Twice Dead: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Twice Dead

1832

Ede, Osun State,  Nigeria

On this bright and sunny day— the day of my daughter’s wedding— we dance. Yet, the dead watch us. This morning, I had awakened to the complaints of bleating goats and to the clumps of cattle hoofs. Out in the soft morning light they stood, a sea of livestock. More gifts from Alao. A dowry fit for three queens. In the corner of my hut sits rolls of fabric cascading over each other, the prints embossed with delicate gold dust from markets across the Northern desert. But also in the wake of the morning, the dead whisper dark secrets that make my skin tingle. The tendrils of fear slither up my back like a panicked gecko, for on the outskirts of Ede, along the narrow village path, lays the body. Already, the dust winds from the desert settles over him, the dew of the dawn wears him a damp coat and the birds of the air find in him their meal of the morning. Yet today, we dance.

Something nudges me in my ribs. I hear the sounds of the talking drums. They are distant, like I am beneath the waters of the river— their voices, muffled, yet speaking. I feel the nudge again. The drum speaks. Another nudge. I am inconvenienced out of my reverie. It’s my friend, Aduke, sticking her elbow in my side. Her dark face is beaded with sweat, her teeth bare, and from her mouth shrills the songs of the friends of the Iya Iyawo*. She dances like a young girl of eighteen rain seasons, flirts with the drummers with the sway of her hips and winking eyes. She nudges me once more, and yells into my ear, “It is abominable to dance harder than the mother of the bride.” Her sharp eyes squint. Behind her is Feyike, Miliki, Remi, Dara, Riyike, Fali, Omodun and their sisters. My friends. My well-wishers.“Ore mi, it is your day!” Aduke yells. Her eyes pause with knowing. I feel the cold wash of fear once more. She throws her hip out, her foot follows. The drummers follow the cadence of her rhythm.

Today, we dance to the sorrow of my child as the talking drums echo in the town square.

Now I hear them, clear and crisp—speaking blessings and goodwill over my precious child and her husband as they dance to the beat.

Will she be happy? No, she will not be.

Was this a mistake? Yes, it was. But every mistake—as all unhappiness— is lightened by the distraction of comfort. A new fabric here, some corals and glass beads there, a full belly at night, a barrel full of palm wine and the giggles of an infant will dull the aches of Alao’s blows. I watch my daughter’s tired frame twist and sway to the beat, surrounded by her friends— young ladies with youthful thighs and narrow hips. She had never been much of a dancer. But today, her heart is absent and her dancing is terrible. Does she weep beneath that veil? Yes, but it will be dried by a silk cloth from the markets of Arabah.

It was dawn before the pigments and healing herbs dried over her wound. The women stayed up all night mending the gashes of Alao’s wrath on my baby’s cheek. She should have known better than to run off with the musician. By the time Alao found them on the outskirts of town, the gods could not restrain him. By now, the birds would have begun their feast on the bald-headed singer, digging their claws into his dark flesh. I shivered thinking of it. But whoever heard of the daughter of Lasisi Olamuwonre Omo Baba Ire, whose ancestor was the great hunter, Timi Agbale, running off with a court jester, a performer—without a dowry. While the fool waited on the side of the narrow village path, we did it swiftly—Aduke and I. He knew not what hit him, at the swat of a bat’s wing, the heavy mill stone hit him from the branches above. His lover—my daughter met us there, standing over the imposter, his head bashed in. The blood soaked into the loose-grain sand that formed the village path. She fell on his lifeless body and cried, and there, Alao met us. He had me to thank. He did, lying face down on the ground in a humble prostrate. I blessed him and he rose to his feet. Still, she wept over the dead singer. Alao breathed a deep sigh of relief, the folds on the back of his neck running over each other like mounds of amala piled high, he carefully made his way to her. Bone crunched as his fist knocked her off the dead man. His leathered foot kicked her face. My eye twitched. My foot moved of its own accord. Aduke held me back.“The dowry has been paid”, She reminded me in a whisper. “Today, we will weep”, She added, as Alao tore the clothes off my child. Her screams rended something deep in my chest, “But tomorrow we will dance.” She was right.

Today, we danced. She is a married woman now. The dowry has indeed been paid. A dowry of three brides, no—three queens, for Ajoke mi. Goats. Cows—at least one for every day of the week until the next two full moons, sacks of cassava, palm kernels. The yams were piled high, the barrels of palm oil would last us till their first child was walking, and the mounds of kola nuts made her father lose his breath, the cascade of beautiful fabrics made me lose mine. It was time for her to go. She kneels and the crowd parts. I trace my steps to her with unsure feet. She swims in my gaze, the tears warm against my cheek. Mothers look on, gazing with envy as I take these measured steps.

I finally stand before her, and lift the veil from her eyes. The girl before me isn’t my precious daughter. Her eyes are swollen, the skin above her left brow and cheek dark and stretched raw by pigments and healing herbs, her lips are twice the size of a crinkled pepper, twice as red.

Indeed, my daughter is dead. Her corpse lies beside that of the singer on the narrow village path.

As I bless her as a new wife, she weeps. It is a blessing she takes to her new death— into her new home—a cage, a coffin— embellished with fresh flowers and sprinkles of new spice, laced with the silks of Arabah, beads and corals, goads of palm wine and all comfort. She thanks me. The crowds close in on the space between us. My girl is gone. Her friends sing after her. My friends rejoice. Yes, the dead watch us closely as we dance, but the one who dances among her friends—whose dowry makes queens jealous— is the one who is twice dead.

The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Lafia’s Dream: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Life was black and white before Simbi—life or death. She had found me underneath a rusty, grey-orange  tin roof, which sat discarded outside a welder’s shop in a settlement in Ibadan, which I would come to know as Beere. The rain had thinned out into a drizzle and for once, the usually busy market street gave off a strange quiteness. A peace. Or maybe I was fading out, slowly dying from starvation. A face peeked under the tin sheet. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. A wide face which ended in a pointy chin, curious eyes, her hair was woven away from her face in tidy, straight plaits to her nape. Soft droplets of water fell around her like a sheer curtain. On her head sat a tray of something covered by a large sheet of plastic. Sniff. Sniff. Fried fish. And fried yam. The acrid fragrance of a pepper sauce drifted along into my metal cave. She crouched to half her height, one hand holding her tray, the other reaching out, fingers—unsure but steady. We both stared at each other— woman and canine. My eyes watched her fingers inch closer. I tucked my head into my shoulders, waiting for it—a swat, a smack. It was what I was accustomed to— prods and slaps; kicks and stones. I waited. I flinched at her touch. She whispered something as her fingers gently ran along the grain of my wet coat. Light. It reminded me of something from somewhere long ago. A light. A calm. A tickle. Something. Something, life on the streets had taken away so brazenly and so long ago.

Lafia. 

That was what she called me. I loved it. It was the perfect name. We became inseparable. Her name was Simbi, omo Ìyá Eléja*. She gave me a bath. Dinner was fish bones and any scraps from her dinner. She taught me to stand on two feet(anyone could have done that with a piece of fish in their hands). I was by her side whenever she went out to work, her tray on her head. I’d tag along following her scent of fried fish and fried yam. Bliss. 

Then one day she met him.

Làfùn.

That was what he called me, through his missing incisors and canines. Every time he smiled, his mouth looked like a haphazardly eaten corn cub. She had met him one day when a thief tried to steal her waist purse—the one day I wasn’t by her side— I had been locked up in my cage because I had “borrowed” some fish. Ìyá Eléja wasn’t much of a lender. I heard Simbi yell. She must have been a few streets away. I barked and didn't stop barking until she came home. There was a new scent present. A stranger. He had brought her home. She was shaken. Ìyá Eléja let me loose because she thought the danger was still imminent. I followed at their heels. This man. This saviour. He had the undeniable scent of sweat and oil. Engine oil. A mechanic. The heel of his old sandal smacked my nose as I tried to sniff him out. It was the first time he referred to me as Bingo. In the same breath, “locah dog”, in the same breath “useless”. It was like I’d hated him before I met him. I snapped at his heels but Simbi spoke sharply at me. My ears drooped. She had never done that. Ìyá Eléja was full of praise for the mechanic. She packed a bag of fried fish for him, and that was the first time he startled us all with his frightening corn-cob smile.

He was back the following day. And the day after, and the day after. More bags of fried fish. More praise. Giggles from Simbi. Then some more fish. I had stopped barking at him by the sixth day. The way she looked at him...

After this, I no longer borrowed fish. I had to be with her all the time. Beere was a dangerous place. Sometimes, the mechanic would show up with his ugly vespa motorcycle, give her a ride and I’d have to run along side. 

“Lafun”, He’d holla. He’d suck his puckered lips and make a high pitched kissing sound through his teeth. 

He’d raise dust and I’d run blindly after her, after my Simbi. Sometimes he’d splash mud, screeching his tires. He’d laugh loudly. “Tètè, Làfûn!” His tone derisive. Locah dog. He’d say. 

If he must know, I was once a puppy owned by a professor and his family at the University of Ibadan. A canine of pedigree, until one day I got lost, captured and sold off as a lab experiment dog. 

Sometimes, she’d come home, slam her tray down on the concrete floor, she’d stamp her feet around and bury her head between her thighs and cry. I’d sit beside her, head on my paws. Eyes never leaving her. Other days, she was in the clouds above, skipping. Her tray full, with no purchases, which infuriated Ìyá Eléja. Now she locked me in the cage more often. Her new friend didn't like me watching, she said. 

And now she came home with bruises. One day, she came home with a burst cheek. The gash tore deep into her smooth face. She was attacked, she said. Mama Eleja insisted I go everywhere with her from now on.

It was late last night, when she snuck off her mat. I watched her. Her figure moved silently in the dark. I sat up, first on hind legs, eyes keen. She looked me and I followed. We walked quickly. I knew where we were going.  He lived three streets away. I tried not to think what she was going there to do. 

We got to his home, a face-me-I-face-you building— a house with six rented single rooms down the corridor. She stopped at the second door on the right. My ears cocked. A faint noise. His voice. My eyes looked up at her. I listened. 

A grunt. Faint. Then another.

And another.

She pushed into the room through the door and brushed aside the curtain which hung over the entrance. There he was in the dim light on a thin mattress which sat on the bare, cement floor. The woman wore nothing. Their skin glistening with sweat in the still room. He saw us and in an instant, landed on his feet.

He spoke Yoruba. 

”Who told you to come here?” He yelled. A low growl travelled up my throat. The cement floor beneath my paws felt cold. The hair on my neck tingled as the strands stood on end. 

Simbi stepped back. She stammered. 

“I told you never to come unless I call for you.” His voice rose again. My growl deepened. He looked at me for a second. 

“Who is she?” Simbi’s voice shook. “Tani ni yen?” She asked again.

”Se ori e buru ni?” He asked her if she was cursed; if she was in her right mind.

“Abi ori iya e buru?” His right hand rose above his head…

I had waited for this day…

I leaped into the air and in a flash caught his elbow between my teeth, sinking in with such relish. I even imagined it was fish. The naked woman screamed. Snarls. Growls. The sound of teeth crunching bone. Simbi gasped. He screamed. He begged. He even called me “Lafia”. “Goodu boy”, He pleaded.

All I saw was fish. Even his neck began to take the form of a silvery, crispy piece of Tilapia.

Yes. I had waited for this day. 

And it was here. 

The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

The Boy Who Thought He Could Dance: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

The Yoruba Boy Who Thought He Could Dance: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

The phone rang once. The second time, she picked. Folarin figured if he had to tell anyone, it would be Mom.

“Hello?”

“Mommy.”

“Fola, Fola. Fola boy. How far?” The delight in her voice was unmistakeable everytime he called.

“E kale ma,”He could hear the distant rumble of the generator in the background.

“Kale, my dear. Ba wo ni? School nko?”

“School is fine.” He switched to English. If he said it in English, it’ll sound less ridiculous.

“How is it? Hope not too cold?” She asked.

“No, ma.” In fact, it was 5 degrees in New York City tonight, but that wasn’t why he called. 

“Your sister is here, hold on.”

“No, Mom—”

Gbemi’s voice came on, “Mumu. So you can call home? Where have you been? Your IG page is just dead. How far?”

“I’m more active on snapchat, you know that.”

“Who wants to watch your boring life?” She snickered,”Have you told Mommy?”

“I haven’t,”He said the words through clenched teeth.

“Told me what?”

Laughter bubbled out of Gbemi.

Folarin cursed under his breath.

“Mommy, Folarin wants to start a new career o.”

“Ehn hen?” Her excitement was palpable. Her voice was clear now. 

“What kind of career? But you will finish school first o” She added, "Ha, when you are looking for funding, don’t fall into the hands of 419 oh. There are so many now…” She continued on about how Uncle Goke had been “dupped”. 

“Many doctors have second careers. Ònò kan o wojà. Dad will be happy that you’re building your own business.” Ever-supporting mom. Her voice dripped with pride.

Gbemi was now gasping for breath in the background, laughing uncontrollably.

“Why are you laughing?” Her mom asked.

Folarin cleared his throat, “Mom, maybe I should call back another time. I—”

“No o. You’ve finally called after all these weeks, don’t go. Let me leave this place where your sister is laughing like a drunkard. Ki lo n se omo yi?”Mom hissed.

He heard her feet shuffling, walking, until Gbemi’s scornful laugh drew further away. A door opened and closed.

“Eh-hen, oya gist me. What’s this second business?”

“Which business?” Dad asked. Dad was there. Folarin’s voice caught in his throat.

“Fola has a new business.”

“Well, as long as it doesn’t affect his studies.”He said,”Business wo ni? Meanwhile, I saw on the news… New York is minus 15 degrees Celsius tonight! Wow, man!”

Background noise filtered in—the swishing of fan blades, the rumble of the generator—mom had switched her phone to speaker.

“Ha! Minus 15 ke? Make sure you stay warm o. Drink tea”, Mum said, “Very soon, you will marry one omoge that will be making you pepper soup in that your winter, ehn?” Mum chuckled,”One babe. Abi how do you people say it?”

Folarin took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“Mum. Dad. I have good news and bad news.”He said.

“God forbid. God will not give you bad news in Jesus’ name,” Mum prayed. She began to speak in tongues.

“What is it? Tell me the good news first.”Dad said.

“I said there is no bad news in Jesus' name” Mom reiterated. 

“Ok, give us the news—the double good news.”

“Well, I proposed to my girlfriend...”

“Which girlfriend?”Mum asked. He could hear the shock in her voice.

“Se mo kpe o ni girlfriend ni?”Mum asked Dad. 

“Her name is Larah.”Folarin said.

The tension eased as mum chuckled excitedly.

“Ha. Praise God o”, There was a smile in her tone, “Omolara.”

“Omolara mi,”Mum broke into a song about a girl called Omolara, she was pretty and had a good head. She’d make a beautiful bride one day.

“Well, not exactly. Her real name is Yu Yan…”

The singing ceased. Silence.

“You kini??” It was mum’s voice,“Real name bawo?”

Folarin cringed.

He continued,“Everyone calls her Larah…She said Yes. I proposed just last Sunday at the ice rink…So we are thinking about visiting in the spring.”

“Wait…” Dad's voice.

“You kini?”Mom.

A door opened and shut hard on a wooden frame.

“Has he told you guys about ‘Youuu’?”Gbemi’s cheerful voice said. She burst out laughing.

“Gbemi? You knew about this?”

“Ok—let’s be calm,” Folarin started,”She’s Chinese. She owns her own cupcake shop—”

A shrill cry vibrated through the speakers in his phone. Mom was crying.

“Ha! Aye mi!” She wailed. Gbemi laughed. Dad didn’t understand. He said this twice. They were talking over each other.

“She’s really the best person you’d ever meet, Mum, Dad.”

Gbemi squealed in delight.

“Shut up, Gbemi—”

Dad’s voice was stern,“Fola, I’m coming to New York next week. We must not rush—.”

Mum cut in, “Omolara ni mo kpe! Ha!”

Folarin skipped his breath. The second news was best served as soon as possible. 

“The lesser good news is that I am dropping out of my program. Medicine…isn’t for everyone,”He rushed, “Most importantly, I found what I love, Mum, Dad. I love dancing. I've never been happier. And it’s not just dancing. It’s Rumba. It’s a style of—”

“Ehn?”

“Baba Fola…mo daran.”

“It originates from Cuba—”Fola continued.

“Folarina, the ballerina toh bad.” Gbemi’s laugh rang out until she began to cough uncontrollably.

“Gbemi, so you knew…”Dad said.

“No o—”Gbemi had stopped laughing,”I didn’t know anything o.”

“You knew that he wants to become a dancer? And be selling cupcake and meat pie?” Mum wailed.

“Gbemi! Come back here!”, Dad’s voice thundered.

“It’s a dance from Cuba and…”Folarin’s voice struggled in the chaos. 

“My life is finished,” Mum yelled.

“So my son will not become doctor?”

“After I've told everyone in church that Folarin will be a neurosurgeon.”

“Aye mi, temi bami!” Mum screamed. She clapped three times and wailed again.

The chaos was palpable. Fola drew a deep breath and disconnected the call. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror outside the dance room, his hair slicked back, glistening with too much ecostyler gel. His sequined ballroom outfit glimmered in the light.  

That wasn't so bad. A successful conversation, really.

He pushed through the doors of the room into practice. It was time to Rumbaaa!

 The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Koot: A Short Story by Ike Adegboye

Koot: A Short Story

It was that moment Rufai lived for—that sliver of a second when his eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror. True, he had grumbled when Uncle Jubril fell ill, and when the old man had promised his Oga* that he trusted nephew—Rufai would show up in his place. Just when he finally saved enough money to go to the local club to see Adeola Montana and his Fuji 5000 band. Still, Rufai had arrived at the address in Ikoyi, dressed in his severely ironed shirt and trousers—Uncle even made him wear deodorant.

Number 16, Roland street was an unassuming house hidden behind a small, black gate and lost in the shade of dozens of trees. There was a gateman, David, and two househelps. Rufai didn’t learn their names. Madam had her own driver, Festus, whose trouser gators were sharp as a blade. Oga left for work at 7. Lunch was served at noon. Some tea and sliced bread served at 4pm.

A damned cycle.

Then she happened. She had stepped out of the house barefoot, dressed in a long maxi dress that flapped around in the hot Lagos air. And in five seconds, she vanished into the house.

If God was fair, Uncle Jubril would remain sick. But God had a different standard of fair. Uncle Jubril recovered. So Rufai sprinkled a little detergent into Uncle's Yellow Label tea on most mornings now, just to keep the old man down a little longer. 

                                  ⭐️ 

Her father’s schedule tapered off around noon. Rufai would bring him home for lunch. They returned to the office about 1:30PM. He’d set his briefcase and gym bag next to Oga’s feet in the elevator, keeping his eyes available but not fixed on Oga. Once the doors closed, he sprinted through the reception, out the revolving front door into the car, back to the house to take her to the little bungalow in Lekki, where she took piano lessons. It was the best 30 minutes of his day. He stole glances at her. Her dark skin glistened in the sun and her eyes stared out the back window into the Lagos traffic, lost, sometimes troubled, other times her eyes focused on nothing, other times they cried. If he was sure of his English, he'd say something. He had practiced saying"Hi" but his brother said his nose twitched whenever he said it; that his"H" was too heavy. He could try? Yes?

Her music teacher was a tall, light-skinned man with a glistening scalp. His beard was shaved close to his jaw and his eyes twinkled whenever she stepped out of the car. Sometimes they both giggled and spoke in hushed whispers. The man would open the car door for her, other times she stalked in front of him and didn't say goodbye. For two weeks now, she stalked ahead. No goodbyes. Then the bearded man stopped walking her to the car. She cried now whenever they drove home from Lekki.

Today she was restless.

She looked away from the sparkling Atlantic. Her attention fleeting around the car for a minute, She looked at her phone and smiled. Restless again, her eyes, magnificent, large, framed by long, thick lashes-rested on his in the rear view mirror. Rufai’s heart stopped. His eyes dropped to her lips— plumped by a sheer rose gloss, haloed as the light bounced off of its sheen. Rufai had never seen anything more beautiful.

He parted his lips, but they trembled.

Just say hi.

"Mr. Rufai,”She broke into his thoughts,“Please can we go back? I think I forgot something in Lekki." She said, rummaging through her huge handbag.

Rufai's lips quivered lightly,"Ok." He stammered, his eyes found the road. He cleared his throat in a low grunt.

"Hi", He muttered under his breath. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

He cleared his throat again. It could be better.

"Hi."He muttered. “Hi” was hard. He could tell her that he thought she was sweet like honey but his brother had said, the rich people used “cute” not “sweet”.

“Ki n sę ‘Koot’!” His brother had fallen off his chair laughing,”Not koot. Cute! Cute!”

Koot.

You are Koot. He just couldn’t get it right. He could tell her he was in love with her. That Kolade Gbenro was teaching him to play the keyboard now. He could teach her music, teach her to play. She’s never have to go to Lekki again. She’d never have to cry.

He pulled up in front of the teacher’s gate. The light-skinned, bearded man was outside before Rufai turned off the engine.

His hand was on the car door as she stepped out.

“No! I didn’t come here to talk.”She snapped, “I left my sunglasses. That’s the only reason I came back.” She pushed past the man.

Her teacher grabbed her elbow and muttered to her. He handed her the sunglasses case. His voice was barely a whisper. His hands traveled along her arms. Rufai frowned. In an instant, the teacher dropped to the floor on one knee. From his pocket emerged a ring. It sparkled in the sun.

It happened all too soon. She jumped around, nodded her head and fell into his arms. The embrace was forever and a year. The kiss, eternal.

She hopped into the car after a long goodbye. She chattered on the phone as they drove home. She screamed calling one friend after another. He proposed! She’d yell. Followed by a scream.

Rufai glanced at her in the mirror, his brows still drawn together in a scowl. How did that happen? That man and his beard. What did the teacher have that he didn’t?! He watched her now, hysterical with joy in the backseat. She yelled. Giggled. Screamed. His frown melted away and a small smile softened his face. At least she had happened. At least he had loved. He’d hand the keys back to Uncle Jubril and stop feeding the poor man poison.

He’d work on his pronunciations and his keyboard lessons. Maybe one day he’d join Adeola Montana’s Fuji 5000 band….and maybe one day he wouldn’t.

He wished he could tell her though, that she was koot.

“Koot…Koot…” He shook his head as he battled with the alternate vowel word.

She screamed and burst into laughter in the back. Her eyes caught his in the mirror.

His heart stopped. 

She was so sweet though. She truly was. He thought to himself. Sweet and koot.

                           The End 

Copyright ©2018 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye

Oga* Colloqial Nigerian word for a boss or an employer

The Gist in our 237th Blog Post

Hurry, what's the gist?

Pages by Ike will be One next month! Weee! One whole year! And so... we will be taking the month of September off! Not-Wee. I know.

I encourage my friends who are small-business owners to take holidays and I see them hesitate and struggle with making that decision. I never really understood the hesitation and drama; now that I have to do it, it feels like I'm leaving my child at a boarding school, in a remote wilderness with tumbleweed and desert vermin as company.

Why do we have to go on holiday? *pout*

One word. Evaluation. I'm in that step-back-and-evaluate-those-goals-girl phase of things. During my time away, one of the most important things I will be reviewing as a writer, blogger, individual, wife, friend is my vision. It's crucial to have the right vision. It's not just OK to have "a vision", but actually having "the right" vision, is the key. 

I will be stepping back and evaluating the execution of my goals in a systemic manner. I realize I sound a little intense but I have to be, to ensure the best quality of service to you and my community and my Ed! 

When will PGI be back? *breath held*

 We will be back on the first day of October.

Are you trying to stop blogging? *skeptical glance*

No, I'm not trying to stop blogging. I have come to see that I am unable to stop, in fact. Many nights I wake up at 2AM, my phone in hand and my blog app open. Suddenly I freak out like, O no! I think I've published an incomplete post with 'fghhhhhhhhhjjhh" typed in. Lol. Falling asleep while blogging is too much fun to give up. Don't you think?

Don't worry one month will swish by fast, it'll be like we never stopped...only that we did for a while and...went on holiday...but never did...but we did...you get my point.

So, what do we do now that PGI is on holiday?  *crickets*

Catch up! If you are new, welcome! 10-posts-a-day and you'll be up to date. Fun!

Also, while we are on this short break, you could check out other blogs, yum! www.allthingsbeingamal.com;

www.nedoux.com ;

www.kacheetee.com;

www.dedaheats.com;

www.funmialabi.co.uk;

www..miralabelle.com;

www.naijagirlnextdoor.com;

www.wovenblends.com !

[If you write a blog, please comment below! We would love to check your space out during our holiday].

I will miss you guys severely, but we'll be back soon! Thank you for swinging by all the time; for hanging with me, over the last year, 300+ days and 200+ blog posts!

We aren't quite done yet though. The holiday doesn't start until the end of August, so keep swinging! New blog post up soon! 

It's surreal but this is our 237th blog post! Weeee! Thank you for being here and there for PGI all the way. Also please thank the Holy Spirit who helps me out like his life depends on it. He works so hard! My star-guy! Muah!

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6 Things (plus 1) to do with Your Wedding Dress

What do brides do with their wedding dresses after the wedding?  Umm...nothing, well for me, nothing. For some reason I am very attached to my dress *looking at it lovingly*! Bah! I'm going to sell it. No...I won't. This deliberation has been on for quite some time now- to sell or not to sell. Sometime ago, I got the opportunity to work with David Bragdon, a style photographer who happens to be my neighbor! He was graceful enough to have my wedding dress photographed just in case I chose to sell it (the big S word). However, before I make any hasty decisions, I've decided to explore all other options available! Hopefully at the end of this post, I'll come to the most likely decision. Your ideas are completely welcome, (see #7)!

Here are 7 things to do with your wedding dress: 

1. Pass it down to your daughter

My mum passed down her 35+ year old wedding dress to my sister who took bits of it and incorporated it into her wedding veil! It was so adorable!

2. Save it for your 'Renewal of Vows' ceremony

If ever you choose to renew your vows at 5, 10, 15 or 50 years (or never...also an option), wouldn't it be great to be able to actually fit into your wedding dress still! A-ha, that's a challenge. Psst, I couldn't fit into my dress when I tried it on for this shoot! Don't be like me! Be forever fit!

3. Sell it (sniff) 

This is the most likely option because I feel like my dress is really just occupying space and also I don't like things wasting away when they could be benefiting someone else. As you can tell, I'm a huge recycler, well most of the time.  

4. Donate it to charity

While I was asking for opinions about what to do with my dress, a friend casually said with a flick of her wrist and a toss of her hair, "Donate it. I donated mine to charity." She might as well have told me to jump off the 8th floor. I forgive her. I do.

I'm attached to the dress, I don't know if it's because it took me ages to find or because I'm just a drama queen. Maybe a little of both. I don't think I'm donating either way.

5. Rent it out

Renting is a great idea because it brings in cash but you have to be prepared to dryclean it after every transaction. Not to mention have it repaired everytime it rips. *Pausing and thinking this through*

Like I'd have to give it out and then have it returned to me smelling like someone else. What if someone else does stuff in it.  *Pensive* 

No, I can't. I can't deal. 

6. Convert parts of it into household linen

Scream!!! How could you even suggest that, Ike?! Lol. This clearly takes guts. If I ever tried to cut up my wedding dress, I'd be stuck standing there with a pair of scissors until Jesus comes and pries it out of my hands. I don't think I could. *goosebumps*

7.  Please comment below for the best answer(s) for #7

What did you do with your wedding dress? What do you suggest I do with mine?! The first three answers will be alloted point 7(a), (b) and (c)!

Related posts: Why your wedding day is not the happiest day of your life; The one that got away; Your wedding dress shopping check list! 

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Feed Me Back, Please!

Hey, hey, everyone! 

It's the end of a third of 2016 (o wow, it's almost May!) and it's feedback season somewhere in the world and here on PagesbyIke! I'd like to ask you to please provide me with some feedback, so that visiting the blog can be a better experience for you. Let me know what your favorite posts were; what made you laugh, frown or pout. What topics did you enjoy reading the most? If you also have specific topics you'd like to see addressed, please drop a message below or send me a message here! You can get as specific as you want! 

Here are the top 10 read posts of 2015! #EarlyThrowback.  Enjoy!

1. Hello First Marital shock: Bank of Daddy to Bank of Bae

2. What happens in Vegas, does not stay in Vegas..not really

3. 5 strange things i do in an Airbnb! Haha! Most consistent habits of mine

4. How to avoid a "Bleep Better Have My Money" incident /This always makes me think of all the phantom people i owe money

5. Long Distance Relationships: You, Her and Jack ; On pilfering someone's girlfriend

6. Letters to my Great-grand Daughter: The Assassination of Mary (I love Marys, I do!)

7. Love, Angels and Grunts; How to be a good friend and not go crazy

8. Abi's story: Married to a Jerk

9. 9 Unusual but Effective Couple habits

10. 12 ways to hack culture shock! I still read this post, probably every other month!

Which was your favorite then and now?

Please remember to drop your comments! Thanks!

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The Sunny Side (of your Break)-up

I'm not sure there is anything more depressing and at the same time exhilarating than a breakup. The latter, of course is not immediately apparent or realized.

My first breakup felt like I got pushed off the edge of a tower and landed on my face. Yes, it hurt, probably even more than this metaphorical face-land. Of course, it only hurt that much because he broke up with me, so I definitely had more vested in the relationship that he had. Argh. Face-land.

During that time nothing would have made me happier than getting back into the relationship, which was silly. The relationship clearly wasn't working out, was less than enjoyable in the grand scheme of things and was of an inferior quality, which I seemed to be content with; crazy thing is i seemed to want back in! It's like being set free from a dilapidated, crummy prison and they toss you out with your belongings and then you kind of sit in front of the prison, sobbing and begging to be let back in. Tsk.

If you think about it though, a breakup really is a blessing! It just means that wasn't the right person or that wasn't the right time to be in the relationship. A break up is an opportunity provided to meet the real person for you(1); You also get a chance to improve yourself before you meet this mystery 'next person'(2); You get to be single again(3). Don't let all the single people have all the fun. Live. Live like there is no tomorrow because there IS a tomorrow and it's full of plans, pretending to be a grown up and an occasional diaper slip*. Enjoy it, book a ticket somewhere, climb a wall or two, stay out late or go out early.

You see, breakups are not so bad, apart from the initial face-land....and the crying....and the wailing in front of the hypothetical prison; other than those, it actually sets you up for a bright future with a turnt-up, better version of yourself, who has completely experienced all that being single has to offer, ready to gallop into the sunset, with the right person!

*A situation where you step on a used diaper and subsequently fall face-first into it.

Other breakup posts: Breakup on a budget, the fishes in the sea after the breakup and reasons we remain in bad relationships! Enjoy!

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