The Party (Part One)

Timi is conspiring with his grandmother to drive me absolutely bonkers. We are 
so late. I keep looking at my watch deliberately but that doesn’t faze my mother. 
She probably developed that ability during her marriage to my father. Talk about 
a match made in hell. She has changed Timi’s outfit six times already. I’m still 
trying to figure out what was wrong with what I picked out for him. 

“Mum, he looks fine. Can we go now?” I say. 
“I won’t have my only grandson at that party looking like a street urchin” she 
replies. 
“You tried that outfit already. It looks good. They all look good.” 
“Allow me to dress him properly. Left to you, you’d probably have him wearing 
his jeans around his bum.” 
“Now why would I wear his pants on his ass?” 
Timi perks up at this and repeats “Ass.” 
My mum looks up at me “You really ought to watch your language around him. 
He may be three years old but his mind is a sponge”. 
“Sponge.” Timi reiterates. 

I throw myself down on the bed in exasperation. As far as she’s concerned, she 
is the fashionista of children’s wear. I remember how she used to dress me and 
my sibs in the latest in “Auntie gives me cake” fashion. I shudder at the memory. 
“You should buy him more dress shirts and loafers. T-shirts are so passé.” 
“Alright then, I’ll do that as soon as you give me some money.” 
That shuts her up quick. 

You have to know my mother to understand. She grew up with nothing, made it 
big and then lost it all. Getting money out of her is like squeezing blood from a 
stone. I guess you’d have to bash the rock on her head a couple of times to make 
an impact. 

“There. All done.” 
I take one look at my son and I know there’s no way I’m taking him out looking 
that way. He looks like a cross between Tom Sawyer and Baba Suwe. I look at 
my watch again. Almost two hours late. 
“Alright let’s go.” I say as i pack up my things. When my mum’s back is turned I 
quickly shove another outfit in my bag. No-one’s going to say my son has no 
baffs. No sir. 

After a quick farewell, Timi and I walk down to the bus-stop to get a cab. I take a 
quick look in my wallet to make sure I have enough money. Taking a bus would 
be cheaper but my vanity will not allow me to go to a party that way. Besides, 
who wants to get to a shindig smelling like armpits and meat? Not me. 

“Lanre, my cap. I want my cap.” Timi says as he pulls my sleeve. He calls me by 
my first name because everyone else does and no-one else calls me mummy. 
I’ve tried to stop him but not very hard. I think it’s cute. 
“You left it at home, sweetie.” 
“I want my cap.” Stamping his feet for emphasis. I hate it when he does this 
because then I have to be the bad guy. 
I hold his chin and look him dead in the eye. He tries to look away but I don’t let 
him. And then I give him The Eye. 
“Don’t. Test. Me.” 
I say this in my Mummy voice which sounds a lot like that 
creature in Lord of the Rings looking for his “precious”. His eyes water and I 
have to look away before I find my feet walking back to the house to get his hat. 
His tears have that effect on me. 

After much hand-waving and haggling, we secure a cab to the party. Timi 
ignores me, which is fine. I want a moment with only my thoughts. Inevitably, 
they go to places I’d rather forget about; Am I a good mother? How do I get better job? 
But the mother of them all, will I ever find… the One? 

I got pregnant with Timi for a guy I’d only been seeing for a few short months. 
We’d just been cleared for HIV and decided to celebrate. We figured since we 
were clean, no problem. Wrong. 
When I confirmed, my first thought was “$H!+”. I “knew” I’d have to have an 
abortion, after all the relationship was new and seriously, was he the One? I 
didn’t think so at the time. But then I heard the voice of God. Not like Charlton 
Hesston but just a tiny voice in my head. It said that if I had the abortion, I’d be 
fine and have more children but that God had special plans for this one. 
Unbelievable, right? It happened to me and I still have trouble getting my head 
around it. When I told my guy I was pregnant, he quite understood, saying the 
right things like how he’d stand by me no matter what I chose to do. 

When I told him my plans to keep the baby, he flipped. Needless to say, I haven’t 
seen him since that day. My family was no better in dealing. My mum kicked me 
out. My aunts and uncles called me up regularly to call me a fool amongst other 
things. My friends advised me to do the “smart” thing. Only my dad understood 
but what is one to expect from a pastor? 

I sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I’d had the ---

“Madam, which number?” The cab guy said, pulling me out a reverie going down 
a dangerous path. 
“Park in front of the red gate.” I look at Timi who, true to nature, has fallen 
asleep during the ride over. He is so beautiful. I wake him gently. He opens his 
eyes, looks at me and smiles. I could almost cry with joy and pride. How could I 
even imagine life without him? 

I give him a quick wardrobe change and that’s when I notice that he’s wearing 
two different socks. Crap. I pull his jeans low so the socks don’t show beneath 
the cuffs. I have done exactly what my mum said I would. He carries it well 
though. He looks like a mini-T.I. Too cute. 

The party is in full throttle and I make my way over to my friend who’s looking 
very harassed. Her make-up is already running nard she’s got sweat dripping 
from every pore. I remember instantly why most people hate throwing kiddy 
parties. She’s balancing three plates on a tray in her right hand and two piñatas 
in her left. She’s also managed to hang what looks like a hundred party hats in 
the crook of her arm which some kids are trying valiantly to rescue. 
I rush over to her just as she’s losing a grip on the tray. 

“Oh thank God, you’re here.” She’s almost crying. 
“It’s alright. Everything’s okay.” I say as I rescue the tray from her weakening 
grip. 
“They’re monsters! I want to wring every single one of their scrawny necks”. She 
has this glazed look in her eyes and I almost believe she would. 
“I should have listened to you”. 
“Yes. You should have,” I agree. 
“But Paddy didn’t want to shell out the money for- for… a planner”. 

Paddy is her husband. He works for a bank. He's also a stingy git. When the mass
 firing began he was a nervous wreck but now he's swaggering all over the place. 
Never really liked him but I couldn't tell my friend that.
She was madly in love. I should casually tell him I overheard some guys at the boat club talking
about another wave of firings. Hee hee. That should put some rut in his strut.

There he is. His laugh is always hard to miss. Like rusty nails grazing your spine.
But wait... Who is that with him. No. It can't be. Tony?

*The rest of the story coming up soon. What do you think so far?*

Popping My Cherry

After a few years of writing blogs for other people (clients), I’ve decided to start my own. Easier said than done. The first question that would ordinarily come to a smarter person would be what to blog about but we are talking about me here. I instead concerned myself with the template design, what font I would use, where I would source for images, blah, blah, blah. What I didn’t know and didn’t occur to me till much later was that I was stalling on actually writing anything. I’m still working on the aesthetics and I figure that will go on for some time to come. Then I remembered what a pastor told me, “When embarking on a new journey, the best way to do it is to just start”. Well, here I am. Starting.

So the question remains, what do I write about?

I figure the best (easiest) thing to write about would be something I know a lot about. Something I experience daily, something I have a special affinity for. I’m a single black woman, with a son, residing in the trigger of Africa – Nigeria. I’m a self-taught social media manager and jack of most trades (sounds more glamorous than it really is). So I’m gonna be writing about my life, my experiences, my thoughts on different issues/ trends/ etc. So if this is not your kettle of fish, I suggest you mosey on back to whatever website brought you here. That’s 25% of you gone. I must warn you my writing is going to be raw, no-holds-barred, without fear or favor so if your sensibilities are easily offended then this isn’t the blog for you. That’s another 15% gone. As the writer (and artistic director) of this blog, I may choose to add some ‘flair’ to some of my posts, make them funnier, make the bad guys badder or the fine boys finer. If you are the sort of person who goes round trashing other peoples’ posts, calling them ‘unreal’, you’d best get the hell away from my blog because I already hate you (and my ego bruises easily). That’s 10% off to destroy some other writer’s dream.

Which leaves me with 50%. If you fall into that 50%, then this blog may be for you. If 1 out of every 2 people who visit my blog likes my posts, then I believe that I’ve done a very good job. I’ve decided to name it DIARY OF A SINGLE BLACK MOTHER. No need for theatrics there. Simple and to the point. The Blogger ID is nubiandiaries. Also simple (of course I think Nubian is the sexiest way of saying black).

I guess that’s all you need know about ‘that’. By the way, I’m on the very good side of forty, have almost degrees in Adult Education and English language. I’m what some might call vertically challenged but what I like to think of as portable (‘petite’ makes me think of French midgets). I still live with my mum (shake your head all you want but if you’re a single gal in a city like Lagos, you want to save your money anyway you can. At least what little there might be). I’ve been unlucky in love a couple of times but I’m still hoping to meet the right one (this actually gets harder as you grow… wiser). But most importantly, I love my son with every fibre of my being. He can do no wrong (that is until he wakes up). I still find myself checking his arse to see if the sun is shining out of it.

I promise to keep my posts as truthful as possible (a girl’s still gotta have some secrets). In return, I would love it if you would share your thoughts on my posts by commenting below. Also feel free to share my posts to your social media pages like Facebook, Twitter, et al.

In fact, you can start commenting now.

(BTW, how many of you were expecting something else from the title? Those that said yes are part of MY 50%.)

Testing

Is this mic turned on?