it's terrible ,

I didn’t mind the curse. In Nigeria, we all know curses are local –[b] they don’t travel across the ocean. [/b

]

Candid advice to the diarist: Tone down the drama. If this is real tell the story as it is. I personally think the part about hand towel is far fetched. An Assistant Branch Manager even in Nigeria wouldnt shove a towel into her mouth! Hello. That said, it is great imagination.

Tokotaya:

Candid advice to the diarist: Tone down the drama. If this is real tell the story as it is. I personally think the part about hand towel is far fetched. An Assistant Branch Manager even in Nigeria wouldnt shove a towel into her mouth! Hello. That said, it is great imagination.

I think its fiction.
Else why isn't it posted in the Travel, Romance, or Family sections?

Nice write up, captivating and interesting. Even if its a fiction, its still very interesting. i almost bet the writer is a literary personnel,   i will have to contact her for my next movie. No doubt.

I was going to say that I visited the blog before and the story is fake, but I can see that there is really no need for that. The commenters on the blog seemed to believe it is a true life story.
That being said, why is a fictitious blog on the front page of NL? Is Seun trying to drive traffic to Abosede's blog? (Or is Seun actually the owner of the blog, and he is pretending to be an illegal immigrant with tales to tell? )

Wonderful story and every formative.

Keep it up.

It's definitely fiction, it would have been better if they made it into a movie.

OvieE:

Wonderful story and every formative.

Keep it up.

Wonderful story and every formative.
> . . .story and every formative.
> . . . .and every formative.
>. . . .every.
>. . . .formative.

Sounds like a good fiction. I like it.

I dont know why a well paid Nigerian would struggle to go to US as an illegit. Its a shame

It's addictive can't wait to read the rest of the story Fact or Fiction

Its fiction,though I find an interesting read.
one wonders how a lady as educated and 'integellent' as to have risen to the level of Asst. Branch Manager in Nigerian
bank still find herself in the dilema of being forced to marry an old politcian

A work of fiction but a good one nonetheless. I am loving it.

vislabraye:

Sounds like a good fiction. I like it.

I dont know why a well paid Nigerian would struggle to go to US as an illegit. Its a shame

Well it seems you have not been reading the diary,otherwise you will see the answer to your question in her story.

P.oj:

Its fiction,though I find an interesting read.
one wonders how a lady as educated and 'integellent' as to have risen to the level of Asst. Branch Manager in Nigerian
bank still find herself in the dilema of being forced to marry an old politcian

Strange things happen in Naija my brother , And not only in Naija, all over the world, You see all these Pakistanis, Indians and some arab folks killing intelligent and well educated women in the name of honor killing,

Absolutely Interesting. Can't wait for the rest of the story.

Natudu:

A work of fiction but a good one nonetheless. I am loving it.

That's right, Even if it is fiction, any story or movie that can capture imagination and have the possibility of being real is good enough, That's why Nollywood still have a long way to go, you are 2 minutes into all these moronic Nigerian movies and you can predict the end and the unrealistic nature of Nollywood products can be disgusting.

darkman200:

Well it seems you have not been reading the diary,otherwise you will see the answer to your question in her story.
Strange things happen in Naija my brother , And not only in Naija, all over the world, You see all these Pakistanis, Indians and some[b] Arab folks [/b] killing intelligent and well educated women in the name of honor killing,

Well let hope the uprising in the Arab world will change things in favor of the women because this people are monster.

I actually went to the blog and read everything! I think we are all hooked because the story tells about the lives of most of us here in Nairaland. Obviously, Bose is a Nigerian resident in the US. It only takes such to know the inside story of most naija men surviving in Yankee.

The story is a very thoughtful combination of bits and pieces of real life experiences of many Nigerians in the US.

Ride on Bose! You need to go out, you are spending too much time in the house- Ask Tunde and your husband's wife to take you out. Go to Walmart, go see a movie, you sure will see more strange things to tell us. Get us some more fun. We can't wait.

the story sure got me cracking,

;d

It's true story, but dey add some salt & pepper,

But how on earth this LADY leaves her well paid job in Nigeria in search of poor love. Living in abroad carries many things to those that have not been there. Be wise when making decisions.

my! o my! this story so far is beautiful hope it ends well.

Lol, You gotta be kidding me. I saw this movie! . Go back home dammit. Whats the long story? I smell upcoming Nollywood producer here,

Lmao

Tokotaya:

Candid advice to the diarist: Tone down the drama. If this is real tell the story as it is. I personally think the part about hand towel is far fetched. An Assistant Branch Manager even in Nigeria wouldnt shove a towel into her mouth! Hello. That said, it is great imagination.

Where is the drama in this write-up, methinks you need to get out more And the part about the hand towel could have happened because these are hot, wet, small pieces of square white piece of fluff handed out to pasengers with a tong and according to her, she was just rousing out of slumber, so this is not far-fetched at all, just that most people would have taken a bite instead of her chomping on it with her longthroatedness

darkman200:

That's right, Even if it is fiction, any story or movie that can capture imagination and have the possibility of being real is good enough, That's why Nollywood still have a long way to go, you are 2 minutes into all these moronic Nigerian movies and you can predict the end and the unrealistic nature of Nollywood products can be disgusting.

Thank you, you can say this again and again and again I have only watched 2 Nollywood films in my entire life from start to finish, with regards to the rest, I'm already zoned out by two minutes and gets chased out once I start aptly narrating how the film is going tro transpire, and gets called a killjoy and a spoilsports

When is the next posting please?

The story continues,

Heartbreak

Something is bothering Tunde. He’s not saying what it is. But, a girl can tell. It’s the way his gaze drifts into the distance when he should be ecstatic. It’s the slow, deliberate way he chews his food. It’s in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking.

“Is everything okay?” I asked on our second night in Atlantic City.

“Yes, why?” he replied.

“I don’t know. I just feel something is on your mind,” I said.

“You worry too much, my darling,” he re-assured me. “Come on, get dressed, there’s a nice club I want to take you to.

“We can sleep in tonight. I have jetlag, “I protested.

“If we stay in, you know we won’t sleep,” he replied with a knowing wink.

“Well, I’m not getting any younger. My goal is to have our first child within a year,” I confessed.

“You’re not God. You can’t force these things,” he said.

“Heaven helps those who help themselves. It’s in the Bible,” I responded.

“We have plenty of time. I want to show you some of my latest moves,” he pleaded.

I gave in reluctantly. I don’t want this man wasting his energy on the dance floor when we can be using that energy to make babies. But, a girl needs to keep her man happy.

Tunde has indeed learnt a lot of dance moves. Back in Lagos, he was like a programmed robot on the dance floor. But, now on the dance floor, he’s moving like a leaf in the wind. He could move in so many ways you’ll think he was a ballerina in a previous life. We were a hit on the dance floor, well, Tunde was. Half the night, I was stealing glances at the many girls who wished he was dancing with them.

I woke up very early this morning. It was time to return to Baltimore, Tunde’s base.

I had dreamt of Baltimore for four years. Tunde has told me a lot about it. I could picture people eating seafood at restaurants. I could picture Tunde at work in his small newspaper office. I could picture the town home he bought a little over a year ago in anticipation of my coming over.

I was eager to start my new life.

Tunde slept longer than usual. Sometimes, I felt he was looking at me but when I turned around, his eyes were firmly closed. Maybe I was too eager to leave this crazy city with the gamblers, drunks and casinos, and go home with my husband.

Finally, he woke up and looked at me with such sad eyes I thought someone had died.

“What’s wrong, darling?” I asked.

“There is something I have to tell you,” he started mournfully.

Whatever it was, I knew it was bad. But, this is why we’re partners, I told myself. We can face anything together.

“What is it?” I asked.

“When I told you I had my papers, I wasn’t telling the truth,” he continued.

“You’re still illegal?” I asked.

“No, I’m legal now,” he replied.

“Well, it’s all a matter of details. You don’t have to tell me anything if it makes you feel bad,” I assured him.

“It’s the way I got it,” he said.

“Tunde, don’t worry. You got it. I’m here. We have each other. That’s what matters to me,” I told him.

“I had to marry a girl to get my papers,” he muttered sadly.

I burst into laughter. I have heard about this and know people pay women to pretend they are their wives so they can get a green card. I was laughing out of relief. I was relieved that my Tunde was still the same. He never lies to me.

“It’s okay, darling – I hear everyone does it,” I reassured him.

“You’re sure?” he answered with a frown.

“Oh, yeah – you did what you had to do,” I told him.

“Oh, thank God. I was worried,” he exhaled.

I pushed him on the bed and started kissing him.

“You are all that I care about,” I told him.

“You don’t know how relieved I am. We’re gonna have to make some adjustment for the next year or so?” he said.

“You’re still paying her?” I asked.

“Technically,” he replied.

That was a red flag. When Tunde dribbles himself into a tight corner, he always throws out the word, “technically”.

“How technical?” I asked.

“Well, um, we kind of live together,” he muttered.

“What?” I screamed.

“I had to do it for real or she won’t buy it. But, don’t worry, I have about ten months left before my permanent green card comes,” he said, rushing the words, maybe in the hope that I wouldn’t hear every thing. But, my ears have never been more alert.

“You are married!” I yelled.

He had no answer. He couldn’t say a word.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I screamed.

“I tried,” he replied.

“Holy Mary mother of God!” I exclaimed.

“Listen, honey – just bear with me. You’re the most important person to me,” he pleaded.

He kept going on and on. He pleaded, cried and pleaded some more. I think this is what they call a shock because my mind went blank. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t cry.

In my haze, I heard him say he already told “Sandra”, that was the name of his wife, that his younger sister was coming from Nigeria and was going to stay with them until she sorts herself out.

I left Nigeria to be with the man of my dreams. In America, I was his sister.

Sandra is a plump, colorless, pasty white woman with a voice that sounds like metal grinding on metal. She is twenty years older than Tunde. She is the kind of woman I knew Tunde would not give a second look. Tunde is her third husband and she looks at him like you would look at a favorite puppy.

I guess the green card makes a man do strange things.

What Sandra lacked in looks and figure, she more than made up for with personality. She was kind, caring and had everything you look for in a big aunty. But, she was my husband’s wife. That made her the devil.

“Hey, Ralph, you brought my new sister home!” she screeched as she ran over to the car to welcome us.

It took me a few moments to realize he was talking about Tunde. I didn’t know he had become Ralph. His parents didn’t name him Ralph. He’s a Moslem. His first name is Ramoni.

I nodded subconsciously at Sandra. I couldn’t look at her. I feared I would jump at her and tear her into pieces. So, I looked at the floor. She thought it was the way Nigerians showed respect.

“You see the resemblance, sweetheart?” Tunde asked as he kissed Sandra.

“Oh, yes – honey. Almost spitting image,” Sandra declared.

I felt like throwing up. I felt like running away. I felt like screaming. But, all I did was shake my head and force a grin.

“I’m just trying to make my baby happy, sweetheart. You don’t look like him. You’re a very beautiful woman,” she whispered as she hugged me.

I was limp in her arms. I guess my body was cold too because she pulled away and gave me a really strange look.

“Are you okay, darling?” she asked.

“She has a cold. It’s never this cold in my country,” Tunde offered before I could say anything.

“Oh, poor baby. We need to wrap you up and get you some tea and soup,” Sandra said as she hustled me into the house.

A chill ran up my spine as I sat in the cramped living room. I couldn’t look up because the sight of their wedding picture was giving me a massive headache. Her hand touching me made me squirm. Sandra thought I was shivering with cold.

“Poor you. We’re having an unusually early cold draft this year,” she said as she handed me a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” I muttered as I sipped the tea. It tasted like poison. I loved it. I wanted to die.

Tunde pranced around like a kid in a toy store. He was making an African soup in the kitchen and acting like all was well.

Half an hour after we got into the house, Tunde brought me a tray with a bowl of egusi and pounded yam on it.

“Your favorite food, huh?” he beamed.

I wish I’d taken an acting lesson in Lagos. A lot of people were. Everyone wanted to be part of Nollywood. Except poor, stupid me. Now, I regretted it. If I had been part of a movie in Lagos, this would be a piece of cake.

Sandra was watching me keenly. I felt like I was in front of a shrink. I hate shrinks. I hate to be analyzed. In my country, if your health required the attention of a shrink, you were unofficially categorized as “crazy” and cast off. I was determined not to allow Sandra analyze me.

I swiped a mound of pounded yam, swished it around the bowl of egusi and slotted it in my mouth. It felt like a thorn as it slipped into my stomach. I was beyond caring. I stuffed myself. Tunde was happy. Sandra was amazed a smallish woman like me could eat that much. She didn’t know I was trying to gorge myself to death.

Then, I gagged and threw up. All over the white rug.

I expected Sandra to blow a lung. But, all she said was, “poor baby, we have to get you to bed”.

The best lie Tunde told on my behalf was my cold. Sandra took me into the guest bedroom and tucked me under layers of blanket.

“Get some rest. When you wake up, you can have some soup. I never liked any of that white flour thing Ralph eats anyway,” Sandra said as she left the room.

Later I found out that Tunde had told Sandra that he was working back-to-back double shifts at his nursing job then driving to New York to pick me up. Then, he called from New York that I missed my flight so he was staying an extra day in New York. That was how he finagled the Atlantic City trip.

I didn’t even know Tunde was a nurse now. When he called me in Lagos, he told me he worked in a local newspaper. He told me he has a Masters degree in journalism from Columbia. He told me he missed me and was scared he won’t know what to do with me when we meet again because he hasn’t been with a woman in four years.

He fed me lies. And, I ate it all up. I hate the word love right now. Love sucks.

I couldn’t sleep that night. How could I? My husband was making love to his wife in the next room. Americans don’t build walls with bricks. They use wood. Sandra wasn’t a quiet woman in the sack. She ran a play-by-play account of their lovemaking.

I also couldn’t help but realize that today was the first day of October, the day the old politician was going to marry me. I could be laying beside him right now and planning a move to New York as his American-based wife. I could have moved to New York, got myself a lover or two on the side and when he comes to town every other month, I’d pretend he was the center of my universe.

I had little to lose. Life expectancy in Nigeria was below fifty. The man was in his sixties. He was already on overtime. With a little luck, he’ll be dead in a couple of years.

But, I ran away from it. I ran to doom instead.

I drifted to sleep hoping I would die before dawn.

Ajali

Go tell your friend or you that we need the follow up asap!

Is that all?

My Life Sucks!


I did not die.

I woke up to an empty house. I think I half-expected Tunde to take the day off on my first day in his house. In Nigeria, you can call off from work at the last minute and everything would be fine. But, as I would find out later, in America, you don’t do that. Every hour counts. You have to pay the bills.

I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone anyway. When I woke up, I listened hard to make sure there was no one in the house. Then, I got up and found the note under the door.

“Aya mi, hope you had a good night. I’m off to work. There is food in the fridge. I’ll see you later, oko re to to, Tunde” the note read.

For the first time in my life, I felt like killing someone. If Tunde was in the house at that moment, I would have taken a kitchen knife, carved out his heart and hung it on the front door as an example for every dishonest men.

His note basically said, “My wife – hope you had a good night. I’m off to work. There is food in the refrigerator, I’ll see you soon, Tunde, your true husband”.

This man is not only a lying, cheating scumbag. He’s also heartless.

I walked around the house in a daze. I didn’t eat the food in the refrigerator. I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was filled with grief. My heart was aching. I hated myself.

How did my life get to be like this? Why didn’t I take the hint in Tunde’s voice when we talked on the phone before I left Lagos? Now, I can see why he didn’t suggest I run to America when I told him my father was trying to marry me off.

I didn’t feel bad for myself. I despised myself.

I was due for a promotion to branch manager in two years in my bank in Lagos. It was a position that came with a car, a house, a cook, a steward and a big expense account. Before I left Lagos, I had a flat, a used car and a maid.

I left all that for love. I bought a ticket to hell.

Tunde came home first. He had that silly grin he always wore on his face when he was excited. silly me, I used to think that grin was cute. Now, I can see it for what it really is – a silly look on a grown man’s face.

“I left work early. I did some shopping for you,” Tunde enthused as he handed me a bag of clothes and shoes.

The bag slipped off my hands and fell to the floor. Tunde grabbed it and shot me a confused look.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Somehow, that question snapped something in me. I grabbed the bag from him and flung it at the television. Tunde ran to the 42-inch television, catching it before it crashed to the floor. He steadied it back on the wall and turned to me.

“You think this is easy for me?” he asked.

“Stop patronizing me. I am not a fool. I’m not going to play your silly games!” I screamed at him.

“What games? This is for us, our future. I need the papers for us,” he pleaded.

“There is no us. There is you and there is me,” I yelled.

“I know you’re angry. But, just reason with me right now,” he said, holding my hand.

“Don’t you ever touch me,” I said as I yanked my hand away.

“You can’t do this. If Sandra knows what’s up, we’re both bleeped. We’ll both be in Lagos before the weekend,” he pleaded.

“That’s your bag of wahala”, I replied as I stomped up the stairs to the guest bedroom and slammed the door shut.

I didn’t open the door for the rest of the day. I don’t know what lie Tunde told Sandra. But, she didn’t bother me that night.


http://bosediary.com/2011/02/13/my-life-sucks/

this is indeed interesting. . .