Please go ahead. I don't mind at all.

reedrick01:
Nice post.. Have some questions if you dont mind?

When I decided to see a therapist, it seemed unnecessary. My close friends thought I was handling life reasonably well and didn’t see what I needed to adjust or correct. They weren’t wrong. The preconceived notion of the purpose of therapy in Nigeria is still closely related to witnessing extreme signs and effects of mental disorders, such that, when a person appears outwardly fine and functional, therapy is almost frowned at.
What do you need therapy for? was the question I got.
Still, I knew I wasn’t functioning properly. I knew my coping mechanisms were catching up with me and it was only a matter of time before I crashed. Here’s how I went from decision to my first therapy session. If you intend on taking the steps below, I strongly advise you consider this whole process as a long-term project you’re willing to commit to.

Step One: Decision
Deciding was the scariest part because deciding that I needed therapy meant admitting that there was an issue and I wasn’t equipped to handle it on my own. It also meant becoming willing to pay for therapy and willingly subjecting my mind and emotions to the scrutiny of an outsider. It meant letting go of my coping mechanisms – in time I would come to know that this was the toughest rock to throw away. As an adult, no one can make this decision for you. You have to commit to the process out of your free will.

Step Two: Make a list
Finding a suitable therapist for you. Google is an ally here, however, information on the therapy services offered in Nigeria are scattered across multiple websites and I needed more than one google search to find the right mental health practitioner to work with. First, I googled mental health practitioners/psychologists/psychiatrists in Nigeria and made a list of all the names, numbers, emails and addresses I could find. Luckily, some websites are more explicit than others.

Step Three: Ask Questions
With a list in hand, I narrowed my options to speciality, years of experience, cost, duration of treatment and gut instincts. This is where the emails and phone numbers come in handy. I sent out emails introducing myself, specifically stating where I got their contact and then, requesting the following information:
• Location
• Area of speciality
• Certification
• Years of experience
• Preferred treatment approach including duration, frequency and cost.
It’s important to be clear, direct and polite when requesting information. Keep in mind that you will be paying for these services, as such, ask what you need to know. Fortunately, I got responses almost instantly and for those who didn’t respond via email, I proceeded to call. Make an effort to reply to every email, especially when you do not intend on pursuing the conversation, it’s basic courtesy.

Step Four: Choosing the one
After narrowing my options to two psychologists based on the factors mentioned above. It came down to who I felt comfortable with after talking via phone calls. In this case, follow your gut. The psychologist I choose made me feel a sense of joy and peace, in that moment, that was all I needed.

Step Five: Consultation
As a first-timer, the consultation fee wasn’t cheap. The average fee range from my research was between N15,000 to N30, 000 for one consultation session, scheduled between 45mins to 1 hour. I didn’t know what results to expect, so whatever figure I saw seemed comparatively large compared to ten other things I could be using the same amount for. My rationalization was, my mental health is as important as my physical health and it is 100% my responsibility to take care of myself. Secondly, I considered it an investment on myself with unmeasurable returns on investment. Most therapists will ask for a consultation fee before diagnosis and discussing a treatment plan. In my case, my therapist was based outside of Lagos. I had to travel out of town for an in-person consultation session. There are therapists who offer a virtual consultation option. I opted for an in-person consultation because of its added benefits. An in-person consultation is necessary to carry out an accurate mental health diagnosis, as everything matters including tone of voice, body language, choice of words etc. I welcomed the opportunity of leaving town for a few days as a chance to break my routine and to be fully present.

Step Six: Personal Cross-Examination
The journey from the airport to the therapist’s office was nerve-racking. All I had to compare my expectations of therapy sessions were brief scenes from movies. Not knowing what to expect made me nervous. I walked into cream white walls, a black armchair and a lady smiling broadly across the table. That smile was helpful but, before I knew it, I blurted, “how long will this take? I can spare only four weeks to fix this.” She replied, “we’ll need to first find out what the issue is and take it from there.”

Step Seven: Treatment plan and payment
A day after the consultation session, my therapist emailed the diagnosis from the tests I had taken, together with her proposed treatment plan and costs. Before that, we had discussed the cost of each therapy session during the enquiry process. So, I had an idea of how much to budget. However, it is only after the diagnosis that you can know for sure how many sessions you might need. As stated earlier, the journey to a healthy mental state is 100% your responsibility and it’s important to work with a therapist who ensures you don't forget this.
We scheduled a call to discuss every item on the treatment plan, what I should expect and what frequency might produce the most effective results. I settled for one session per week, spread across twelve weeks.
However, there were three items included in the plan that I didn’t think was necessary, as I had already incorporated those aspects into my daily routine. Next, I made payments for the first six sessions. I did this to test the waters. Most therapists in Nigeria will prefer such bulk payments before commencing treatment. From my research, the average range per session was N10,000 to N35,000.
Please note: There are mental health facilities that offer pre-planned packages for significantly less.

Step Eight: Get a journal
Before therapy I rarely journaled. When I did, there were random thoughts about work. Journaling my thoughts every morning helped me see the thoughts that I ruminated on. In my case, they were neither helpful nor productive. Also, it helped me keep track of my progress from my therapy sessions, the tasks I was given and how well I incorporated those tasks into my daily life. As I said, it’s a project y’all.

Step Nine: Embracing Spirituality
When you begin therapy, one of the things you’d quickly realize is, your therapist cannot change you. The change has to come from within you. What your therapist does is help you navigate your mind, habits, emotions and spot patterns. They help you spot the patterns, label the issue and help you understand how to manage or eliminate the issue. The keyword here is help.
Therapy definitely helped to uncover and label the issues I was facing but it was God who healed my pain. My therapist said how fast a person heals depends on how much they are willing to unlearn. Some people take two months, others take years. On my journey, I found what encored me was the truth that, healing, peace and joy were already available to me and all I had to do was learn how to open myself to them. These weren’t things I had to work hard to achieve because God has already provided these to all His children, and those who believe it, receive it.

Step ten: What to expect
Nothing remains the same after therapy. It could become worse; it should become better but nothing remains the same. It could become worse if you succumb to the temptation to quit. The reason is, often we develop strong coping mechanisms to deal with trauma and the effects of trauma and sometimes, these coping mechanisms become comfort zones. Letting go of what you know isn’t the easiest bone to crush. This is where having a close support system to cheer you on comes in handy. It’s important to have two or three people to lean on when it becomes difficult.
For the most part, learning about myself and my proclivities were and is still intriguing and humbling. I have seen myself grow tremendously in such a short time and the biggest takeaway is, external things didn’t need to change for me to experience a more fulfilling life. I’m learning to start where I am, using what I have to become more while enjoying peace, joy and health.

Don’t be afraid to take the first step. Enjoy the process!

This post originally appeared here: https://derajoyce.medium.com/read-this-before-seeing-a-therapist-in-nigeria-223a37389b38

Uber drivers that nag gets under my skin.
That’s how I felt seated at the back of the grey corolla at the foot of an old-looking rock.
“This must be the place,” I mumbled as I glanced at the rear mirror; the driver wore his rough frown well.
“Madam, there’s no road here… and my tires are…” he lamented.
“Drop me here,” I requested. I was prepared to find my way through the scrawny pathways than spare any second listening to the man wining.
As I watched him drive off, I regretted my decision. Here I was, headstrong in the middle of a forgotten village looking for a crate filled with greenish water. I spotted a middle-aged man, walking down the cliff. For some reason, his potbelly reassured me. I approached him and asked if he knew how I could get to the crate. He tried to give me directions then, decided to take me himself. I walked closely behind him, clenching my bag to the side of my waist. I was afraid. If I screamed along this dead path, would someone hear me? I wondered.
“Thank you so much for taking out the time to take me yourself,” I said, trying hard to strip the sentence of any accents.
“No problem ma, I dey on break,” he said.
At that moment, I was determined to keep him talking. I’ve got a theory that as long as a human is talking about themselves, it’s easier to manoeuvre them. Also, I’ve never met a person that doesn’t want to feel heard, even for five minutes. This man was decent, he took me to the spot and told me to be watchful of the people at the crate. He even offered to come back to escort me when I was done. I dipped my hand into my purse and squeezed something into his palms.
I walked down the wide path leading to the crate, grinning, the crate was old, abandoned and yet beautiful. It had three layers of rocks; most people roam around the first two. I went up the second layer, soaking in all its magnificence. A skinny dark boy asked if I needed a mat, he told me I’d have to pay 500 naira for an hour. He said it with a weed stick between his lips. Instead, I asked if he would take pictures of me. As I handed over my phone, I realised what a foul decision I had just made. He could run away with it and nothing would happen.
He smiled at me, thrilled to be my photographer. He showed me the best spots, instructing me on what poses I should take. “You’re good at this,” I told him. “Have you thought of doing this for other people?” I asked.
He laughed. “dey no go trust me na… who go giv you phone?”
That was true, I was trusting him and he recognised it. He became my tour guide, we spoke about him, his family, and about the crate. He told me his name was Saliu. The ultimate test of trust came when I crawled on hands and legs up the third layer of rocks, hanging onto nothing but the guidance of a boy I just met. That green water down wouldn’t be the last thing I see, I told myself.
When we got to the top, I saw the group of men we like to call hoodlums. They sat on the rocks in a semicircle, smoking weed. My heart didn’t skip a beat. I had seen too much already for these men to frighten me. I walked up to them and said hello. Some looked too dazed to respond, visibly surprised at my audacity.
That’s was when, I spotted a girl in red, seated at the edge of the rock. Saliu marched to the girl, I lingered behind, scared to death of the height of the rock. A stream of tears ran down her cheeks and although I couldn’t see her face clearly, she was cloaked in despair. Saliu spoke to her in Hausa and turned to tell me, she wanted to kill herself. My chest stiffened.
I closed my eyes and climbed up the rock, placed my hands on her back and began rubbing it gently, while Saliu and a couple of the “hoodlum” guys begged her in Hausa to step away from the edge. By a stroke of luck, Saliu pulled her aside and I jolted backwards. The men basically said since I was female, she might open up to me.
I took her hand and stepped as far as we could from the edge of the crate. What do you tell a person who wants to escape from life? I started like slowpoke, asking her to tell me the problem as if I could help, as if I had the magnitude to understand what she was experiencing. She peered at me through her tear-filled lashes and looked away. I swallowed the lump in my throat, biting the corner of my lower lip. I stood there in silence, with her, not saying anything, not asking for anything. We both stood in silence looking over the rustic roofs of Mpappe.
“Do you like this place?” she asked.
“Yes,” I whispered, surprised she spoke clean English. “It’s different.”
She nodded. I nodded too. We stood in silence again.
“It makes me happy,” I said breaking the silence. “Coming to places like this make me happy. What makes you happy?” I asked.
She gazed afar before turning to find my face, “it’s not here,” she said.
“I can take you to that rock up there,” she said, pointing to an elongated rock tip. The thing looked like it couldn’t even hold itself.
“No,” I smiled. “I can’t do it.”
She smiled.
“Oh my god, you smiled,” I said beaming, unable to hold my happiness. “I’m sorry… I’m hugging you,” I said, encircling my arms around her. She resisted at first before succumbing. When we released each other, the group of men began clapping. We all laughed at each other. I’ll never know her name.
Saliu walked me down the crush rock and waited till I found a bike. Whilst on the bike, I closed my eyes as air rushed into my face, remembering how as a teen, my father had banned me from touching a bike, ever. I wanted to spread my arms apart like in Titanic; I was ecstatic. I couldn’t help but wonder, was it my decision to visit crush rock or was I led to be there at that time, and all that was expected of me was to simply trust the process.

Story with pictures: https://derajoyce.medium.com/i-saved-someones-life-by-being-quiet-2a79dffbe151

folak48:
I on the other hand feels God has abandoned me.
I have prayed , fasted consulted men of God yet no turnaround in my situation arrghhh!
The thought of almost 40 with nothing drives me nuts.
I am getting Fed up

Please hang in there. Sometimes, help is closer than you think.

Yesterday, I read a comment on a young man who killed himself and it read, “we’ve a suicide epidemic on our hands. Young Nigerians are tired and killing themselves everyday.”
I know this to be true. In the last two years I and most of my friends have had at least one really bad mental breakdown.
Although, I’ve never personally thought of committing suicide, I once woke up feeling like there was no point to everything.
It was about two years ago and I was hanging to sanity by a thread.
I didn’t even know it at the time.
I woke up like every other day and walked to the junction to take a cab to work - just ten minutes away.
I hopped into a car and in no time, I could tell it was the one-chance type car people talk about. The driver kept on staring at me from the rear mirror as if waiting for something to happen.

I noticed the man besides me was half asleep, as if drugged and I was the only female in the car. Two men in front, one sleeping besides me. There was a stifling silence and another car, a Mercedes drove so close and the both drivers spoke in sign language.
I calmed myself, psyching myself into believing nothing absurd was going on. Then, the driver sped past my office.
I screamed. He ignored.
Luckily, the traffic light shone red and I knew that was my chance. I quickly opened the door. The driver realized his mistake - he had forgot to put on the child lock. I jumped out and the light turned green. I don’t recall how I crossed the road with all the rush on a Monday morning in Lagos.
When I got to the office, that’s when it occurred to me that I had just escaped kidnappers, who seemed to be somewhat surprised I was still mentally conscious.

I knew I ought to be thankful and perhaps get on my knees to sing praises. Rather, I was furious. What the hell was this? It meant, all I had to do was walk down my street, get into a cab and I was history. What was the point of anything?
Tbh, I thought if God was only there to save me from deadly shit like that, I wanted out. This life was freaking exhausting and pointless. Those thoughts brewed and brewed and by evening I was soaked in tears, on my bed, with a pillow over my head. I decided I won’t go to work the next day. Then, I remembered I had scheduled a meeting with a life coach. “I would cancel,” I whispered to myself before falling asleep.

The week before the incident, a friend told me about a speaker at church who spoke on mental health. Prior to that, I hadn’t had any sort of therapy but I knew I needed one. I wasn’t depressed but I was apathetic as hell and this growing indifference was spilling on everything else. It was becoming a chore just laughing or acting happy.
I thought speaking to a counselor would do me some good. So, I asked for the speaker’s number and called to schedule a meeting. He proposed Thursday and then called in Friday to postpone the meeting to Tuesday. He sounded empathetic, like he cared or something.

There I was on Tuesday morning, eyes swollen and red from crying nonstop all night. I wanted to pick up my phone and cancel but I was too tired to. I wanted to talk to God but I was pissed at Him, so I told Him, I wouldn’t speak to Him and I didn’t want to hear His voice in my head either, I needed my space.
With my last respect, I dragged myself to the bathroom, showered, threw on a rumpled shirt and called an Uber.
When I got to the speaker’s office, it was as empty as I was.
Can you imagine, I stopped my pity party for this?
He called asking I waited a few minutes, as he was stuck in traffic. “Of course,” I thought. “Nothing works in this country.”
I glanced at the window of an old dusty car in the compound, my face hung like a rotten potato. I didn’t care.


The speaker drove in, nice car, clean clothes, huge smile on his face like the day was supposed to be good.
I was only there out of respect but he didn’t know that. I walked behind him into his office and I sat even without being asked to. I didn’t care.
He walked to his seat and asked if I drank alcohol. “Is this a trick question?” I asked myself. “Yeah,” I mumbled.
“Good!” He exclaimed, excited like a child watching cartoons.
I rolled my eyes, the theatrics was irking - because that’s what trauma does to you, you begin to doubt help.
Anyway, he filled my teacup halfway with amarula and added some coffee. I was eager to try it, at least there was free alcohol.
He started talking. I still didn’t care, can’t remember what he was yarning about.
Then he said, “You’re not talking to God.”
“What is this? Church? I don’t fucking need a preacher?” I wanted to yell out.


He stood and pulled out his passport, dropped it on the table and said, “I’m supposed to be at the airport on my way to Atlanta,” he paused, looked at his watch and continued, “my wife will birth our second child in eight hours and I promised to be by her side ...but you must be very important to God because He asked me to come here instead. He says you won’t listen to Him.”
I burst into tears, my hands shaking.
“God cares that much?” I wondered.
We talked for three hours, that talk changed my life literally. We met a few times after that.
I didn’t pay a dime, God handled it.
The next day, an acquaintance blowed up my phone with calls telling me that he needed to get a car and driver to take me to work and back. I’m suspicious. “Why do you need to do that?” I asked. “What do you want in return?”


He said, “I just want peace Jay. I can’t sleep and it feels like there’s a hook on my neck. I need to do this to rest...” then he added, “God loves you...”
I wanted to laugh but he sounded serious, so I stayed quiet. Before long, I didn’t have to worry about transportation to work and back, and of course, I was terrified of public transportation.
My relationship with God has and is quite unconventional. I refer to him as my Daddy, it’s cute sometimes but most times, I’m throwing a massive tantrum still, I know He has kept his word about being with me ALWAYS. What struck me was how He arranged for help even before the incident.
I still sought therapy after the incident. Mental health is a real thing and it could hit anybody really hard.
I’ve never shared this story, didn’t want to but I felt prompted to.
Please if you’re in pain, reach out. Please say a prayer, God always listens.

Any culture that attaches importance to the perception of reality than its reality is in trouble. The value of money is infused into the DNA of the Igbo culture. It controls everything from how an individual is treated, to how much an individual is allowed to express.
In families, the siblings with the least money are expected to say less and become generally submissive to the orders of the richest. As with everything else, the chain of command comes from where the money is. The Igbo's adoration for money is in everything; it's in the songs, it’s in the titles, it’s in the value of perception.
Perception is the driving force behind residential infrastructure, marriage and religion. The size of your house in the village matters. The kind wife you marry matters, particularly her physical appearance. The church you attend matters if you can get a deacon title, super! Invariably, in a culture where perception is gold, most things intangible is swept under the carpet, just like the effects of the war was.
Igbos have always been risk-takers, industrious and curious, it’s what makes any Igbo thrive anywhere in the world. However, after the war, the Igbos learned bitterly that their industrial aggressiveness wasn’t appreciated by the other tribes and in extreme cases, will not be tolerated. The Igbos lost their wealth, lost lives and lost their dignity. They went inwards to rebuild, which culminated in decisions like mass exodus to different countries, intense practicality in choosing a spouse; the man’s role and woman’s role were clarified, and the woman had to bear children, especially male children. A woman’s worth was measured by how many male children she could bear. It was practical, many soldiers had died. The men had to prove themselves and regain family dignity by how much wealth they could build in the shortest time possible, again practical given that most had to start afresh.
Eventually, a culture was reinvented where, perception of reality, money, marriage and religion sat as the four pillars in a family. Unfortunately, generational wounds don’t heal themselves because time passed, they replicate. Healing can be quantified neither can it be reflected on a list of assets so, it's negligible.
Now, there are two generations of Igbos at war; we do not want to be like our parents, we do not want to have marriages like our parents', we do not want to be subjected to traditions we deem useless, we do not understand why it matters what everyone else thinks. On the other hand, we have parents who have experienced war, the effects of war, starting with nothing and were built by practically. The culture isn’t necessarily useless, it simply needs to evolve. We need to have conversations on why certain things are the way they are.
"That's how it is," isn't enough.

“In some ways, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.” ― Viktor E. Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

Nothing on earth is tougher than the human spirit. Not rocks. Not spider silk. Not graphene.
The resolve of a human spirit; a god on earth, cannot be broken. Not by poverty, nor oppression, nor sickness, nor death. It retaliates until the end. It stays fighting until it wins, even to the point of waring with itself for subversion.

Nigeria didn’t start bleeding today. This is older than the last generation and the generation before them. This fight is bigger than one generation, and the blood, now thicker than a sea of putrid redness, cries out for vengeance.
It all began when the trees cried out as its young, abled offsprings were chained by the neck and shipped on foreign ships to lands of no return. That’s when the blood began to flow. For 14 centuries, the land wept and the blood culminated with every battle for an extra inch of land. For every time domination reared its ugly head in the form of a white colonizer, the blood flowed.

The blood flowed as kinsmen learned how to butcher each other for a single drop of the wealth juice on the tip of their tongues, heedless to them that they were one people and should have stood by each other. When over two million Biafrans starved to death; 30,000 Nigerians killed from the 1966 anti-Igbo pogrom; Odi, a community Bayelsa of perhaps 15,000 people was razed to the ground and not one building stood erect; when Boko Haram killed over 6600 by 2014; when villages in Kaduna, Jos and Borno were burnt to the ground without as much as a media whisper. The blood didn’t begin flowing today.

For years, the ruling lieutenants have deluded themselves into thinking of themselves a special breed of humans, fit to wilt their sword unapologetically at the necks of struggling Nigerians, siphoning the wealth that was made for an entire nation. And now, that blood has begun to speak.

The blood of hungry children who go to bed, starved in a country oiled with riches. The blood of every young dream shattered by a systematic social-caste, where an impenetrable, invisible line divides the son of a rich elite from that of a poor labourer.

People think the worst thing about poverty is a rumbling belly and bottom of a potholed bridge for a bed; no, the worst kind of poverty is the poverty that infiltrates the cells of the mind. The poverty that reduces a person to think only about what is obtainable at the moment. The reduction of a man - a godlike man - to an animal. That is what those blood-sucking parasites are. An impoverished mind doesn’t need to live in poverty to think solely of self, or lack the imagination to lead or create wealth. Even at the foot of pot of gold, they will still think of scarcity, self, chaos and mayhem. It is all they see. A thug will think like a thug.

Like Hitler, consumed by his radical antisemitism beliefs, he dedicated himself to the removal of the Jews, to purify Germans and make Germany a great nation again. The resolve of this single man caused the death of about 6 million Jews and instigated World War 2 - killing over 85 million people. Yes, one man!

That’s all it takes, one man. The unyielding will of one man can revolutionize the entire planet.

Like Maurice Ralph Hilleman, an American microbiologist who developed over 36 vaccines, 14 of which are routinely recommended in current vaccine schedules for measles, mumps, hepatitis A, hepatitis B, chickenpox, meningitis, pneumonia and Haemophilus influenza bacteria. He also played a role in the discovery of the cold-producing adenoviruses, the hepatitis viruses, and the cancer-causing virus SV40. This is what one man’s resolve to make a difference can do.

Every land has a soul and when the time comes, she cries out for vengeance. Blood never vanishes.
While it took 100 days and 800,000 massacred to create the Rwanda of today, nine years after Egyptians took to the streets in 2011; inspired by the Tunisian street vendor who set himself on fire to protest the humiliation he suffered at the hands of a police officer, the much-coveted change they clamoured and died for is a tad elusive.

It takes more than some anger for change to happen. It takes a resolve of the human spirit to call forth a better future for everyone. Else, like Sierra Leone, a war that lasted for 11 years with over 70,000 casualties and 2.6 million displaced people could simply end with limbless humans and bitter stories.

But ours can be a new country born out of the blood.

As long as the sun rises when the sun should rise, the mighty will fall when their time comes. They will drink out of their impunity and think themselves gods, lame gods, drunk on the blood of all their wickedness but their time will come.

Like when the enfeebled Hitler, dressed in a soup-stained uniform, dissolved his brain with a 7.65mm Walther PP pistol while biting down on a cyanide capsule to ensure there would be no doubt of his death.
Or, when the terrifying Benito Mussolini met his end from the hands of a common Italian partisan from a small village in northern Italy. This same dictator who was responsible for over 400,000 killed during WWII and another 30,000 during the Italian invasion of Ethiopia under his directives, died like a peasant.

As long as the moons show up when she’s supposed to, the power-drunk will inevitably dig their graves with their arrogance.
It’s time for Nigeria. This blood will speak for every one of us.

“In some ways, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice.” ― Viktor E. Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

Nothing on earth is tougher than the human spirit. Not rocks. Not spider silk. Not graphene.
The resolve of a human spirit; a god on earth, cannot be broken. Not by poverty, nor oppression, nor sickness, nor death. It retaliates until the end. It stays fighting until it wins, even to the point of waring with itself for subversion.

Nigeria didn’t start bleeding today. This is older than the last generation and the generation before them. This fight is bigger than one generation, and the blood, now thicker than a sea of putrid redness, cries out for vengeance.
It all began when the trees cried out as its young, abled offsprings were chained by the neck and shipped on foreign ships to lands of no return. That’s when the blood began to flow. For 14 centuries, the land wept and the blood culminated with every battle for an extra inch of land. For every time domination reared its ugly head in the form of a white colonizer, the blood flowed.

The blood flowed as kinsmen learned how to butcher each other for a single drop of the wealth juice on the tip of their tongues, heedless to them that they were one people and should have stood by each other. When over two million Biafrans starved to death; 30,000 Nigerians killed from the 1966 anti-Igbo pogrom; Odi, a community Bayelsa of perhaps 15,000 people was razed to the ground and not one building stood erect; when Boko Haram killed over 6600 by 2014; when villages in Kaduna, Jos and Borno were burnt to the ground without as much as a media whisper. The blood didn’t begin flowing today.

For years, the ruling lieutenants have deluded themselves into thinking of themselves a special breed of humans, fit to wilt their sword unapologetically at the necks of struggling Nigerians, siphoning the wealth that was made for an entire nation. And now, that blood has begun to speak.

The blood of hungry children who go to bed, starved in a country oiled with riches. The blood of every young dream shattered by a systematic social-caste, where an impenetrable, invisible line divides the son of a rich elite from that of a poor labourer.

People think the worst thing about poverty is a rumbling belly and bottom of a potholed bridge for a bed; no, the worst kind of poverty is the poverty that infiltrates the cells of the mind. The poverty that reduces a person to think only about what is obtainable at the moment. The reduction of a man - a godlike man - to an animal. That is what those blood-sucking parasites are. An impoverished mind doesn’t need to live in poverty to think solely of self, or lack the imagination to lead or create wealth. Even at the foot of pot of gold, they will still think of scarcity, self, chaos and mayhem. It is all they see. A thug will think like a thug.

Like Hitler, consumed by his radical antisemitism beliefs, he dedicated himself to the removal of the Jews, to purify Germans and make Germany a great nation again. The resolve of this single man caused the death of about 6 million Jews and instigated World War 2 - killing over 85 million people. Yes, one man!

That’s all it takes, one man. The unyielding will of one man can revolutionize the entire planet.

Like Maurice Ralph Hilleman, an American microbiologist who developed over 36 vaccines, 14 of which are routinely recommended in current vaccine schedules for measles, mumps, hepatitis A, hepatitis B, chickenpox, meningitis, pneumonia and Haemophilus influenza bacteria. He also played a role in the discovery of the cold-producing adenoviruses, the hepatitis viruses, and the cancer-causing virus SV40. This is what one man’s resolve to make a difference can do.

Every land has a soul and when the time comes, she cries out for vengeance. Blood never vanishes.
While it took 100 days and 800,000 massacred to create the Rwanda of today, nine years after Egyptians took to the streets in 2011; inspired by the Tunisian street vendor who set himself on fire to protest the humiliation he suffered at the hands of a police officer, the much-coveted change they clamoured and died for is a tad elusive.

It takes more than some anger for change to happen. It takes a resolve of the human spirit to call forth a better future for everyone. Else, like Sierra Leone, a war that lasted for 11 years with over 70,000 casualties and 2.6 million displaced people could simply end with limbless humans and bitter stories.

But ours can be a new country born out of the blood.

As long as the sun rises when the sun should rise, the mighty will fall when their time comes. They will drink out of their impunity and think themselves gods, lame gods, drunk on the blood of all their wickedness but their time will come.

Like when the enfeebled Hitler, dressed in a soup-stained uniform, dissolved his brain with a 7.65mm Walther PP pistol while biting down on a cyanide capsule to ensure there would be no doubt of his death.

Or, when the terrifying Benito Mussolini met his end from the hands of a common Italian partisan from a small village in northern Italy. This same dictator who was responsible for over 400,000 killed during WWII and another 30,000 during the Italian invasion of Ethiopia under his directives, died like a peasant.

As long as the moons show up when she’s supposed to, the power-drunk will inevitably dig their graves with their arrogance.
It’s time for Nigeria. This blood will speak for every one of us.

As Nigeria turns 60 today, October 1, this is an anniversary card to the 60-year-old problem.
The recurrent, unresolved challenges faced by Nigerians stem from the proliferation of a regressive social culture. In other words, the ruling lieutenants are only a part of Nigeria’s numerous problems, a huge part nonetheless. They too are products of a social culture that has festered for 60 years - an evergreen, vicious virus that will continue to fester unless extinguished.
These are lofty words. I agree.

Here is the main point:
In understanding the force of social culture, it’s important to remember that as humans, we have a deep need to move and operate within social groups. As a member of a social group, an individual will typically conform to the culture of the social group they find ourselves in, either physically or virtually. All individuals in one way or the other yields to the societal values of the social structure they find themselves within.
Social force in itself is neither positive nor negative. However, if not continuously observed and appraised, it could morph into a thriving social culture, where diversity is celebrated and value is credited or, into a systemic rot where ass-kissing is exalted and value, undervalued. The latter is a more natural occurrence. As in our case.
I have identified three ways our social culture is ruining Nigeria.

1. The ‘us vs them’ mentality
Tribalism is as old and ruthless as an angry ocean wave, coupled with technology, it becomes darn mayhem. Our current social culture embraces tribalism.
Retracing; the inherent nature of the members of any social group is to protect the interest of the group they belong to and demonize all outsiders.
Yet, all the sides of Nigeria - North, South, East and West have something valuable to offer. In reality, we exist to support and collaborate, not terrorize, hoard and constantly drag each other – on twitter.

Fortunately, a fresh breed of right-thinking Nigerians are rising above tribal intolerance. However, as an Igbo, having a Yoruba friend is a far cry from the systematic change required for Yorubas and Igbos to co-create together on a massive scale.
Understand, if there’s a fire in the North, the wind will inevitably blow smoke to the South. The earlier we admit that our differences are illusionary, only then can we begin to understand how connected we all are.

2. Pebbling Mediocrity
When value is undervalued, mediocrity overrides excellence.
In this regard, we are all guilty, finger-pointing is lame. Understand, this isn’t about the ruling lieutenants, for if they relinquish their positions, hungrier beasts will rise to the feast; each cycle more vicious than the former. The problem is the dysfunctional social culture.
Nigeria’s largely dysfunctional culture permits confusion, hysteria, and wide adoption of godfatherism. It shouldn’t be surprising that there’s widespread poverty.
In such hysteria, individuals like you and me, become obsessed with our own interests and agendas, and form cults to secure our positions. Picture hungry leprechauns over a pot of coins.

When the governing cohorts become more concerned about their status and riches, their egos swell to bursting point, pleading for lickers. In such a putrescent atmosphere, those who excel at licking, schmoosing and politicking will inevitably rise to the top like hot dough, while the forward-thinking group will fight for survival or fade into the abyss of dead dreams. This doesn’t phenomenon doesn’t only occur in politics. It is at the heart of the economy penetrating key developing industries.

It’s the “Nigerian factor” everyone laughs about.

3. Keypad Warriors
Like babies, highly sensitive to the moods and emotions of the mother, as part of a social group, we’re highly pruned to pick up on the thoughts and emotions of other people. Give it up for twitter!

To cut to the chase, every time you rant about Nigeria online, you trigger a spiral movement of nerve-racking emotions. This should not defeat the purpose of free speech, however, this knowledge should help you identify cohorts who intend on prompting your emotions by propagating fake news and propaganda.

On the flip side, this also means we can instil a feeling of patriotism amongst Nigerians. We’ve seen this in the past: the relentless defence of the Nigerian jollof rice, national admiration of the hunky Anthony Joshua and Adesanya, and the occasional “repositioning” of other African countries, when they attempt to remind us of our epileptic electricity supply… like we can’t feel the heat.
Here’s a job for the media: we can implant subtle positive cues about Nigeria to Nigerians and foreigners. Someone’s got to tell our story, we might as well do a reasonable job at it.

This brings me to the final main point:
In creating a socio-cultural shift, one tiny change can trigger a long-term ripple effect.
We can bring about systemic change - I’m adequately checking my motivational tone – by small, incremental cultural reforms. Beginning with ourselves, our families, the workplace and then, the nation. Let us begin by identifying the values of the social groups we belong to. Remember, a good apple among rotten apples will rot fast.

Why is this important?
Healthy groups instil in individuals the drive to pursue a communal-driven purpose; often, an innovative and life-altering purpose. Organizations where value is rewarded over mediocrity eventually rids out the weeds and attracts the resourceful. They cooperate more and learn from each other. In such groups, humans develop greater empathy and access multiple gifts in being diverse. It is our duty as enlightened humans to create such groups, making society healthier in the process.
What’s the point of this anniversary card (Aka rant)?
If it made you think for a second, then, purpose served.

Nigeria turns 60 on October 1, 2020. In a way, this might be too early for a birthday card. However, the recurrent, unresolved challenges prevalent in Nigeria appear to stem from the proliferation of a prolific regressive value system. In other words, it’s not the ruling lieutenants that are the cause of Nigeria’s numerous problems, neither are they to be exonerated from them. They are the products of a system that has festered for 60 years - an evergreen, vicious virus that will continue to reoccur in different faces unless extinguished. The reason for this common pattern is what is really at fault.
These are lofty words. I agree.
Here are the main points:
In acquainting yourself with the force of social culture, it’s important to be reminded that as humans, we have a deep need to move and operate within social groups. As a member of a social group, an individual will typically conform to the culture of the social group they find ourselves in, either environmentally or virtually. All individuals to some degree, yield to the societal values of the social structure they find themselves in.
Social force in itself is neither positive nor negative. However, if it’s not continuously observed and appraised, it could either morph into a thriving social culture where diversity is celebrated and value is credited or, into a systemic rot where ass-kissing is exalted and value undervalued. The latter is a more natural occurrence. As in our case.
I have identified three ways our social culture is running down Nigeria, depleting lives, time and resources.
1. Us vs them
Tribalism is as old and ruthless as they come but coupled with technology, it becomes darn mayhem. Our current social culture embraces tribalism. While the inherent nature of the members of any social group is to protect the interest of the group and demonize all outsiders, during unpredictable times such as these, collaboration will richly serve all parties. All the four sides of Nigeria - North, South, East and West have something valuable to offer. In ways, we exist to support and collaborate, not terrorize, hoard and constantly drag each other on twitter.
Fortunately, a new breed of fresh thinking Nigerians are increasingly advocating for tribal tolerance. However, having a Yoruba friend as an Igbo is a far cry from the systematic change required for Yorubas and Igbos to co-create together on a massive scale. Understand, if there’s a fire in the North, the wind will inevitably blow smoke to the South. When we admit that our differences are illusionary, only then do we appreciate how connected we all are.
2. Pebbling Mediocrity
When value is undervalued, mediocrity rises to the challenge. In this regard, we are all guilty, finger-pointing –though it feels good – is lame. Understand, it’s not merely about the ruling lieutenants, for if they relinquish their positions, hungrier beasts will rise to the feast. Each cycle more vicious than the former. The problem is the dysfunctional social culture. Nigeria’s largely dysfunctional culture permits confusion, hysteria, and the wide adoption of the scarcity mentality. It doesn’t help that there’s widespread poverty; a fruit, with seedlings bearing eviler repercussions.
In such hysteria, individuals- you and me - become obsessed with our interests and agendas, and form cults to secure our positions. Picture a hungry leprechaun over a pot of coins.
With cohorts more concerned about their status and riches, their egos swell to bursting point, pleading for leakers. In this contentious atmosphere, those who excel at licking, schmoosing and politicking will inevitably rise to the top like hot dough, while the forward-thinking group will be left fighting for survival or fade into the abyss of dead dreams. This doesn’t only occur in politics. It is at the heart of the economy penetrating core industries.
Hint: it’s the “Nigerian factor” everyone jokes about.
3. Jungle Warriors/Keypad Warriors
Like babies, highly sensitive to the moods and emotions of the mother, as part of a social group, we’re highly pruned to pick up on the thoughts and emotions of other people. Give it up for twitter!
Long story short, every time you rant about Nigeria online, you trigger a spiral movement of nerve-racking emotions. Not to defeat the purpose of free speech, however, the knowledge of this help you identify cohorts who intend on prompting your emotions, and possible demise using propaganda.
On the flip side, this also means we can instil a feeling of patriotism amongst Nigerians. We’ve seen this in the past: the relentless defence of the Nigerian jollof rice, the national admiration of the hunky Anthony Joshua and the occasional “reminder of our prominence” to other Africans often attempt to notify us of our epileptic electricity supply… like we can’t feel the heat.
I think of Paris often, never visited, hope to visit soon. Over the years, I’ve been sold the story about Paris through media. Here’s a job for the media: we can implant subtle cues about Nigeria to Nigerians and foreigners. Someone’s got to tell our story, we might as well do a reasonable job at it.
This brings me to the final main point.
Mirrors are incredible at reflecting our non-performance. In creating systemic change, the minutest change can trigger a long-term ripple effect. Just before the good ones don’t shout doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
We can bring about systemic change- I’m adequately checking my motivational tone – by small, incremental cultural reforms. Beginning with our families, then to the workplace, and especially when identifying the social groups we belong to. As explained already, a good apple among rotten apples will rot fast.
Why is this important?
Healthy social groups instil in individuals the drive to pursue communal purpose- often, innovative and life-altering purpose. Organizations where value is rewarded over mediocrity, inevitable weed out the weeds and attract the resourceful. They cooperate more and learn from each other. In such groups, humans develop greater empathy and access the sweet juice of diversity. It is our duty as enlightened humans to create as many such groups as possible, making our society healthier in the process.
What’s the point of this article (Aka rant)?
If it made you think for a second, then purpose served.

This whole article stemmed from brainstorming how to package and make educative content more attractive to the mass Nigerian market. It was also inspired by Robert Greene’s The Laws of Human Nature.

Nigeria turns 60 on October 1, 2020. In a way, this might be too early for a birthday card. However, the recurrent, unresolved challenges prevalent in Nigeria appear to stem from the proliferation of a prolific regressive value system. In other words, it’s not the ruling lieutenants that are the cause of Nigeria’s numerous problems, neither are they to be exonerated from them. They are the products of a system that has festered for 60 years - an evergreen, vicious virus that will continue to reoccur in different faces unless extinguished. The reason for this common pattern is what is really at fault.
These are lofty words. I agree.

Here are the main points:
In acquainting yourself with the force of social culture, it’s important to be reminded that as humans, we have a deep need to move and operate within social groups. As a member of a social group, an individual will typically conform to the culture of the social group they find ourselves in, either environmentally or virtually. All individuals to some degree, yield to the societal values of the social structure they find themselves in.
Social force in itself is neither positive nor negative. However, if it’s not continuously observed and appraised, it could either morph into a thriving social culture where diversity is celebrated and value is credited or, into a systemic rot where ass-kissing is exalted and value undervalued. The latter is a more natural occurrence. As in our case.
I have identified three ways our social culture is running down Nigeria, depleting lives, time and resources.
1. Us vs them
Tribalism is as old and ruthless as they come but coupled with technology, it becomes darn mayhem. Our current social culture embraces tribalism. While the inherent nature of the members of any social group is to protect the interest of the group and demonize all outsiders, during unpredictable times such as these, collaboration and co-operation will richly serve all parties. All the four sides of Nigeria - North, South, East and West have something valuable to offer. In ways, we exist to support and collaborate, not terrorize, hoard and constantly drag each other on twitter.
Fortunately, a new breed of fresh thinking Nigerians are increasingly advocating for tribal tolerance. However, having a Yoruba friend as an Igbo is a far cry from the systematic change required for Yorubas and Igbos to co-create together on a massive scale. Understand, if there’s a fire in the North, the wind will inevitably blow smoke to the South. When we admit that our differences are illusionary, only then do we appreciate how connected we all are.
2. Pebbling Mediocrity
When value is undervalued, mediocrity rises to the challenge. In this regard, we are all guilty, finger-pointing –though it feels good – is lame. Understand, it’s not merely about the ruling lieutenants, for if they relinquish their positions, hungrier beasts will rise to the feast. Each cycle more vicious than the former. The problem is the dysfunctional social culture. Nigeria’s largely dysfunctional culture permits confusion, hysteria, and the wide adoption of the scarcity mentality. It doesn’t help that there’s widespread poverty; a fruit, with seedlings bearing eviler repercussions.
In such hysteria, individuals- you and me - become obsessed with our interests and agendas, and form cults to secure our positions. Picture a hungry leprechaun over a pot of coins.
With cohorts more concerned about their status and riches, their egos swell to bursting point, pleading for leakers. In this contentious atmosphere, those who excel at licking, schmoosing and politicking will inevitably rise to the top like hot dough, while the forward-thinking group will be left fighting for survival or fade into the abyss of dead dreams. This doesn’t only occur in politics. It is at the heart of the economy penetrating core industries.
Hint: it’s the “Nigerian factor” everyone jokes about.
3. Jungle Warriors/Keypad Warriors
Like babies, highly sensitive to the moods and emotions of the mother, as part of a social group, we’re highly pruned to pick up on the thoughts and emotions of other people. Give it up for twitter!
Long story short, every time you rant about Nigeria online, you trigger a spiral movement of nerve-racking emotions. Not to defeat the purpose of free speech, however, the knowledge of this help you identify cohorts who intend on prompting your emotions, and possible demise using propaganda.
On the flip side, this also means we can instil a feeling of patriotism amongst Nigerians. We’ve seen this in the past: the relentless defence of the Nigerian jollof rice, the national admiration of the hunky Anthony Joshua and the occasional “reminder of our prominence” to other Africans often attempt to notify us of our epileptic electricity supply… like we can’t feel the heat.
I think of Paris often, never visited, hope to visit soon. Over the years, I’ve been sold the story about Paris through media. Here’s a job for the media: we can implant subtle cues about Nigeria to Nigerians and foreigners. Someone’s got to tell our story, we might as well do a reasonable job at it.
This brings me to the final main point.
Mirrors are incredible at reflecting our non-performance. In creating systemic change, the minutest change can trigger a long-term ripple effect. Just before the good ones don’t shout doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
We can bring about systemic change- I’m adequately checking my motivational tone – by small, incremental cultural reforms. Beginning with our families, then to the workplace, and especially when identifying the social groups we belong to. As explained already, a good apple among rotten apples will rot fast.
Why is this important?
Healthy social groups instil in individuals the drive to pursue communal purpose- often, innovative and life-altering purpose. Organizations where value is rewarded over mediocrity, inevitable weed out the weeds and attract the resourceful. They cooperate more and learn from each other. In such groups, humans develop greater empathy and access the sweet juice of diversity. It is our duty as enlightened humans to create as many such groups as possible, making our society healthier in the process.
What’s the point of this article (Aka rant)?
If it made you think for a second, then purpose served.

This whole article stemmed from brainstorming how to package and make educative content more attractive to the mass Nigerian market. It was also inspired by Robert Greene’s The Laws of Human Nature.

Constantly reminded of how far we’re from the promise.
That period were you question the depth of the religion you were born into is valid and healthy.
That break where the heart and mind wonders, deliberating the existence of a God is useful in forging an intimate bond.
However, once you’ve decided on being a Christian, it’s only imperative you aim for the full worth of your new identity.
What has continuously bugged my mind is how little Christians assess the power of the source, especially to dominate industries.
The ease of riveting to a life of “performing holy acts” to please the Father has painfully squeezed many Christians into a cube of non relevance in major industries.
While it’s easy to scuff at the mention of leading industries, controlling resources is at the heart of how much impact Christians can actually make.
Why?
Because, Industry leaders make the socioeconomic rules.
Not to say a life ridden with ills (sins) pleases the Father; a fate that wouldn’t exist if that brethren were truly in communion with God.
God’s transformative presence will always be reflected in a vulnerable heart, through the bearing of the fruits of the Holy Spirit.
Would this take one day?
No.
More like a lifetime of continuous incremental growth.
God has never hidden the fact that we in the human flesh CANNOT earn his love and grace through our “performance.”
Hence, the free gift of grace.
Yet, the inheritance of the Sons remain vastly untouched as most of us squabble around to show ourselves “approved.”
Everything in our lives ought to speak of a GREATER light. Especially our work and how we treat people; definitely not the usual “judgy” look and hell tales.
After all, no one can boost of his righteousness.
The one who has been forgiven much, loves much.
James 4:2 says, "Ye have not, because ye ask not." God expects us to ask!
The Son of a King does not ask to own a dainty room in the palace, when he’s destined to rule a kingdom. That son will ask for strategic placements, military expertise and an apt ability to execute.
Of course, it’s only a son who knows he’s a Son.

There are two types of deaths.

There’s the death that breaks something in you, and there’s the death that stirs transformation.
Although eruptive pain shows her battered head in every death; the death of breakage conceives a form of a fury pain that burns through the heart, leaving a permanent scar on the injured soul. It’s the type of death that leaves you at 3 am crying over someone who died ten years ago. It just never goes away; maybe it shouldn’t.
Everyone will feel. When you do, you’ll know it’s it.

Then there’s the death of transformation.
It hurts differently. It’s a more empathetic, in most cases, a sympathetic kind of pain.
It stirs you enough to feel the heat of demise yet, subtle enough to drag through the day without necessarily interference with your “real world.”
We’ve all felt this. Most people forget.
My first was Chioma. She exuded an aura of pure goodness. She was the type to keep a smile on your lips a few minutes longer the encounter you had with her. She was devoted to God, that’s how it seemed with the endless masses and benedictions. I should’ve told her I really liked her; it never crossed my mind.
Then she died.

My eyes clouded with burning tears, and that night, I sat with 2 am.
First, there was anger, then a sense of loss, then pity.
There was something else.
A distinct feeling of helplessness. The uncanny realization of man’s illusion of control.
However bewildered I felt, it faded after a week.
First times suck because there’s always a feeling of unfinished business.

Shola came next.
For 20 minutes after the rude shock of his death, my back remained stiffened. Stone cold, sunken fingertips, dry mouth and very white eyes. No tears.
It wasn’t emotional for me. Just stark shock, same as, a shock-fish looks in death.
He was the guy I used to know from work.

This is what I did know; he had solid goals. The type that accompanied vision boards and a strong inclination to positive thinking. He was a church fellow, in some way, most people are. He had found love, I heard he said, she completed him. There was going to be a wedding soon. He was also really good at his craft. He did the work to become a better person, a struggle mostly yet, the zeal was apparent.

That distinct feeling of helplessness returned, with two cousins.
I questioned the rationality of existence, not from the standpoint of anger against the creator but on the novelty of ordinariness.

It is strength of legs I trivialise; the sharpness of sight I torture with screen lights.
The hugs I always forget to give.
It is not pouring myself enough in the work I did, it becomes mundane.
It is the laziness in not pushing hard enough.
It is the ego of not knowing when to apologize or step back.
It’s those tiny moments I agree to burden my mind with worries from the past and anxiety over the future.
The disagreement I prefer to ignore than fix.
The friends I hardly check on.
The night sky I barely look at it. The hesitation to give something, anything.
The fear of being hurt, which still hurts either way.
The hoarding of things I never use. The erratic comparison with who reached where and when. Holding on for more money. Eating ice cream with the stupid fear of tighter jeans. The ceaseless complaining about the weather, or, the government. It’s never hot enough or cold enough. Hardly convenient enough.
It’s the list of goals; constructed intentions with deadlines, where if successfully executed, little chips of validation will be served. I agree those serve a purpose, I doubt it’s the purpose.
It’s every day I show up not being authentically myself.
People say Kobe Bryant lived a full life. A life worthy of emulation and full of inspiration. I say he showed up every day and made each day worth it.

The humbling effect of cluelessness over what tomorrow holds should free you.
Nothing’s ever that serious.

Lol I actually realized that after I was done typing. Yo, couldn’t let it go to waste.

Fortissimo502:
Derajoyce, I agree with pretty much everything you said. I think you may have misread my post. I was replying to LilMissFavvy.

Hey there,
I’d love to have a discussion with you. I believe we could learn from each other.
I personally don’t have all the answers and I mentioned, some of what I say would be taken out of context and that’s totally fine. However, I’d like to address the following for better clarity:
Boldness: we are the children of God and as his children, we ought to know our place in his eyes. There should never be reason for us to feel undeserving or of God’s love and forgiveness; or ashamed to come before him because of something we did wrong or didn’t do. Once you receive understanding of who you are and whose you are, fear, self pity, shame and all the other vices that seek to make us timid before God loses power over us. Not to say we won’t feel these emotions sometimes but the key here is in KNOWING.
Works: it’s important to know the difference between purpose and works of the flesh. We all have different purposes and gifts to serve our purpose. Once you’re inline with God, He’ll give you the strength, courage, wisdom and whatever you need to fulfill that purpose. However, He might not reveal it all at once because more than anything, He wants a relationship with you; constant communication, trust and faith in him.
Works of the flesh is believing we ought to do something to earn God’s love, forgiveness or favor. First of all, none of us can earn anything from God. All we have are free gifts from God. You do acts of service from a place of gratitude and a desire to serve and not to prove a point or earn goodies.
You’re right, TRUTH is TRUTH. However, God reveals himself to us differently, in the way we would understand. I’d encourage you to ask the Holy Spirit for guidance over all matters including this long epistle I just wrote.

Fortissimo502:


There are so many questions I'd like to ask you to probe and really understand what you mean by the parts in bold, but it's probably going to be long drawn out. Regardless I'm glad your relationship with God is number 1. That's the most important thing so long the relationship is understood properly.

Honestly I don't believe "these things work differently for us all". Truth is truth and we should never ever try to tailor it to what suits us or what works for us. What I do know is that we are all in different stages of growth which is why it might appear that "these things work differently for us all".

That's why I said that the koko is accepting Jesus and keep seeking His kingdom. Everything else will fall into place eventually.

Absolutely!
You hit the nail on the head.

Fortissimo502:


I believe what she means is that God doesn't respond to you or love you based on your works. God responds primarily based on our faith in Him (He loves us regardless though). Naturally, someone who has faith in God, will do works. But it should be clear that you aren't working to earn favors from God but because you have faith in Him. That is, you aren't working from the "flesh".

Derajoyce let me know if I misunderstood you.

Thanks for your comment. I realize most of things I said can and will be taken out of context. I’ll simply reiterate that these are bits of my observations thus far. I strongly believe that my relationship with God might not be exact relationship with someone else and that’s normal. He reveals himself to us based on our capacity to understand and receive.

Eviana:
First, I respect your right to your opinion.
You've said some very interesting and true things about the Lord.
That's awesome that you are getting to truly know Him for yourself...aside from just tradition.
Just hoping that in your "knowing", you aren't removing yourself from the body of Christ.
I wonder though, if by saying the following: "He despises small prayers and people with trust issues", you meant people with small dreams, small faith?
Because folks could misinterpet that statement if you meant differently than what I wrote.
Just wondering why you used the word "mishap" of being born into a Christian home?
If you had been born into another religion, would that have been a mishap also?
Are you referring to "religion" as a whole as a mishap?
However, in light of getting to truly know Him personally, through relationship, and gaining peace from your Heavenly Father, wouldn't it be more appropriate to change "worst" to "best"?

John 10:10 (KJV)
10 The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.

Trust me, when you have had enough experiences in life, there will be a lot of "worst" things to come which will require that faith in your newfound relationship with the Lord.

Yes, I was. Although the early exposure to Christianity came through my family, my perceived representation about God from the church we attended spurred cynicism rather than intimacy.

Blabbermouth:

Were you born a Christian?

Heyy, I stopped blogging a while ago. I’m not sure how the pm works here. I’ll definitely check my email.

Fortissimo502:
Well said, Derajoyce. Well said. Sent you a pm. Also noticed your blog isn't up anymore. Wanted to check your other posts.

nlPoster:
What do you know about God as opposed to what you learnt about him?

The views I shared are part of the things I know about God.

Perhaps the mishap of being born Christian is the little choice over the matter of becoming Christian and gross familiarity with religion.
However, at some point, it becomes imperative to choose a relationship with God over religious practices.
Ironically, to the twisted egotistical human, practices appeal more than intimacy. As it feels the empty void hard work enjoys occupying.
As with any thriving relationship, the need for allotted time and constant communication are the foundation to anything beautiful.

To speak plainly.

Over this year, I’ve been studying the word, swinging from mildly passive to swiftly intensive.
The insights into the ways of God is bewildering.
There are patterns everywhere; the unpredictability of God; the diverse ways he deals with the same issues in different people.
The oneness of God, splintered into many different parts to serve the milieu of difference that roams the earth.
Here’s what I know for sure, Sundays and Wednesdays give a little over 5% of the knowledge in the Word.
Twice a week doesn’t cut it for the level of understanding required.

Here’s what I’ve learned about God thus far.
He’s all about relationship.
He wants to hear everything from the deep-seated sorrowful woes to the secret anger and tiny transgressions here and there.
He could care less about your works.
The trick is, once the relationship is in place, the flesh’s hunger is submerged and in most cases, completely eradicated. No one likes to hurt the people they love.
It’s a process.
No pressure. No judgment.

He understands.
It appears only your pastor or perhaps, your spouse or partner aspects perfection.
God doesn’t. By the way, He’s totally aware of your craziness and all things you struggle with.
He’s big on details. I’ve never gotten over the hair numbering thing.
All I know for sure is, He knows I’m big on convenience and He takes care of the details, all of them, in all aspects.

He’s super invested in revealing your identity.
He wants you to know who you are, what you carry, what you can do, whose you are and what you’re entitled to.
He despises small-minded prayers and folks with trust issues.

He’s got time. He listens, always.

He’s a teacher and there’s definitely no skipping classes with him.
You’ve got to learn the lesson to move forward, else, risk dancing around the same mountain.
O boy, the classes I’m repeating...
He will be your teacher and then, you private tutor. You could always ask for help about everything; your job, your business, your relationships and everything in-between.
No pressure. No judgment.
Humility is needed though...
He’s comical and a tat sarcastic.
Some of His responses are hilarious. You just gotta love Him.

The God I’m learning about, who I prefer to refer to as Daddy is undeniably multifaceted, thrilling, sweet, generous, funny, creative and overwhelming all at the same time. Here's the best part, He reveals Himself to fill the need you have.
There’s much more but I get mad at Him too, often.
Then, we settle, rather I come to myself.
It’s back and forth.
The love though, remains on a hundred.
He’s not confused about how He feels about me; what He wants for me; what He has in store for me and what He can do through me.

That's the keyword, not CONFUSED.

Her: I was stupid.
Me: Growth curve...
Her: (holds back tears. Shaking voice) he made me feel small and I was still stupid enough... (pauses) I sent him money... (scratches her hair ferociously.) Who sends money to someone who’s better off?
Me: you’re not stupid. You’re on a growth curve. You’d have done it with another person...
(She cuts in again)
Her: he disrespected me and had complete disregard for my wishes...
(Bites her lower lip, releases it slowly. Now squinching, a tear drops from her left eye.) I miss him.
Me: (silence. Moves closer, slips left hand beneath her right hands and squeezes slowly.)
Her: I’m so stupid.
(Struggles to hold back the oceans begging to flood.)
I just want to forget all of it. I can’t work. (Pauses) Can’t think clearly.
Me: (flashback to a similar demise. Suddenly, relives bits of the emotional turmoil; stomach muscle tightens, chest sinks, mouth dries and throat grows a bitter-sourish taste.)
I know how you feel. And, you’re not stupid. (Pauses)
You showed love in the way you understood it to mean. It’s a growth curve; painful yet helpful... (pauses)
You need time for yourself, to ask the hard questions. Maybe not immediately but soon.
(She looks away)
Her: does it stop?
Me: the pain?
(She nods)
Me: yeah (looks away) after a while. Something else replaces.
Her: what?
Me: the lesson.
We both laugh. It’s her first laugh.
Me: sounds cheesy but when you learn the lesson, everything else becomes tasteless. (Smiles)
Her: he said I was insecure. (Clenches jaw. Pulls her arm.)
Very manipulative idiot... (buries face in both hands) you know the worst part?
Me: what?
Her: he’s probably sleeping right now and I’m here, falling apart.
Me: give me your phone.
She’s startled.
Her: why?
Me: just hand it over. (Shoves open palm beneath her gaze. She bulges.) what name did you use to save his number?
Her: oh no, (tries to fight back.)
Me: do you want to get better.
Resolved by regret, spills name.
Me: (deletes all message trails, call logs, completely wipes out name off phone. Clearly all pictures.) just wanna make sure you don’t text your heart out this night.
We both laugh again.

You’ve probably heard that 70 per cent of lottery winners end up bankrupt within five years after the swift financial lift. Well, that isn’t entirely true and while a few get bankrupt, a good number put their gained money to good use. But, that’s not our subject today.
Quick fact; Singapore, Japan, Hong Kong and Belgium are amongst the world’s top 10 countries with the least natural resources. On the other hand, Liberia, Venezuela, Congo and Nigeria -although not in the top 10- are amongst the countries with the most natural resources. Here’s how this is interesting, it appears most of the countries with the least natural resources have built capacity to thrive even amid scarcity of resources while some of the countries richly blessed have fallen under The Resource Curse.

The Resource Curse is a term to broadly describe a situation where a country with abundant natural resources are socioeconomically and politically worse off, compared to countries with significantly fewer natural resources. Of course, you know where I am going with this.
From 1999 to 2013, Nigeria’s oil revenues totalled over $509.02Bn. In spite of this colossal earnings, Nigerian citizens remain terribly poor, with over 100 million people living on less than $1 a day. We all know this!

Compare Nigeria’s gross mismanagement of natural resources with UAE. For the third time in a row, the UAE Cabinet approved a zero-deficit federal budget of AED 61.354 billion for the year 2020. Its zero-deficit budget reflects the strength and abundant financial resources to fund economic development projects. Here’s the drift, the UAE’s economy hasn’t always been this way and over the years, they’ve built capacity to handle more; beginning with the confederation of its seven independent territories between 1971 and 1972. They all agreed to come together to efficiently manage their limited resources. So, it wasn’t rocket science.

Over the years, Nigeria has failed to build adequate capacity required to manage and invest properly. No one, in particular, is to blame for this misfortune except (the British) and a mass of power holders who’ve vehemently refused to understand the mechanics of processes and capacity building. Nigeria’s oil problem is akin to an insane person handing over car keys to five-year-old to drive. Crash!

Here’s what we can learn. Processes take time for capacity to be properly harnessed. There’s a solid reason why doctors require more school time than management students. So, while social media can trick one into believing in overnight success, there's no such thing. This is where I say, an 80k salary for a recent graduate is definitely not a bad start. Rather than pray for a billion, work on expanding your capacity to manage a billion.
Capacity building here could be better communication skills, understanding market trends, proper positioning, financial literacy, an extra professional course, adding negotiation skills to bargain better, squashing the ‘buy-now’ syndrome and a lot more.
Go figure!

For a second, step into your childhood phase and this time, be a judge.

Before reading Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, I was vaguely aware of the impact of origin, ethnicity, parenting in affecting the potential success or failure of an individual. The concept of success and failure in themselves grossly nuanced descriptions and they can interchangeably reflect certain aspects of our lives at any given time. So, the intrinsic idea of crowning an individual a failure would be to say that, that individual failed at every aspect of his life including the failure of his own body. Same goes with success.
We both know this isn’t true.

Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell, is an intellectual journal examining the lives of true ‘success’ stories in different fields from law to engineering, tech, and entertainment. Malcolm reveals that for every ‘success’ story, there are enhancing traits found in the individual’s background, month of birth and ethnicity that made their ‘success’ possible. Though in unclear words, Malcolm believes that how and where a person was raised determines how far they’ll likely to go in life. In many ways, I agree and I think everyone should read Outliers.
With such heavyweight thrown behind the sought of parenting one received, I began actively piecing my parents’ parenting style together.

“Dede,” she chuckles, “I know you’d say mummy is disturbing but I need you to help me get my mac foundation when you’re coming home.”
“Mummy, that’s in another six weeks.”
“Ok oo, I’m just saying it now so you don’t forget.”
“Ok, mom.”
“Thank you, have a good day at work.”
She hangs up.

That’s my mother, she’s always felt the need to reiterate her demands, carefully treading between compulsion and friendliness. She says “thank you” and “I’m sorry” often. She checks-in if her demands are inconvenient at any given time. Sweet and understood the benefits of play and siestas. Always allows room for retaliation but makes little effort in explaining her self unless the situation is critical. Shrewd businesswoman who instilled in her kids the importance of being financially independent and her words, “I don’t want you to beg for anything.”

She typical prefers honest, even blurt conversations. A respecter of personal space and individuality in my siblings and me. We’re taught to thoroughly harness the superpower of minding our business, somewhat, selfish if argued properly.

There’s a lot more.

Like, show up in red lipstick even if you’ve been crying the whole night. Pray first at all times. Learn the grand act of emotional intelligence - sweet old
manipulation - in getting your way with people.
She’s never forced her desired on me like her cooking hobby; an activity I dread. Or, the need for traditional marriages; a ceremony, I’ve continuously pointed as a strenuous waste of time. She resists inflicting her ideas on me.

Keywords in her parenting style: self-resilience, spiritual, unpretentious, in many ways aloof and a dreadful need of convenience.

My dad is different.
His parenting style varied from child to child. As his first daughter, he felt the intense need to squash any form of female sensitivity. He regarded this aspect of being female as weak and useless in the real world. He advocated for the proper use of English (pidgin English was banned in our home.) Consistently reminded me of the importance of knowing the right people and proper positioning. Being pretty is useless without brains. Exposure is key.

Took me to most of his all-male meetings in my preteens. I was either 11 or 12, and I was made to watch. Watch the power-play dynamics among men. I was taught to weigh every decision on the scale of consequences and positive outcomes.
He dreaded using Igbo language, hence our poor understanding of the language. Instilled a hunger for adventure by visiting remote villages and trying different foods. I got a diamond necklace at 14 and first iPhone at 13. The thinking was to ensure no man ever deceived me with material things.

To him, attributes akin to tenderness are weak. It’s a game of survival, only the wise win. Little praise was wasted on academic success because, it was our responsibility to do well in school, in his words, “your certificate carries your name.” He once looked at me funny because I enquired from him if I should be an art or a science student. To which he replied, “Why should anyone tell you what type of student you should be?”
The goal, raise a girl child to avoid leaning towards aspects the patriarchal society expects of a female.

There’s a lot more.
These are the highlights.

When I was done analyzing. Certain things made sense. The way I think about matters aren’t entirely mine or a unique as I’d thought them to be. The qualities I struggled with were rooted in what I perceived as lags.
This whole new understanding built a framework around thinking patterns of the people that raised me. In many ways, these thinking patterns reflect in the choices I make today, and in the little successes and failures I have had along the way. It also revealed the areas I need to work on.
Now, I respect my parents more.
I understand their motives.
I forgive their shortcomings.
I see them as individuals first before parents.
I learned what to unlearn and what to keep.
I’d love to read yours too!

“Are you still breathing?” I asked.

Upon hearing my question, he chuckled, and then called me the love of his life. I hung up.
The last time we had spoken to each other was three months ago. The next time we might speak again would probably be in six months, but I was glad he was alive.
He would have been among the fatalities that burned to ashes. Something prevented him that day from not being consumed on the road he uses to commute every day. Reports say about 67 cars were affected and an ample number of charred remains of victims after, a fully-loaded 33,000-litre fuel tanker exploded on the Otedola Bridge along Lagos-Ibadan Expressway.

On the night of the accident, I could not sleep. I was up by 3 am, tussling in my sheets, trying to shrug off images of cars on fire.
How could this happen? I pondered.
It could have been me. It could have been you.
I wept hard!

It is safe to believe no one I knew personally was lost in the fire. Yet, I suffered the pain of loss so deep, unlike anything I have ever felt before. It wouldn’t be the first accident to occur. In fact, the accident was coincident with a devastating 48-hours long attack in about six villages in Plateau state. An estimated number of 200 people was slaughtered. Families were wept off the face of the Earth as the repercussion for 300 stolen cows. How plausible is that?

It was tragic to hear but not remotely personal. Truth be told, it seemed a little too far off and I didn’t know anyone there. Perhaps that’s why I felt no human emotion other than a minute of sadness. I could go on about the continuous Benue attacks that have taken turns in the news. It almost seems customary to read that 30 people have been murdered in a bizarre attack. It happens every day.

Not that morning. The morning following the accident, I felt guilt beyond imagination; inexplicable guilt and thorough inadequacy at my inability to do anything. I couldn’t help, I couldn’t do anything.
I struggled with this notion, importing it into my workplace. My face displayed the grief that burdened my heart to the notice of my colleagues who took the liberty to ask if I had lost anyone. Of course, I hadn’t. But is that all? Do I have to loose someone to feel sad?

Next, one of them said, “Thank God… Don’t worry about it. It happens every day.” I asked why he wasn’t upset about what happened, he smiled, lifted his gentle lips and then said, “That’s just the way it is. In this country, all you need to do is look after yourself.”
He confessed his brutal truth. Is that all we would do? Help ourselves?

I prayed for Nigeria that morning. Absolutely not the usual mandatory prayer point that says “pray for the nation.” It was one of few moments I actually poured out my heart to my Father. I begged him to restore us. Perhaps the President is right after all. Who knows, if we all pray, maybe angels will come down and rebuild our broken nation.
Up till now, I can’t help but question the intention. I find the intention behind a prayer point is crucial. Do we pray for a miracle to happen or do we pray to be better people?

That same morning, overwhelmed by my weighty thoughts, I decided to take a walk to work ignoring the darkened clouds. I recall being surprised by the sudden downpour. I stood there without an umbrella, unsure of what to do. I signalled at the first car I saw, with eyes pleading for a lift to the nearest bus stop. The car drove past, ignoring all my hand gestures. Well, I remained unbothered and let the other cars drive past. I continued walking, then, I heard a horn. I looked back to see the driver who persuaded me to get in. He said he couldn’t have driven past me, seeing I walked in the rain. I was touched. I wondered if I would pick a complete stranger who was walking in the rain or if I would be too fearful to help?

He was kind to me, and I became kinder to the next person I met after him. That’s the RIPPLE EFFECT!
The ripple effect of an unfortunate event is the root cause of mayhem in a society. Of course, you can see how it affects us, Nigeria. Frequent attacks birth national insecurity and when a territory is notorious for insecurity issues, it fails to attract foreign investments and even local investments. The ripple effect: high rates of unemployment, low-income levels and the list goes on.

Once more, the ripple effect of attacks in Benue don’t just affect the families that lost members, it actually affects everyone.
I’ll show you how, Benue is the nation’s acclaimed food basket because of its plentiful agricultural produce of Yam, Rice, Beans, Cassava, Sweet-potato, Maize, Soybean, Sorghum, Millet, Sesame, cocoyam, just to name a few. When a village in Benue is attacked, farmlands are burned completely and people are killed (most of these people are farmers) and thus food supply is shortened. Now, when demand remains unchanged and supply is decreased, it causes an increase in the prices of foodstuff overnight. That’s the ripple effect of one attack from one angle. You might not notice the difference immediately but it occurs. Everything affects everything, and you do not need to have a dead family member before you are at a loss. How else do think we’ve gotten to the position of having the poorest people living in our nation?

Truth is, there’s nothing I could have done to stop the attacks or the fire. There’s still little I can do to support the victims. However, I can be a nice human. I can make someone happy today. Or at least try not to intentionally hurt anyone. There’s a deeper understanding of what it means to be human, taking just one second each day to lend a helping hand to the next person. We can’t all offer lifts, not that we should but we can do something, anything!

Everything affects everything. Just like the Imam who hid 262 Christians in a mosque, who would have otherwise been slaughtered. He is one of the countless numbers of people that have risked their lives to lend a helping hand.


On top of that, there’s the PVC card. In all honesty, I haven’t gotten mine yet. I didn’t think I’d be needing it. I used to think it wouldn’t make a difference. That’s the same way I think smiling at a stranger or lending a helping hand wouldn’t make a difference. Yet, it does.

It’s hard to be sane in a society that’s prone to chaos, bloodshed and poverty. But, it’s not impossible to be a good human. Let’s all be human first before we’re Nigerian.

“Are you still breathing?” I asked.

Upon hearing my question, he chuckled, and then called me the love of his life. I hung up.
The last time we had spoken to each other was three months ago. The next time we might speak again would probably be in six months, but I was glad he was alive.
He would have been among the fatalities that burned to ashes. Something prevented him that day from not being consumed on the road he uses to commute every day. Reports say about 67 cars were affected and an ample number of charred remains of victims after, a fully-loaded 33,000-litre fuel tanker exploded on the Otedola Bridge along Lagos-Ibadan Expressway.

On the night of the accident, I could not sleep. I was up by 3 am, tussling in my sheets, trying to shrug off images of cars on fire.
How could this happen? I pondered.
It could have been me. It could have been you.
I wept hard!

It is safe to believe no one I knew personally was lost in the fire. Yet, I suffered the pain of loss so deep, unlike anything I have ever felt before. It wouldn’t be the first accident to occur. In fact, the accident was coincident with a devastating 48-hours long attack in about six villages in Plateau state. An estimated number of 200 people was slaughtered. Families were wept off the face of the Earth as the repercussion for 300 stolen cows. How plausible is that?

It was tragic to hear but not remotely personal. Truth be told, it seemed a little too far off and I didn’t know anyone there. Perhaps that’s why I felt no human emotion other than a minute of sadness. I could go on about the continuous Benue attacks that have taken turns in the news. It almost seems customary to read that 30 people have been murdered in a bizarre attack. It happens every day.

Not that morning. The morning following the accident, I felt guilt beyond imagination; inexplicable guilt and thorough inadequacy at my inability to do anything. I couldn’t help, I couldn’t do anything.
I struggled with this notion, importing it into my workplace. My face displayed the grief that burdened my heart to the notice of my colleagues who took the liberty to ask if I had lost anyone. Of course, I hadn’t. But is that all? Do I have to loose someone to feel sad?

Next, one of them sad, “Thank God… Don’t worry about it. It happens every day.” I asked why he wasn’t upset about what happened, he smiled, lifted his gentle lips and then said, “That’s just the way it is. In this country, all you need to do is look after yourself.”
He confessed his brutal truth. Is that all we would do? Help ourselves?

I prayed for Nigeria that morning. Absolutely not the usual mandatory prayer point that says “pray for the nation.” It was one of few moments I actually poured out my heart to my Father. I begged him to restore us. Perhaps the President is right after all. Who knows, if we all pray, maybe angels will come down and rebuild our broken nation.
Up till now, I can’t help but question the intention. I find the intention behind a prayer point is crucial. Do we pray for a miracle to happen or do we pray to be better people?

That same morning, overwhelmed by my weighty thoughts, I decided to take a walk to work ignoring the darkened clouds. I recall being surprised by the sudden downpour. I stood there without an umbrella, unsure of what to do. I signalled at the first car I saw, with eyes pleading for a lift to the nearest bus stop. The car drove past, ignoring all my hand gestures. Well, I remained unbothered and let the other cars drive past. I continued walking, then, I heard a horn. I looked back to see the driver who persuaded me to get in. He said he couldn’t have driven past me, seeing I walked in the rain. I was touched. I wondered if I would pick a complete stranger who was walking in the rain or if I would be too fearful to help?

He was kind to me, and I became kinder to the next person I met after him. That’s the RIPPLE EFFECT!
The ripple effect of an unfortunate event is the root cause of mayhem in a society. Of course, you can see how it affects us, Nigeria. Frequent attacks birth national insecurity and when a territory is notorious for insecurity issues, it fails to attract foreign investments and even local investments. The ripple effect: high rates of unemployment, low-income levels and the list goes on.

Once more, the ripple effect of attacks in Benue don’t just affect the families that lost members, it actually affects everyone.
I'll show you how, Benue is the nation's acclaimed food basket because of its plentiful agricultural produce of Yam, Rice, Beans, Cassava, Sweet-potato, Maize, Soybean, Sorghum, Millet, Sesame, cocoyam, just to name a few. When a village in Benue is attacked, farmlands are burned completely and people are killed (most of these people are farmers) and thus food supply is shortened. Now, when demand remains unchanged and supply is decreased, it causes an increase in the prices of foodstuff overnight. That’s the ripple effect of one attack from one angle. You might not notice the difference immediately but it occurs. Everything affects everything, and you do not need to have a dead family member before you are at a loss. How else do think we’ve gotten to the position of having the poorest people living in our nation?

Truth is, there’s nothing I could have done to stop the attacks or the fire. There’s still little I can do to support the victims. However, I can be a nice human. I can make someone happy today. Or at least try not to intentionally hurt anyone. There’s a deeper understanding of what it means to be human, taking just one second each day to lend a helping hand to the next person. We can’t all offer lifts, not that we should but we can do something, anything!

Everything affects everything. Just like the Imam who hid 262 Christians in a mosque, who would have otherwise been slaughtered. He is one of the countless numbers of people that have risked their lives to lend a helping hand.
On top of that, there’s the PVC card. In all honesty, I haven’t gotten mine yet. I didn’t think I'd be needing it. I used to think it wouldn’t make a difference. That’s the same way I think smiling at a stranger or lending a helping hand wouldn’t make a difference. Yet it does.

It’s hard to be sane in a society that’s prone to chaos, bloodshed and poverty. But, it’s not impossible to be a good human. Let’s all be human first before we’re Nigerian.