it tight like Mama Nkechi used to do whilst making the periwinkle hair-do for me.
Beautiful hands that left my little bum smarting from a well-deserved smack after a misbehaviour.

I beheld your face with my eyes. Your beautiful dark skinned face;
I looked! Looking and looking at every lovely lined feature of your face.
Knowing that it might probably be the last time that my eyes would behold your skin.
Your eyes had seen the Civil war, your eyes had looked life in the face, it was a map of times past, etched with love and pain, with joy and laughter, with fear and worry, with seeing things that I can barely imagine…
Your lovely wrinkled face, etched with very fine lines and tiny spots that had stolen in and taken bold space,
Your crown of whitened hair held in a little bun
Everything had grown smaller!
Your skin had shrunk and your capacious bosom which used to cradle my hair, had bowed to the caprices of gravity
You had aged!
I saw it coming! I knew that it would happen!
But I wasn’t prepared!
The pain still cut me deep!
I wasn’t prepared to stop looking at your age-wizened face!
And when you left, you left with the name!
Grandma, nobody ever calls me Nnedim or Ngozika again!
They were your special bequests to me.
You left with your skin all shriveled by death
And you took the lovely smell of Okwuma and Ude-Aku!

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

Quick Glossary For Words in Native Igbo:

Nkechi:  A native Igbo name shortened from Nkechinyere which means “The one that God gave.”

Ngozikaego: A native Igbo name which means ”Blessings are far better than money” derivatives of the names are Ngozi, Ngozika, Kaego, Ego

Nnedim: meaning ”My husbands mother” this infers to the belief in reincarnation and grandma believed that I was her mother-in-law reincarnated..

Okwuma: Native ointment made from Shea Butter.

Ude-Aku: Local body cream made from oil extracted from roasted palm kernels.

In fulfillment of Writing 201 – Poetry Day 3: Skin. Prose Poem. Internal Rhyme.

Some of the hairstyles back then.
Some of the hairstyles back then.
Family · Inspiration - Motivation · Life · The Daily Post

A Step back into Childhood….

jacquelineobyikocha46 Comments

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Life’s a Candy Store.”

BookstoreWhat a delightful day this would be! I am six years old again and I get to spend it as I please and with whom I choose.

Well! Well! Whoever says that life doesn’t have it’s pleasant sweet spots and that the lines don’t fall in the right places is a big, fat lying Pinocchio! Just watch me 🙂

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning. Of course, I am still young enough to get excused from doing serious chores, apart from brushing my teeth properly, taking my shower and eating sumptuous helpings of mummy’s homemade pancakes with dripping drizzles of maple syrup, nicely done omelets (no vegetables please), sausages, baked beans and a nice warm cup of cocoa.

We all pile into my daddy’s lovely blue Renault Saloon car. It has seen a lot of good mileage and made lots of beautiful memories.

Off we go to Leventis super stores in Enugu; a forty-five minutes drive from our abode in Nsukka, through the old road and past the Milken hill.

Milken hill is a verdant wilderness and as I peer through the wound up windows of our beloved Renault with plate number ”ECH 480” winding, its way through the snaky, precarious, hilly road with its scary drop, my child eyes imagine the trumpeting Elephants, the roaring Lions and the curious monkeys that inhabit that wilderness.

The scary drop seems like a bottom less pit and one must negotiate it with care. Many cars have been known to meet a fatal stop on this part of the road.

We make it safely to Leventis. It is a store of a child’s dream and every book and toy that my mind can conjure is stocked here.

”Chinny, you and your siblings can go and select three items each for yourselves.” ”Two books and one toy each.” ”We have two hours to spend before we go to visit your cousins, daddy says to me.”

Daddy is such a wonderful man. He knows I love books and he stokes it rather nicely by buying lots of them for me 🙂

I make a beeline for the huge outlay of more books than I have ever seen.

Rows and rows of beautiful, vibrantly coloured story books fill my eyes. A browse and a selection of the two books that I want to go home with are made. I then settle down at the children’s corner where I quickly digest  another one whilst waiting for mummy to finish making her purchases.

I debate in my mind whether to exchange my toy option for a third book. I know that on a good day when we are not squabbling, my sister will allow me to play with her new doll and I want all the books in the book store to belong to me.

I negotiate very nicely with daddy and I end up with four books instead of two. I have diligently checked the prices on all the girly toys and they far outweigh the price of two extra books; somehow, I feel sensible and smart. I think daddy appreciates my consideration.carousel

Don’t be mistaken, I love toys like all children, but my love for books far outweighs my love for toys. Besides, I already saw my parents looking at Raleigh bicycles. I know that they would be purchasing one for each of us.

Our shopping is done! We make a quick stop at No 1. Chief Alex Ekwueme street, the home of my favorite cousins. They don’t need too much coaxing to join us for a picnic party at Polo park.

At the expansive Polo park grounds, we take turns on the rides, on the swings and slides. We play ”Swe” and ‘‘Uga” until hunger pangs kick in and it is time to tuck into the goodies that mummy has dutifully packed.

The picnic basket  bulges with all sorts of goodies – enough to feed an army.  Fizzy pops, cake, cookies, sandwiches, jollof rice with chicken, etc are generously marshaled out on paper plates by mum. picnic at the park

Daddy has a sweet tooth (I think the sweet tooth thing is genetic) and never fails to get those lovely ice lollies on cones for us for dessert.

Our palates are sated and our tummies nicely rounded from food.

Evening is fast approaching. A quick decision on whether to drive back home through the Milken hill or to spend the night at the cousins is made. Auntie Christie always graciously opens the door to her home.

She would always say “Jay-Jay, Alberta (shortened for my dad’s name: James Joseph and my mum’s name Alberta-Bianca), it is too late to go driving back to Nsukka o, you guys must stay over till tomorrow o.”

With delight we turn the house upside down with our horse-play until we were tuckered out.

They had a very big house, with lots of room.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

P.S. This article is based on ”my real life story” as recalled from my minds eye as a child.

Quick Glossary

Milken Hill: These hills are found at Ngwo in Enugu North LGA, they are 100 meter above sea level, offering beautiful standpoint for a panoramic view of Enugu metropolis, especially at dawn and dusk. The hill was named after one of the earliest colonial administrator in Enugu. The first road into Enugu city winds through the foot of the hill bounded by a deep gully. Underneath the hills are relics of coal mines and its beautiful tunnels. Beneath the Milken hills is the Iva valley. The hills are good for mountaineering. However, drivers are advised to drive slowly with caution through the meandering roads.

Enugu – One of the State’s in the Eastern part of Nigeria.

Nsukka – A town and Local Government Area in South-East Nigeria in Enugu State

Chief Alex Ekwueme: Former Vice President Alex Ekwueme is one of Nigeria’s most respected statesmen alive today.

Swe – I think this is what is called hopscotch.

Uga – synchronized clapping rhythm of hands followed with feet competition to outwit the other.

Jollof Rice – A popular meal eaten in most West African homes, a one-pot meal made with fried tomato and pepper stew, rice, meat and spices

Fiction · Short story · Weave that Dream

The other one…

jacquelineobyikocha10 Comments

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