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The Daily Post

It’s a Cycle…

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Daily rituals

As therapeutic and as good as consistency can be, monotony can become extremely predictable and boring. I like a bit of spice in my life and I search for simple, cost effective ways to achieve a balance between stable and racy. However, that said, there are Four pillars of ritualistic acts that are constant in my daily life.

Prayer

Writing

Reading

Eating (not to be forgotten)

Every other aspect is slotted into a box around these Four. Call it upbringing, belief, force of habit etc., the first thing that comes to my mind once my eyes peek open, is to give thanks. It depends on how my spirit moves me. I could wake up with a particular song in my heart or prayer thought. I could wake up without much to bother God about, and I would just say good morning Lord. Another beautiful. Thank you. Then there are some mornings or even evenings that I have a pretty long chat with him, followed by scouring through my bible. Sometimes, he responds right away and other times he simply listens to my rants until I have run out of steam.

My second daily ritual is to write throughout the day. Spur of the moment notes or thoughts are quickly jotted as I go about my daily affair and much later in the evenings when all the hungry mouths have been fed and no one is looking at mummy with hungry eyes.

For more than 25 years at least, I have always gone to bed clutching a book. That is my own sleeping pill and my tuck myself in time, when I am satisfied that I have done the bit that can be done for that day. All leftovers will be carried over to the next day if feasible.

Of course I love the ritual of eating and this art of appreciating the fruitfulness of the land is a daily need that must be met to keep me well  nourished.

There is no point in searching far and wide to know what happens on a day that my cycle is rudely interrupted, I become a sour-faced grumpus. Each day, I try to perfect the fine-art of observing my rituals. It keeps me calm, more productive and less quarrelsome.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

P.S. Sometimes these prompts make me feel as if I am writing an autobiography 🙂

The Daily Post

Handwritten Smiles…

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Handwritten.”

love

If I say that I think through my fingers would that sound senseless? I hope that doesn’t make me an oddball because I am doubtful if I can change this pattern of putting my thoughts on paper every day. I love acquiring note pads and the loss of one feels as if I have lost a friend, because I must have propagated some of the pages with little parts of my grey matter.

I write everyday, before I transcribe on my laptop. Different colored pencils and pens fill a little pouch which I call my assistant, because the different colors that I use depends on what I am writing about. Silly concept right 🙂 Oh well! That works for me.

As a matter of fact, I was writing a thought that I am fermenting in my mind as a poem. It is not complete but I guess it will have to do for now, since you asked. So here goes:

I have come to know that LOVE is when you take away all the lovely, flowery packaging of romance and lustful passion that surrounds the person that you are with and you find out that you still care for them.

That when the door of happiness closes in our face, another door will open for us if we allow ourselves to take our glance away from longing for the one that got shut. Often times, when we are busy staring at the shut door, we fail to see the open window.

Love will surely come to those who still hope and have the courage to build trust again even though they have been disappointed in the past.

I hope you find the someone that will make you smile.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

The Daily Post

Shopping by Moonlight…

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In response to The Daily Post prompt Retrospectively funny: tell us about a situation that was not funny at all while it was happening, but that you now laugh about whenever you remember it.

Image credit: cliparthut.com
Image credit: cliparthut.com

I think I must have been watching too many thrillers and reading far too many detective stories when this incident happened. It was early evening, close to Christmas time in Houston, but because it was Winter season, darkness came a bit too early.

I had family visiting the following day and I decided to go out to buy some extra stuff that evening on a whim. I had finished shopping and I preferred to carry the nylons of items that I had purchased instead of a trolley since they were not too much.

I left for the car park, which was a bit too calm for my liking and just a few cars away from mine, as I was engrossed on the phone with my mum, these two bulky gentlemen – seemed to appear out of the blues in my imagination, just a few feet away, as if they were heading towards me.

As soon as one of them reached into his thick leather jacket for something, willy, nilly, in a twinkle of an eye, I flung my purchase at them and took off, huffing and puffing as I raced back towards the entrance. I think I must have frightened not just myself, but the men too.

When I heard the heavy sound of a car engine starting and not the sound of feet pounding after me, I paused and dared to look back only to see that the Dodge RAM truck which was parked next to my vehicle was reversing and pulling away. It was the bulky gentlemen.

I still didn’t trust my eyes and I stood afar, watching until they had driven off. Striding back hastily to my car – I found my goods neatly put back in the bags and kept on one side, only my tray of eggs had suffered from the aftermath of flinging them like weapon at the unsuspecting two, every other thing was intact.

I jumped into the car and rushed home – meanwhile, in my excitement, I had forgotten that I had my mum hanging on the line all through the episode. I equally gave the poor woman a fright, because she heard my frantic chant of ”Jesus” . Now and again, when I visualize the priceless look the on the faces of the two guys and imagine their thoughts – that I am one crazy black woman – I can’t help the peals of laughter, but then again it is better to be cautious than sorry.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

Humor - Bellyful of laughter · The Daily Post

A Soar and A Splat!….

jacquelineobyikocha28 Comments

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Mouth Drop.”

falling downI must implore you not to laugh, snicker or snort when you read this ;), even though I struggle to keep a straight face myself as I recall my brief experience in flying without wings. I promise you, it was never my intention to take R. Kelly’s – I believe I can fly  too seriously.

As was the case, it was not my mouth that dropped open, but the whole  body of me!

Several months ago, I made a decision to start jogging at twilight and purchased spanking new gym outfit to give myself a boost and a rush.

Feeling all geared to go, I set off for my first run and joined by my first son, I took off as swiftly as I could.

The light evening breeze was cool, my music was on shuffle and I was generally having a good time. As my sprint quickened, out of the blues, I stumbled over a cobble stone and I literally flew a few yards in the air and landed in the brush with a heavy thud.

For several minutes, I lay there winded and all I could feel was the taste of pain that rushed from my left shoulder right into my throat. It was a metallic taste.

My son who had shot off ahead of me like a whistle, looked back and when he didn’t see my robust shadow following him, he back tracked and helped me get back on my feet.

I hobbled home and nursed my pain along with my wounded pride. My crazy desire for twilight jogging nicely nipped in the bud.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

The Daily Post

My Very First Crush…

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First Crush.”

Who was your first childhood crush? What would you say to that person if you saw him/her again?

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My very first crush came in the figure of a poster. I adored him from thousands of miles away, through the small handkerchief sized screen of a black and white television.

He was Thomas Sankara;  Burkina Faso’s late revolutionary leader. His calendar post hung on the wall, where his imaginary words turned me into a renegade princess. Unfortunately, I was still too young when he died and I never got the chance to flutter my eyelashes at him. sankara 3

Then came the second crush, who lived in the neighborhood. He was not quite as handsome but fairly manageable too.

He never knew I had a teen crush on him and when I ran into him several years ago, not a missed heartbeat or flutter did my heart suffer. For some reason, I kept staring at the balding shiny patch of his head, since I stood several good inches taller, trying to figure out what it was that had kept my young heart crushing. I couldn’t remember.

We exchanged pleasantries and went our merry ways. Me and my brood of kids and him with his bulging briefcase to do what it was that he did.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

The Daily Post

Churn it out….

jacquelineobyikocha13 Comments

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Inside the Bubble.”

Bubble

I peer up at the doctor in his protective gears with anxious eyes, dreading the worst.

I can’t quite define the emotions in his eyes; the transparent plague mask seems to disassociate him from warmer expressions and he tut tutted yet again.

“Say aarrghh,” he requests. His vocals come out a bit wobbly through the thick surgical mask.

I oblige willingly. Sticking my tongue out as far as I can. Anything to get rid of the plaguing ailment will do.

A poke here, a prod there, several vials of blood and muted instructions to nurses who are equally garbed like they are all ready to take off on a jaunt to Mars; they all shake their heads.

“What?” I ask through hot, parched lips?

”Am I dying?” I brace myself for a heart-stopping, gut wrenching response.

”I am not ready to die now,” I start protesting to my audience who peered at me like a new specimen for study.

Then came the blissful words of the doctor in the mask.

“No ma’am .” “You are not dying, but you have a very contagious infection called bogusmogusoperansuswhatamacallit.” “This is a very viral blah, blah, and can be fatal if not well managed.” You will be fine in a month with the right amount of treatment, but I am sorry you will have to remain quarantined here in the hospital for the required month.”

I feel too elated to nag or to worry. I feel extreme gratitude to learn that it is just a passing virus. That I still have a chance to live.

“Can I have my writing materials?” I ask hesitantly. Willing him to say yes with the power of my mind

“Of course yes you can ma’am” he answers politely. I imagine that his lips move in a smile.

My gratitude is complete. A month of solitude. Time to churn out that book, my agile mind picks up its trail of thought for my novel.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

Creative Writing · Inspiration - Motivation

Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe…Make a list

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Catch a Tiger by the tail.
Catch a Tiger by the tail.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Decisions, Decisions.”

I love spontaneity, which I try to limit to my shopping,writing and other fluffy things of life. In such times, my guts have stood the test of time.

However, in contradiction, I don’t like guessing games when it gets to the crunch time of making a serious decision.

I sit down wherever I find myself, with my note pad and pencil (never too far from me) I run the pros and cons, think and rethink before making a decision.

If I don’t have my writing material handy, who knows, I might resort to reciting Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe on my fingers and thinking the decision to death.

Eeny: Decisions, decisions

Meeny: weigh Pros on fingers

Miny: weigh Cons on fingers

Moe: Catch the Tiger by the Tail (and hope it doesn’t bite me).

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

Creative Writing

A dash of IMmortality to eternity and beyond…

jacquelineobyikocha12 Comments

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Forever Young.”

An involuntary whimper of despair escaped her glistening, vivid red lips;
Pursed in a pout as she stared balefully at the woman in the mirror;
An inordinate amount of gray had sprouted on a temple formally adorned with jet black;
The thinning patch getting more difficult to disguise;

The fine crinkled lines around the eyes, told tales of years spent and gone;
Yet her dilated pupils shone in wisdom and merry delight;
She loved life;
A bit too much;

Age had not been in the equation;
Yet it knocked on the door;
Each day, unfailingly, it came visiting;

Stretching the pout, from one side to the other;
An attempt to soften the stern look inserted by faint grooves around her lips;
Her fingers shook as she dabbed on more cover;

The girl she was before, long gone, nowhere to be found;
But it was just yesterday;
She mused in her mind;
Yesterday, her mind reminisced;

My Sweet Sixteen;
I danced with careless abandon;
The Bubbling Belle of the Ball;
The years stretched ahead;
To eternity and beyond;

And time stood still;
When he finally kissed her lips;
Alas! Age struck! Taking them all along;

But she wanted to dance again;
Just once, Just once, at sixteen;
What if? She eyed the bottle in curiosity and disdain;
A little sip could straighten the gnarled hands and feet?

Would the rosiness of her cheeks replace the gaunt face in the mirror?
Would it adjust the feelings of her heart?
Or erase the memories of her mind?

A heart that has stretched in love for decades and more;
His shuffled steps broke through her thoughts;
“Your coat, my darling”, He said;
Lovingly and slowly he wrapped her in his warmth;

Their eyes clung to each other in the mirror;
The wrinkles, the grays, the warts and all;
But all they saw was the love and friendship that stood through it all;

Then she smiled;
Letting the elixir of love take her away;
As the promise of Immortality splashed and dripped down the drain.