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Sunday, 16 October 2016

SO I MET A GUY

I met a guy and for a moment we connected; we looked way beyond tongues and tribes and we talked and laughed about every little problem we were facing.
I met a guy and for a moment the whole world seemed ok; it was strange our meeting but I feel it was for a significant reason.
I met a guy when I wasn't ready to meet any guy and I opened up to him about secrets none other had heard and he did so too.
I met a guy and for a moment I forgot I had a guy; finding pearls in strange places, looking amongst garbage for a clean white shirt to put on.

Yes I met a guy; I don't know what tomorrow holds but I'm definitely gonna ride today's waves to it's peak๐Ÿ˜‰๐Ÿ˜‰

OCTOBER 16TH

So many times I have wondered what gain is there in writing; so many times I have pondered do my words mean anything to anyone?
So I stopped writing; I decided "baby girl take a little break" no one will notice..
But boy was I wrong; people did notice๐Ÿ˜Š๐Ÿ˜Š
People did ask; saying  " Nancy what is up with your blog?" "Nancy I miss your stories"
So here I am penning down something once more
I hope this is as much fun for you as it is for me.
I hope someone finds a smile on these words, and to all writers out there; never give up one day sooner than later you will reap the fruits


Friday, 29 July 2016

IN GIVING WE FIND TRUE HAPPINESS

I just want to quickly address an issue that's making rounds; the issue of #saveMayowa.
I was really happy when I found out that the money needed by the #saveMayowa campaign has been provided in such a short space by kind Nigerians despite the current economic situation in our beloved country, This goes to show that Nigerians are really kindhearted and a giving people who do not deserve the current state of lack we are currently experiencing.
So it was with a heavy heart that I recieved the news that #SaveMayowa was a scam; the purpose of this article is not to throw this issue into dispute as it lies solely on the hand of the authorities to clear the air in this, the purpose of this article is that of

reassurance and to enjoin my fellow Nigerians who were truely disheartened by the turn of events to not be, as a friend rightly told me today; there's great reward in giving and do not think for a second that you should stop because of this...
For Givers never and will never lack!!

My heart goes out to Miss Ahmed Mayowa and to others suffering similar fates, have comfort in God's word.

Thursday, 28 July 2016

But a dream

I dream of an era with no corruption

An era where the common man can rule the vast populace with no interference from  the 'almighty  godfathers' 

An era where justice is not one sided

And social  amenities have no preference. 


I dream of  an era with a three strata populace 

Of a time where men believe in their government 

A time where  the  government  is indeed for the people  and by the people 

An era where our votes count. 


I dream of an where our leaders are not in quandary 

A time where we have leaders and not looters

An era without political  decadence 

An era without despondence. 


I dream of an era where each candidates manifestos are not filled with lies and falsehood 

Where each candidate is without questionable character. 


My dream is of an era far before my childhood 

An era where the dollar was matched by the naira

An era when our leaders fought  for a just cause 

Those where the years of yore 

The years  before  our economy's fall. 


I still dream of  such an era

But I  wake up to this era

And then I wonder 

Is all I have dreamt of a just a dream? 

A pinch of reality that comes swiftly 

Alas it is but a dream.

Friday, 22 July 2016

Musings Of A Youth.

Almost at that age, at that age where you start to wonder where the time went.
As I laugh with family and chill with friends ,all I can seem to do is think; what comes next?

I have read several books and heard various motivational speakers say that the space between 20 and 30 is pretty short, so one has to utilize her 20s .
Several business ideas and paths have come across my mind;the problem lies in which to take.
Career lady? Entrepreneur? Housewife? Full-time Mom? These are a few of my choices, which do I give the number 1 slot?
I just recieved a call, yet another friend inviting me out for a party when all I really want is answers.
If you are young and variants of these issues have come across your mind,this message is for you; YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
if you have been through something similar; drop an advice.

Wednesday, 18 May 2016

A PLACE TO CALL HOME- PART 2

We weren't always rich, I still recall the days when daddy was doing his M.sc, just a laboratory analyst with a private laboratory back then.
Mummy on her on part was a stay at home mum (full time).
I remember coming back from school with friends, walking all the way from the school to the house which was about 20minutes away while we joked around and bought ice cream with the 50naira given to us as transportation; oh those where the good days!!
I remember getting home and finding the house saturated with the delicious smell of mummy's cooking and how we gathered round our little t.v. in the evening to eat and share stories before heading to bed.
Back then ours was a small home, just two rooms; one was our parlour while the other was our parent's room. I and my brothers slept in the parlour after moving our cushions and fitting in beds.
I remember how daddy loved mummy and how this love spread throughout the home. How we all went to Sunday school together as early as

7.ooam. we didn't have much but we had happiness; in retrospect I think it should have been enough.

How did it all go wrong?


For part3, write a comment

Tuesday, 17 May 2016

A PLACE TO CALL HOME-part1

I have a home or so people think; it is a big 2-storey building with about 10rooms,11 toilets and bathrooms, a kitchen and a balcony . There's a dog house where my Rottweiler(Randy)resides. It's gates are a majestic black with flowery patterns made of Gold; yes i had a house, it was truely fitting of my daddy's position as DG of NAFDAC and mother's position as principal of a well known british secondary school, the kind of school reserved for the elite of them all.
We are four children in number; a girl(me) and three boys. I

happen to be the last of the spawn.
The truth is that ours was a silver-spooned house. Yes! It was a house, no more no less. It was home to no one; nothing grew here except it was negative.
Nobody here was happy
Love avoided this place and sorrow was all we knew.
What caused it all?
Where did we go wrong?

For part2- please write down a comment.
Thanks

Tuesday, 29 September 2015

By Unknown

Two important management lessons I learnt from a 500 Naira note.

1. It happened some time ago but . I was in an audience listening to a motivational speaker. The speaker got out his wallet & pulled out a 500 Naira note. Holding it up, he asked, "Who wants this 500 naira note?"
Lots of hands went up. Including mine. A slow chorus began to build as people began to shout "Me!" "Me!" I began to wonder who the lucky one would be who the speaker would choose. And I also secretly wondered (and I am sure others did too ) why he would simply give away 500 naira. Even as the shouts of "I want it" grew louder, I noticed a young woman running down the aisle. She ran up onto the stage, went up to the speaker, and grabbed the five 500 naira note from his hand. "Well done, young lady," said the speaker into the microphone. The speaker simply say "Most of us just sit and wait for good things to happen. That's of no use. You've got to make things happen. Make a move" 'Simply thinking about doing something is of no use and not gud enough'. Our lives are like that. We all see opportunities around us. We all want the good things. But the problem is we don't take action. We all want the 500 naira notes on offer. But we don't make the move. We look at it longingly. Get up, and do something about it. Don't worry about what other people might think.
Take action....

THE BRIDE(1)-BY ANTHONY MADUKWE

We were sitting at the dingy dining table about to eat. Everyone had his head bowed in the prayer before meal which father recited with anger-like vigour such that one began to visualize death eaters swirling all around our food. Mother was corroborating with amen’s like a backup singer, but the rest of us just sat in gloomy silence trying our best to keep our eyes very tightly shut. I was sure we would hardly enjoy our dinner if father was to catch me or any of my brothers with our eyes open when he was praying. It assured almost certain death, or pain that resembled it…after the prayer which seemed to have lasted for 2 straight hours, father opened his eyes, his bushy eyebrows lifting with such slow delicacy one would think he was trying not to distort the sanctity of the hefty prayer he had just delivered. Of course no one opened his eyes before father; you had to be sure he had done so first before you could follow suit. He placed his large hairy hands on the table and gave the very short nod which signaled permission for the rest of us to begin eating. Mother stood up and throwing her nylon veil over her left shoulder began scooping the potato mash into our china plates. I raised my eyes to stare at Hakim who was sitting across from me on the other side of our large dining table. The I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass look he gave me told me he had, like me, been sleeping or mind-wandering all the while father was praying. I gave him a slight smile only he could see. He gave me his signature snicker. 
In the midst of the gloominess which seemed to coat the walls of our house, my brother Hakim and I had found a way to excite ourselves, to transport our beings to a world that existed above the walls our parents had so discreetly erected to keep us in check. We pretended when they were there, became the perfectly tailored kids who worshipped Allah, greeted everyone around and rejected unauthorized gifts from strangers. But at other times, we were like every other kid on the block. We knew Beyonce, we listened to her music almost every day on the little iPod Hakim had bought with the money he made when he sold one of Father’s abandoned briefcases which he had dumped in the garage. He had told me about his plan to steal one of father’s old cases. Although I knew father would literally kill us if he ever found out about the theft, but I had completely supported him. There was something terribly satisfying about being disobedient; it meant some kind of freedom.
I pick at my food as father’s loud munching bounces off the walls of the dining room. Even though potato mash is one of my favourite meals, my mind is dwelt strongly on the nuts and kunu which Hakim had hid under my bed and which we would return to much later in the night when snoring sounds mixed with the cries of crickets. My other brothers, three of them,: Abdul, Shehu and Dino, are lined up side by side along my side of the table. They are all eating with some speed but trying hard not to make a sound from their plates and spoons. I was sure the tension on that table could be slit nicely through with a bread knife if someone felt like it.
All of a sudden, father’s deep baritone booms over our food, startling me
‘Hazizat!’
I take a while to answer, drawing a scowl from my father
‘Father’ I said, dropping my spoon to focus on the heavily bearded face staring at me.
‘Did I tell you…my friend Alhaji Dimka is coming tomorrow to see you’
I swallowed hard….
To see me?, I thought. I wanted to ask why….but I knew why. I’d known why for weeks now. It’d been almost the only thought on my mind 
I turn to stare at Hakim as I slowly reply
‘Okay…father’

Thursday, 13 August 2015

Amazing Reunion

African American Rosalia Durante, 98, (left) served in Lagos, Nigeria in the 1960s and was the sixth grade teacher of Dr. Yele Aluko (right), in 1963. Decades later, back in Charlotte, USA, she recognized his name in the newspaper and brought him mementos of her time in Nigeria. Amazing story. Read after the cut...

From The Charlotte Observer

Because of his name and accent, it’s not unusual for Dr. Yele Aluko’s patients to ask where he’s from. But in the early 1990s, when he got the question from this new patient – a retired Charlotte principal and Johnson C. Smith University professor – Aluko asked one of his own: Where do you think?


Spencer Durante guessed correctly that his new heart specialist was from Nigeria, in west Africa. This rarely happened. In fact, when Aluko first came to Charlotte in 1989, one area hospital administrator suggested he change his name from Yele – pronounced yeh-lay – to Yale, so it would be easier to say.


As Aluko chatted with Durante and his wife, Rosalia, he learned they had lived in Nigeria from 1962 to 1966, when Spencer Durante was working on a U.S. project to build a college that would train Nigerians to be secondary school teachers.


Rosalia Durante said she had taught primary school in Nigeria. And she remembered having a student named Yele. Really? Aluko thought. And he asked the name of the school. When she said Corona International School in Lagos, his jaw dropped.


Aluko, who was born in Lagos in 1954, had gone to that school in the mid-1960s. What a coincidence.


The Durantes had seen Aluko’s name in The Charlotte Observer and made an appointment, both to confirm he was the boy at the Corona School and because Spencer Durante needed a heart specialist. They continued seeing Aluko for more than a decade, but the conversations focused on medical issues.

Class Picture
Spencer Durante died in 2003, at 86. Rosalia Durante remained one of Aluko’s patients, coming to his office once a year for an evaluation. At one of her visits, she brought Aluko a surprise. She had been digging through papers after her husband’s death.

She’d found an 8-by-10 copy of a black-and-white picture of her first class at Corona, for the school year 1963-64. That’s her, at 47, standing in the middle of 23 children – girls and boys, black and white, Nigerian, Asian and British, mostly dressed in white.

She asked Aluko if he saw anyone familiar.

Indeed, Aluko saw his sixth-grade self, legs crossed, sitting on the grass in the front row. He’s smiling at the camera, resting his elbow on his knee and his cheek on his fist.

“Oh my God, that is me,” Aluko thought. “How could this be?”

By what twist of fate did this Nigerian boy in Mrs. Durante’s class end up, half a world away and more than three decades later, becoming the heart specialist who cares for his former teacher and her husband in Charlotte, North Carolina?

Settling in Charlotte

The picture had been taken outside Corona, a private British-owned school that attracted children who could qualify academically and afford the tuition. Some were children of foreign diplomats. Aluko’s father was a civil engineer; his mother had been an English teacher.

Aluko remembered having American, Nigerian and British teachers at Corona. He got a good education, good enough to get him into Kings College boarding school and then medical school at the University of Ibadan in Nigeria. He came to the United States for medical residency at Columbia University in New York, where he met his future wife, Shirley Houston, also a doctor.

In 1989, they chose to settle in Charlotte. Aluko said he started a solo cardiology practice after he couldn’t find an existing group that would hire someone with his foreign education. His practice grew into the city’s second-largest group of heart specialists, Mid Carolina Cardiology, now Novant Health Heart and Vascular Institute.He often was quoted in the Observer, about new heart procedures, efforts to reduce health disparities or the community of Nigerian doctors in the Charlotte area.
As she got to know Aluko, Rosalia Durante continued searching through her scrapbooks. They bulged with keepsakes from Africa – maps of Nigeria, newspaper and magazine articles, pictures of her students and copies of their handwritten notes.

“I keep stuff,” said Durante, whose home is decorated with African art, including a carved ivory elephant tusk and a painting by a Nigerian artist.

She remembers her first day at Corona School: “When I first saw all the boys in that class, I thought, ‘Oh, I’m gonna have a terrible time.’” She had three “rambunctious” sons of her own. But these boys, from several countries, sat at attention at their desks, called her “Madame,” and raised their hands and stood before speaking.

“They didn’t have many books, but their books were well-used,” Rosalia Durante recalled. “…I enjoyed hearing how the languages criss-crossed. … And they had to listen to a Southern dialect from North Carolina.”

Read more here: http://www.charlotteobserver.com/living/health-family/article30416385.html#storylink=cpy

My name is Yele’

Nigerian names were distinctive and stuck in her mind, Rosalia Durante said. It helped that she had asked her students to print their names in large letters on construction paper. For the first week, they held up their posters and announced themselves so she could learn to spell and pronounce their names correctly.
“My name is Yele Aluko,” she recalled him saying. He had bright, eager eyes and a “zest for knowledge. … He was inquisitive. You didn’t have to pull things out of him,” she said.
In 2011, Rosalia Durante read in the newspaper that Aluko was getting a lifetime achievement award from the Charlotte Post Foundation. She mentioned it to her granddaughter, who arranged for them to attend. During the ceremony, Aluko was surprised when organizers announced that his primary school teacher was in the audience.
By then in her 90s, Rosalia Durante stood at her table and waved. Aluko walked over and gave her a hug. She couldn’t hear well, but she had a keen memory of that year when he was beginning to find his path in the world. He vowed they would become more than just doctor and patient. They would be friends. 

‘With all my love’

He called her occasionally, and this year, he arranged a visit to her home off Beatties Ford Road. Aluko arrived with a bouquet of flowers. Rosalia Durante pulled a note on white paper from her scrapbook.
It read: “To the teacher I will not forget. And to the teacher who has helped me with my lessons.” 
Aluko recognized the tiny but clear and legible script – and thought how much better it was than his handwriting today.
He did not remember writing this note at the end of sixth grade to thank his American teacher. But she had saved it all these years. It had meant that much to her. 
It was signed: “With all my love. From Yele.”

Source: The Charlotte Observer