I’m Tunde’s new toilet. He comes home every afternoon and pisses in me. Then, he drinks a bottle of beer and goes back to work.
He’s done it three days in a row now. I try to fight him but I end up with bruises. Back home, I would get down on my knees and pray to God for delivery when I have a problem. But, I’ve temporarily lost faith in God.
How could God put me in this position? I have worshipped him all my life. I always put my faith in him. You would think that with the tithe I pay in church, God would have somehow given me a hint before I jumped on the plane in Lagos.
Yesterday night, my body rose to defend me. My period came. Five days early. I was tempted to thank God. But, that would mean we’re friends again. I’m not letting God get off that easily. There is still a lot more he has to do to get me out of this mess.
Tunde can’t stand the sight of a naked woman on her period. Back in Lagos, he used to squirm away anytime he finds out I’m on my period. I used to laugh at him for that. But now I’m thankful for it. I know he’s going to stay away from me for the next few days.
The guest bedroom is my prison. I don’t know anybody in America. I have no phone. I have no friends and I have no family. The only luck I have is that I didn’t give Tunde all the money I brought from Nigeria when we were in Atlantic City. I split it into two and gave him five thousand dollars.
I would have given him all the money. It’s what a girl in love does. You trust your husband. What is the point of holding back when you are going to spend the rest of your lives together? But, I split the money into two because I was worried he may be tempted to gamble a chunk of it. My plan was to give the rest to him once we got to Baltimore. Then he dropped the Sandra bomb on me.
I’m scared of Tunde. I never thought I would feel like that. But, I am. I’ll give him anything to leave me alone. I’ll give anyone half of my money if they can rescue me from my personal hell. I know it’s a matter of time before Tunde discovers the stash of money, my only ticket to salvation.
This afternoon, I finally got tired of being ashamed of myself. I got tired of my little prison. I got tired of hearing the voices of Tunde, Sandra and the television. I wanted to hear a friendly voice. I looked around the house, found some of Tunde’s phone cards, picked up the phone and called my sister in Lagos.
“Hey, Yankee woman, na wah O. Na so life be? You have forgotten about us,” she complained.
“Abeg no vex. Ground no level O,” I replied in pidgin English.
Which yeye ground? Anyway, how is America?” she asked.
“Cold,” I replied.
“I’ll take that cold over the heat and nonsense here any day. Do you know they have not brought electricity back since you left?” she hissed on the phone. “So, how is Uncle Tunde?”
In my part of Nigeria, we don’t call our older in-laws their names. It’s disrespectful. They’re either Uncle or Aunty.
I tried to lie. But, I couldn’t. I blurted it all out. It was like therapy. My sister and I cried as I talked.
“You can’t stay there. You have to get you out of there,” my sister said when I was finished with my tale of woe.
“I don’t know what to do. How can I come back home and face Daddy after everything?” I wailed.
“Why are you going to face Daddy? What are you coming back home to? You resigned your job, remember?” she said.
“But, I don’t know anybody in America,” I cried.
“What do you mean you don’t know anybody? Some families in our area and in church have someone in America. Let me make some calls,” she says.
“Okay,” I replied tamely.
“Get a knife. If he tries any smesme with you again, stab him. That will give him something to explain to his oyinbo wife,” my sister counseled.
I wish I had Isi’s strength. My sister was always the tough one. When we were younger, she used to beat up the boys on the street. My father used to tell everyone he wished she was a boy. When he was mad at my only brother, my father will tell everyone that had Isi been a boy, she would have been the perfect heir. He kept saying it and hurting my brother’s feelings until one day Isi reminded him there was nothing to inherit. After that, my father kept his wishes to himself.
I’m the exact opposite of Isi. I was the obedient child. I did everything my parents asked of me. The first time I said “no” to my father was over marrying the old chief. Now, see where that got me.
Tunde pulled up outside the house a few minutes after I hung up the phone. I was shocked. I was so sure he would not bother me since I was on my period. I made sure he knew by loudly asking Sandra for the nearest store where I could buy tampons this morning. That made Sandra feel guilty because she was convinced I was pregnant. She went to the store and got me some tampons before she left for work.
I ran to the guest room, wondering if America has changed Tunde enough to rape a woman on her period. In my haste, I forgot to take my sister’s advice. I forgot to get a knife to defend myself.
The door opens. Tunde comes in with a plastic bag. He sits beside me on the bed with that look that once endeared him to me. But, now all he needed to be the devil was a pair of horns.
“Why are we fighting?” he asks.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to talk to him.
“One day, you will thank me for this. I am doing this for us. You think I like that bitch? I work like a dog so she, her daughters and grandchild can have this good life. Next month, I will rent an apartment for you. But, you have to change your attitude. In a few months, I’ll get the green card and we can live normally".

^^^^

LOL. Bedtime Story, i'm loving this.

Next please. Waiting for the next one.

He waits for me to say something. But, I don’t. He takes out four meat pies and a
bottle of orange
drink out of the bag.
I didn’t even know they have meat pies in America! This man
must think he’s smart.
Back in Lagos, when Tunde did something
wrong, he would
run to Mr. Biggs and buy me meatpies and fanta. I can never say no to meatpie & fanta. My friend sand family used to joke that with
me, there was no
damage that some
meatpies and Fanta couldn’t repair.
But, I’m no longer the Lagos Bose. Tunde has
turned me into a different Bose. I ignored the food.
“If you won’t talk to me, atleast eat, ”he
pleads. I walk away from him and his food. He sighs in
frustration and looks at me for a very long time. For a few moments, he was like my Tunde in Lagos. Tears were floating in his eyes. When I glanced at him, he looked away as if ashamed.
“Please, Bose eat . I’m begging you, ”he pleads again. I ignore him. He stays a few more moments, lets out a deep, sad sigh
and leaves. I was so hungry I devoured the meat pies and fanta as soon as I hear him drive away.
Sandra woke me up
several hours later. “You have a call, ”she said as she handed me the telephone. One of my old neighbors was on the phone. His
name is Oliver.

The Diary has been updated again.


Beginning Of Another Day
The lawyer was a rotund man with a head shaped like a basketball. He’s Nigerian-American now but was once an illegal immigrant like me. When you meet him, he carries himself in a way that leaves you in no doubt that he wants you to know he’s an authority on all immigration matters.
“You have very few choices,” he began arrogantly. “Actually, legally – you have no choice.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“Because you’re not here. You’re not in America,” he replied.
“But, I am here. I’m sitting in front of you,” I reminded him.
“Not according to the records. You came here on someone else’s passport. As far as the records are concerned, you’re not here,” he said. “In this country, everyone has a social security number. You have nothing. You’re a Jane Doe”.
I must have heaved a sigh of defeat because he got up and walked around the room majestically like a King as he talked.
“But, you have come to the right place,” he re-assured me. “Your friend must have told you what they call me in this state.”
“He didn’t, sir,” I replied innocently.
“They call me the INS-killer. I’ve won ninety percent of my immigration cases. The other ten percent was because the clients did not do as I told them. You do what I say and you’ll have no problem,” he lectured.


http://bosediary.com/2011/03/07/beginning-of-another-day/

Thank God I’m a naija girl. I may be a fool for love. But, I’m not a fool for a “cunny man”. If this man was trying to scare me into giving him all my money, he was mistaken. I could tell after five minutes that he just wanted to hook me, get as much money as he can and file a bunch of immigration forms that would lead to nothing. All he cared about was money. He didn’t care if I got out of my problems or not.
I knew Oliver paid for an hour’s worth of consultation. I wasn’t in a hurry to go back home. Tunde did not come home at lunch time and Sandra doesn’t get back home for another four hours. I sat back and pretended I was impressed. When my time was up, I thanked the lawyer, told him I would be back and left.
I went to a store down the block and bought a pay-as-you-go cell phone. Then, I called Oliver.
“I think I’m just going to pack my bags and go home,” I told him after I had relayed my experience with the lawyer.
“Go back home to what? Oliver barked on the phone. “To the old politician? To the job you don’t have anymore? You want people to laugh at you that you came to God’s own country and ran back home? That would be a curse.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” I replied between tears.
“I’m going to make some calls. I think I can find someone around that area to take you in temporarily. Then, we’ll go from there. Charge the phone but keep it on vibrate, okay?” Oliver instructed.
“Okay,” I responded tamely.
Oliver did not call me back. I waited all night and waited all day Saturday. Sandra tried to warm up to me all day Saturday. In the morning, she asked if I wanted to go grocery shopping with her. I told her I was tired. After lunch she offered to take me shopping at the mall. I told her I felt sick. Undaunted, she promised to take me to a “great African restaurant” for dinner the next day.
By evening, I was so disappointed at not hearing from Oliver I felt physically sick. I kept calling him but I kept getting the voice mail. For the first time since I got to America, I started believing that maybe curses do travel across oceans. Maybe my father’s curse was working.
Tunde came to my room in the night. He was worried about me. I could see it in his face. He stood by the window for a while and just stared at me. I think he believes I’m depressed.
“I get my paycheck next week. I’ll get the apartment. Okay?,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Abeg, just hang on small.”
Then, he went out of the room. I must be going crazy because I think I felt a little bit sorry for him.
Oliver called again around six in the morning. I thought I was getting an electric shock in my thighs until I realized it was the cell phone vibrating.
“Oliver!” I whispered in relief, “I’ve been calling you.”
“Really? I didn’t get any missed calls,” he replied.
“I must have called you twenty times,” I insisted.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied as I repeated the numbers.
“I am so sorry, Bose – that’s my office number. I called you from the office the first time,” he said then gave me his cell phone number.
I wrote the numbers in a few places just to make sure I never lose it.
“I found a girl in Silver Spring. It’s near Washington DC. Her name is Lorpu Johnson. She’s from Liberia. She has agreed to take you in,” Oliver continued.
“Oh, thank you so much, Oliver! God bless you!” I whispered.
“It’s about sixty miles away from where you are. Call a cab, go to the Greyhound Station then take a bus to Silver Spring. She’ll be there to meet you,” Oliver instructed.
“I will repay you for this kindness someday,” I promised.
“You can repay me by staying out of trouble in Silver Spring,” he chuckled.
“You know I will,” I assured him.
“There are many Nigerians in that area. Be careful. Some of them are trouble and you won’t know it until you’re knee deep in shit with them,” he said.
I promised him I would not talk to any Nigerian until he gave me the okay. I thanked him again and hung up.
Leaving was going to be tricky. Today is Sunday. It’s the only day Tunde does not work. He would be home when I make my move.
I went to the bathroom, turned on the shower to mask my voice then I called Greyhound. I found out I could get a seat on a bus leaving at noon. That was in about five hours. I spent the next hour and half packing, showering and plotting my escape.
I could hear Tunde and Sandra moving around downstairs. I know they won’t think anything was wrong if I don’t come downstairs to eat. I hardly ever do. At eight thirty, I dialed 411 and asked to be connected to a cab service. The driver told me he would here in thirty minutes.
Tunde and Sandra were cuddling on the couch in the living room and watching Meet The Press on the television when I came downstairs with my luggage. They looked at each other in shock then looked at me.
“What’s going on? Where are you going?” Tunde asked in shock.
“Oklahoma,” I replied. It was the first thing that came to my mind. I had no clue where Oklahoma was on the American map.
“Oklahoma! Who the hell is in Oklahoma?” Tunde asked.
“No let me blow alarm for your head O. I don leave your case for God hand. But, if you start any yeye even God no go fit help you?” I blurted out in pidgin.
Just for effect, I added in perfect English that Sandra could understand. “You have your cake but this cake is gone forever,” I told Tunde.
I would never forget the look on Tunde’s face. He looked as if he was having a heart attack. There was nothing he could do. He knew if he stopped me, I would make a scene and Sandra will find out she’d been living a lie. I had nothing to lose. He had everything to lose.
“What’s going on, baby?” Sandra quizzed Tunde.
“I think my sister has gone crazy,” Tunde managed to say.

hmmmm na wa ooo

^^^^i nor know say you too do tatafo reach like this o

@post
wow!!!!!!! am so loving this for real

If this story is real, it is either this lady is blogging for US dept of homeland security from detention as a bargain( Just wondering about embossments) Or she is free and she is blogging her experience. She may just be a superb story teller anyway. Whichever way, I can't wait for todays serving:-P

The diary has been updated.


Back To Africa

The cab ride to the Greyhound station downtown was a blur. I cried all the way. Every time I looked up, I saw a blurry Baltimore.
Before I left Nigeria, I had visions of dinners at seafood restaurants and post-dinner strolls down the harbor. That was the way Tunde described Baltimore to me in his e-mails. But, the closest I came to seafood was looking at the gold fish in Tunde’s fish tank.
In the taxi, I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel happy. I felt empty. I didn’t want to cry. But, I couldn’t stop crying. The cab driver kept glancing at me in the mirror. But, I think he guessed my tears were private and he left me alone.
This was the end of a journey. A journey I thought was going to be for a lifetime. But, it had ended in a mere ten days. I closed my eyes and shut out the nightmare.
“Welcome to Lagos,” the customs officer said with a frown that showed that he really didn’t mean the compliment.
His words jarred me out of my reverie. How did this happen? How did I end up back in Lagos? I knew this was not America because the customs area was hot like an inferno and the giant fans were making no dent on the heat.
My heart was fluttering. Is this what a heart attack feels like?
I looked across the customs counter at the arrivals lounge. My sisters and brother were waiting for me. I have never seen three people looking that angry and evil in my life. I’ve seen pictures of Hitler and he looked like a warm uncle compared to my siblings at that moment.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Itua, my brother, screamed at me as soon I walked through Customs.
“I couldn’t trust Oliver,” I said.
“Why?” Isoken, my youngest sister whose passport I’d used barked, “Did he sound like a serial killer on the phone? Did you not look at the map? Oregon is a world away from Maryland. There is nothing like a virtual, serial killer, you know.”
Isi, my immediate younger sister who had orchestrated the connection to Oliver was so upset she looked like she was moments away from convulsing.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to explain to them how I was dumped in a Lagos-bound plane.

http://bosediary.com/2011/03/14/back-to-africa/

, It was all a blur.

My nightmare began at the Greyhound Station in downtown Baltimore. I had two hours to kill before the bus departed for Silver Spring. I sat at one of the seats with a built-in TV, slotted some quarters in, slipped the headphones over my head and started watching a show called “I Love Lucy”.

I don’t even know why I picked the show. But, the woman looked funny. Her husband spoke “funny” like me. And, it helped that my mother’s name is Lucy.

A few minutes into the show, a shadow fell on me. I looked up and saw Tunde. I was in so much shock I had to close my mouth tight otherwise my heart may have jumped out.

It took me a few moments to realize that there were some men and a woman in uniform behind him. When I saw them, I wished the ground would open up and swallow me.

As an illegal immigrant, two of the institutions you learn to avoid even before you leave your country are the Police and Immigrations. Behind Tunde were seven Police and Immigrations officers.

At that moment, I knew how Jesus felt when Judas betrayed him in the garden of Gethsemane. But, I was no Jesus. I didn’t have a heavenly father to bail me out. I didn’t have the promise of heaven. Heaven was about to be snatched from under my feet.

“Are you Abosede Omoakholo?” the only woman in the group asked me.

She didn’t really say Abosede Omoakholo. What she did was murder my name. But, my name was the last of my worries at that moment.

“Yes,” I answered tamely.

“Can I see your passport?” she demanded.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I declared to the policewoman.

She looked at Tunde. He looked at her and nodded.

“Were you in this man’s house today?” she asked.

“Yes, but,” I began.

“Is that your bag?” she cut in.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Mr. Ralph Oluyomi has alleged that you visited him at his residence, went into his safe while he was in the bathroom and you made away with his money. True or false?” she asked edgily.

“That is a lie!” I shot back.

“Do you have any money on you?” she asked.

“Yes, but,-” I began.

“How much do you have on you?” she cut in again.

“Five thousand dollars,” I replied.

“How did you get that amount of money?” she asked.

“I brought it from my country,” I responded

“Can I see your passport?” she asked as she stretched out her hand.

I gave up. I was dead. It was back to hell for me.

They took me to a detention center. I had one phone call. I called Oliver. Once he heard I was in detention, he turned off his phone.

“You think you can just walk out of my life?” Tunde asked when he had a few moments with me.

I stared blankly at him. The man is a fool. I am being deported. I am not walking out of his life. I am flying out.

They asked if I wanted a trial. I declined. Why postpone the day of reckoning? Three days later, I was on my way to Lagos.

Now, I was entering a Molue bus. I had spent all my money on the ticket to America and converted the rest to dollars. I even sold my car. Now, we were taking a bus that creaks as it rolls through the highway, threatening to fall apart any moment. Since I already gave up my flat, I was now going to live in my father’s house.

Whoever said curses do not cross the Atlantic Ocean was a fool.

Two weeks ago, I was on top of the world in Atlantic City. Now, I am standing in a bus cramped with at least forty people more than the official capacity of sixty. I have been to heaven. I am back in hell.

I started to cry.

“Ju going to Silba Skin?” a man was saying in the far corners of my brain.

I felt someone shake me. It was soft at first then got really rude. I woke up slowly and looked at the funny looking Hispanic man with a four-day old beard.

“Ju going to Silba Skin?” he asked.

It took me a few moments to realize he meant Silver Spring. I nodded.

“Coming up,” he said.

I looked around the bus. It was the Greyhound bus. I am still in America. I have been dreaming.

I wanted to hug the stranger who had woken me up. But, I would probably have freaked him out. I could tell from his poor teeth, hopeful eyes and mismatched clothes that he was like me – a fellow dreamer in the land of hope.

I have never been more scared. And, I have never been more relieved.

I looked outside and touched the window. The rays of sunlight danced on my hand as the bus exited the I-495, sped down Georgia Avenue and towards the Silver Spring station.

For the first time in a week, I smiled. I was free. This is my life now. I will live it my way.

And, I will become an American! Some day.

Nice nice story

loving this story. . .true or false, it is a beautiful read.

nice story. all the way. am just loving it.

when I got to the part that the immigration officer told her welcome to Nigeria, my heart skipped.

Interesting write-up

Ol boy ye, show don finish    Here is what the author posted on her blog yesterday. . . . .

03-21-11
A small Twist

Hello Everyone;

Thanks for following my journal.

Sharing the journal has been therapeutic and your notes, even the harsh ones, have been like warm robes to me.

When I started, my goal was to share my experience with fellow Nigerians. But, it spread wildly and quickly over the Internet.

Two weeks ago, I got a mail from an agent who wanted to represent the journal. Within three days, four more book agents called from Los Angeles, New York City, San Francisco and Philadelphia.  I was hesitant. I loved the small world I shared my story with.

But, some of you had written in the last few weeks that this was a book you wanted to read. In the end, I signed with a book agent. I agree that this may be a story for a bigger audience.

A direct result of the contract is that I stop exhibiting my journal on this space and concentrate on writing the manuscript.

I have enjoyed this forum and I will continue to keep you informed on the progress of the agents and their attempt to get my story published.

If you would like to get the update(s), please leave your e-mail address on the space underneath my bio.

I’m not sure what I’ll do with this space. Some people had asked to use it in the past to post videos and webisodes on Wednesdays and Fridays. I might consider that in the coming months.

Whatever happens, you’ll be the first to know.

Thank you so much for your love and support.

Bose

Wishing her the best sha. . . . . . . .

WTF!!! Can you imagine?
I cant believe this, book ko journal ni
Anyway!! Congrats to her tho
But damn!!!! I was so looking forward to it the min. I signed in
Mshwwwww!!!

.

.

more

the story was excellently written, full of suspence.

.

FibbA:

Good you noticed that. I don't dispute the fact that bankers, engineers, doctors, truck pushers, don't have writing skills. But the person who wrote that stuff, applied good literature tools and just wanted to people who'll help him advertise his prpduct so he can sell it.

9ja ninjaz 8 ;

why would you generalize in this manner.

the guy who wrote the kite runner, was a medical doctor.

likewise the author of jurassic park.



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Physician_writer#20th_century

Some people are just ignorant!

.

what's the use.

too late, at this stage.

just read the links i posted, and if you still dont get it, no problem.

.

are we both speaking english?

you said doctors and others, dont have writing skills.

i gave you a link proving otherwise and mentioned two renowned physician authors right off the bat.

what's your question?