back for good?

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It’s been a minute. I left that comment a few minutes ago on Sting’s blog. To be specific, on a blog post about farts in an enclosed space. Not her farts, someone else’s. On a small airplane. You can read all about it here. I found it hilarious. I’d linked to it from Nuttyjay’s blog, where she wrote about aging milk. It was such an apt post, and I could relate to everything. Check it out here.

I’d have missed both those posts if I hadn’t been on hiatus from FB. More on that later, maybe. You all know I like food right? Well, age and food has been catching up on me, so I decided to try reclaim my midriff. For the past few weeks, I’ve been downing oatmeal smoothies

Stunnababez smoothie

Stunnababez smoothie

 

and eating bulgur wheat like in this Middle Eastern salad I made, called tabboulehwpid-IMAG1202_1.jpg

 

and I have tried to cut out added sugar from my diet. I say tried, because this afternoon, I succumbed to gari and epa (with sugar), something I’d been craving for weeks, and I still feel pleasantly full, and dazed, this a good six hours after ingesting said meal.

I’d like to exercise too, but I have to be very careful, because the last time the mood struck me, so did tendonitis as I displeased one of my bionic hips in the process,and boy, did that hurt. This time I’m taking it easy. I am always slightly tired after watching my Blast off Belly Fat video, so I know I am on the right track.

Last year, Nkem set me a target, to drive to my parents’ with only the girls for company, no T. I was supposed to achieve this by August, I didn’t. This year, I was able to go one better. In April or so, I drove all the way to Enfield and back, on my own. This is over an hour away from where I live, and was a major achievement for me. No longer for me the title of ‘postcode driver’.

My girls are fine, and so is T, I remain thankful to God always for blessing me with these ones.  

 

I never intended to stay away this long, thank you for stopping by Smile.

Easy-peasy jambalaya

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Jambalaya is a Louisiana Creole dish of Spanish and French influence, thus says Wikipedia. I’ll add that it is a one-pot rice dish, similar to jollof rice. It differs however in the method of preparation, and in the spices used. Authentic jambalaya uses the Cajun and Creole trinity of diced green bell peppers, onions, and celery in roughly equal quantities as its base, and can be as elaborate or as simple as you want. 

The first few times I made it, I used this recipe. It had a lot of ingredients, and was very  involved and time-consuming, but well worth the effort.  Here is a quicker, fairly simple version I made recently by adapting a bbcgoodfood.com recipe.

I tweaked it a bit, I’ll tell you how. To get a full list of ingredients though, you’ll have to go read on there. Cajun seasoning is vital to this dish. You can either buy this ready made from the shops, or you can make yours. I made a big batch at Christmas, and stored it in a takeaway pack in a ziplock bag.  You can find the recipe here. I added extra cayenne pepper as I like my food hot and spicy.

I had made some roast chicken drumsticks with carrots the previous day, so had some chicken left over.

Chicken and carrots

Chicken and carrots

I shredded this roughly, leaving the bones in for extra flavour. 

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I diced some onions and some red peppers.

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I had half a chorizo sausage left over from Christmas, so skinned and diced that too. From my freezer I got frozen shrimp stock, and frozen chopped celery.

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I lightly fried the onions,  cube of garlic (minced and frozen in ice cube trays) and celery for a few minutes, and then added the peppers and the chorizo as well as 2 tablespoons of Creole seasoning. I cooked this for about 5 minutes more, then added the rice and chicken, and stirred for a couple of minutes. I then emptied in two cans of chopped tomatoes, the shrimp stock, and a couple of chicken seasoning stock cubes, and enough water to cook the rice. I brought it to the boil, adjusted for salt, and then turned it right down , and left it.

It took about 30 minutes or so to cook, during which I stirred it a couple of times to ensure an even distribution of ingredients and to avoid burning at the bottom. I don’t like crunchy rice, so I cooked till done. And voilà.

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My crew liked it, it was relatively fuss-free, and took less than an hour. Thanks for stopping by :)

All about the One

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A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting and minding my business when my phone rang. I glanced at the number, did not recognise it, and was about to ignore the call when I answered it on a whim.

It was Rohan, calling from a partner company of my mobile network carrier. I rarely ever entertain unsolicited calls from marketers, but I must have been in a mellow mood, so I listened to what he had to say. He offered me an upgrade on my existing phone. My contract had expired in February last year, but I loved my HTC Sensation to bits, and hadn’t seen anything else I was interested in, so had been content to carry on with my tariff out of contract.

Ah, my Sensation! That phone suffered. Dropped it numerous times on various surfaces. Dropped it into a pot of hot soapy water one day as I was gisting with T whilst washing dishes. Fished it out and still managed to explain what had happened before dismantling it to dry it out. It survived, and also survived going deep loo diving on a later occasion, again, unscathed. Very durable piece of kit that took great selfies pictures.

He reminded me how old my phone was, 3 years old next month, and how he could get me on a better value price plan with a new phone to boot. He asked what phone I’d like, I said it had to be an HTC. He offered me the HTC One mini for free, I checked with Mr Mobility over at mobility.ng to find out what the latest HTC phone was. His response was the HTC Desire 501 dual sim, but that it was a mid-range device and not as good as the mini. My curiosity was piqued, so I asked Rohan what other phone was available. He said the HTC One was another option, but it would cost me £156. I  was on Google at this point, so asked him to call back in a couple of hours while I thought over what to do.

I called T, who asked me to call my carrier direct to see what they could over me. Long story short, I did, and my the time Rohan called back, I had secured a new tariff with 4G, and an HTC One for £20. I politely explained that I no longer required his assistance, and he rang off shortly after.

My new phone arrived the day after. Most people I know would have been very excited to rip off the wrapping and start using their phone, but not me. I had determined that I was not going to use the phone until I had rooted and installed a new ROM on it, and that was where the drama started.

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It took me a week to get the phone to how I wanted it, and it was a long hard road. I’ll be going into the techy hows and wherefores on Mobility.ng in the near future, but this is why I did it.

Imagine getting a top of the range car. This car is capable of reaching incredible speeds, but it has come fitted with a speed limiter. You love the car, but you know it is capable of doing so much more. So you tinker about till you can remove the speed limiter and unleash the power within.

Or you buy this piece of yam from the market. And the seller says you are only supposed to boil it before eating. But you know you can also pound it, fry it, roast it, and make it into asaro. So you get your cook on and take your yam to its limits.

So that was what I did with my phone. Android 4.4, Sense 5.5 Android Revolution HD 41.0 by mike1986.

And I am in love all over again. I’ve been toying with the idea of having a food page on here. Not full on food blogging, but sharing pictures and recipes once in a while, including reviews of recipes on food blogs with links to them etc. The HTC One takes awesome pictures, and I discovered today that I can sign my pictures too using its inbuilt software. Expect to see some ‘Cooking with Joxy’ pictures soon.

Thanks for stopping by Smile.

In with the new

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2013 was quite a year. Highs and lows. This is a new year, and I have started as I mean to go along.

I have unfinished business from last year. I advise people to be tenacious, to pursue after what they want, not to give up. I am now taking my own advice.

I had a horrible experience with an airline last year. I started my pursuit for compensation, but lost impetus along the way due to this and that. I have sent an email to them this morning, I am back on track.

T is working on our heating. We haven’t had any hot water since the 7th of December. We’ve had to boil water on the hob for bathing etc. Our heating was disconnected on the 1st of this year so T could drain the system. I hope he’s able to get it all sorted today. Fortunately, we have had a rather mild winter, so things have not been unbearable.

I like cooking. I don’t cook nearly as much as I’d like to, this is an area I intend to work on this year. I admire food bloggers, because it is nowhere as easy as it looks. Not only do they have to cook the food, they also have to present it in an attractive way, as well as making the recipes accessible.

E1 made pancakes all by herself two days ago. From start to finish. I don’t like sharing my kitchen, so it is hard for me for step aside and let her have a go. So I stayed out of the kitchen and only came in when it was time for her to start frying. She did good.

I had a dream. A lot of people dream about chasing or being chased by their enemies. In my dream, I was eating amala in a buka in Ibadan. Amala with ewedu. The amala was not finger-burningly hot, neither was it feather-light the way I like it. I was also feeling guilty that I had gone all the way to Ibadan without getting in touch with Nike, my sister-friend. In my dream I resolved that the next time I had amala, I would have it with gbegiri and ewedu, and I would stay at Nike’s. Then I woke up.

The last time I was in Ibadan, Nike spoilt me rotten. Took me to her tailor to get outfits made. You all know how I like my clothes. Took me food shopping. The size of those snails! She is an amazing person who has achieved great things against overwhelming odds. I’ll do a whole post on her some day soon.

E2 had her first piano exam in December. She passed with two marks short of a merit. She did good.

E3 is reading. I had started to wonder at her seeming inability to distinguish between letters talk less of sounding them out. And now the girl is reading whatever she can lay her hands on. Right now, she is reading the Little Princess series. They are all in my bed as I type. E1 is reading Five Go Off To Camp,  E2, the Magic Folk Collection both by Enid Blyton, and E3 I Want My Potty by Tony Ross. And I can concentrate on my writing.

I have not made any resolutions this year. I am in good health, and I intend to get the best use out of every day I am privileged to see. Daz all.

I am thankful for life, for health, for T, and the E-crew. I am thankful for my family and my friends. And I am thankful for you my readers, for taking the time to see life through my eyes.

Happy 2014. May we all go farther than we did last year, by God’s grace. Amen.

Thanks for stopping by Smile.

Evidence, of God’s care

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As pregnancies go, it was uneventful. I had the occasional bouts of nausea, and sometimes had to sit bolt upright in the middle of the night as a wave of reflux threatened to choke me in my sleep. Nothing major.

All went well until my baby decided she liked it too much in my womb, and was still in there five days past my due date. I had gone in for a cervical sweep the week before, but she had probably dozed through that, ignoring us all.

I had a show that afternoon, and started thinking, okay, maybe this is it. A while later, I had pains in my tummy. They didn’t feel anything like what I’d heard contractions felt like, so I called big sis K who told me to get checked out at the hospital. T got home, and off we went. After taking my vitals etc, they determined that my baby was in distress, so they strapped monitors to my belly, and kept me in overnight, for observation they said.

I was okay through the night, but by the morning, I took a turn for the worse. Apparently I drifted in and out of conciousness and went into delirium. Everything happened in a blur, but I remember reeling out T’s mobile number as I was being wheeled into theatre for an emergency Caesarean section.

Baby came out, and had a low Apgar score, so was whisked away for attention. I think it took me a while to come round from the anaesthetic, but I eventually did to find T and my dear friend and birthing partner, Kemi, around my bed. Eventually my baby got handed to me. My little fighter, her stats had improved, and she didn’t need further observation. All was well with my world.

A day later, I woke up from sleep to hear my baby crying. I was disoriented and tried to reach her. I had a line in my arm through which I was being given an intravenous drip, and somehow, I fell off my bed ripping the line out in the process. My arm started to bleed, and I must have passed out.

I woke up in the High Dependency Unit, in all sorts of pain. I was rigged up to various lines and contraptions, but all I had eyes for was my baby, sleeping in a cot net to my bed. The nurse, Rosie, noticed I was awake, and came over to say hello. She explained that because I had been in a side room, it had been a while before I’d been found, and I’d lost some blood. A racking cough swept through me, but I halted it when I felt the pain from every stitch of my CS. My chest hurt, and it was hard to breathe. I’d contracted pneumonia, I was in a bad way.

Even though I wanted to breastfeed baby, I couldn’t because of the cocktail of antibiotics that was being pumped into my veins. So I had to give her bottles, all provided by the hospital, dinky little glass bottles of SMA Gold, and how she gulped them down!

Day after day, the medics came to see me, haematology consultants, obs & gynae, physiotherapists, .…the complications had arisen as a result of my genotype. I had been relatively healthy for years, and had not realised the need to disclose it, and as at that time, it wasn’t something that was routinely screened for. My bad.The highlight of my day was the evening, when T came in not only to see me, but to also to bath his daughter. The nurses had shown him how to once, and from that moment he had carried on unassisted. This is a tradition that carried on till she was about a year old. I probably bathed her about four times in that whole period.

I was eased off the cocktail of drugs gradually, and was eventaully able to breastfeed my baby. I’d completely lost my appetite though, and just couldn’t eat anything, so I was put on a liquid food supplement. Different flavours, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. After almost two weeks, I was well enough to sit up and begin to move around, and then I discovered that I couldn’t. My legs seemed to forgotten how to, and they just wouldn’t move. Cue further physiotherapy, this time with a zimmer frame. I literally had to learn how to walk again, and eventually I was discharged.

I was so glad to be back home, my mum was delighted to spend time with her granddaughter that was not regulated by visiting hours, and T, he was over the moon. Mum tried to coax me to eat, but my appetite was still on exile. Then the midwife visited, and said since I was breastfeeding, if my body didn’t get enough nutrients, it would begin to convert my bones into milk for the baby. Something along those lines. I believed her, and my appetite returned. I started eating.

A few days later, I felt pains in my chest, and that evening, I was back in hospital again. I remember lying on a stretcher type bed in A&E as this male doctor tried to take my blood. Saddam Hussain was all the rage then and I nicknamed the unsuspecting doctor the Butcher of Baghdad as he rummaged around in my veins unsuccessfully. The verdict came, the chest infection had reoccurred, and I had to be admitted again.

I told all who would listen that I wasn’t going in without my baby, so we eventually got admitted together. It was back to the HDU for both of us, but this time it was better. I could talk and walk, I recovered faster. Come Christmas day I was in a side room with T and our baby. Our first Christmas together. I was discharged a few days after that.

I remember one of the doctors who came in to see me in that room. She told me she had had to fight hard for me, she had nearly lost me, and I had to take of myself, if not for me, for my baby. She emphasized the need for me to wrap up warmly at all times, and to keep even my head covered. I will never forget her words.

The treatment I got from the NHS was amazing. Totally out of this world, and I remain eternally grateful.

And now my baby is 10 years old today. E1, the child of my not so young age. My darling daughter who has been blessed with a maturity far beyond her years. My daughter, who quietly excels in all she does. Whose infectious high pitched giggle delights the hearts of all who hear it. I love you darling, you were and are worth it all.

My thanks go to God, the Sustainer of life, He who fought for me when I did not know I was in a battle, He who overlooked my ignorant mistakes and still had my back.

Lord Jesus, she is the evidence of your care towards me, towards her, towards us, just as her name declares. May she live her days in fullness to the glory of your name. Thank you Jesus.

And to you dear readers, thank you for stopping by to go down memory lane with me. For those of you that desire to be mothers, may God answer your prayers in due season, in Jesus name. Amen.

I’ll have this song on repeat all day….My God is awesome! :D

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YJ4vddbJJo

Party lottery?

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Very short post.

E2 got invited to a party yesterday.

‘Mama, it’s on a Sunday’ she tells me. I haven’t looked at the invitation yet, but the reply trips off my tongue easily.

‘Sorry, you can’t go. We’ll be going to church.’

‘Okay mama’ she says, and wanders off.

A while later, I glance at the invitation, and I have to rub my eyes as I reread it.

There’s a note attached to it. It says all 17 members of her class have been invited, but the venue can only sit 12. So the first 12 to respond will get to go.

Seriously? How do you explain this to a child? Oh, I didn’t dial fast enough so you won’t get to go to the party?

The note did go on to say hopefully not all invited would attend or words to that effect, but I still don’t get it.

Maybe this is perfectly normal and acceptable, but me, I just don’t get it. 

What are your thoughts?

Thanks for stopping by Smile.

p.s Even if we had nowhere else to go on the day, I’d have declined the invitation. On principle. As it is, I’m not going to dignify it with a reply. Like my people say, we are not being suffered for partiesto that extent in our house. Iya party o je wa to yen ni ile wa. 

Randomness

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Morning.

I wake E1 up, and send her downstairs to use the bathroom. Then I wake E2 up, and direct her to the bathroom upstairs. E1 comes racing up the stairs a while later, just as E2 emerges with the cream in her hand saying ‘I’m going to check under my pillow for my money’.

Eek! Alarm bells go off in my head as I realise I had forgotten to do the tooth fairy thing overnight. ‘Go into my room and cream your body’ I say. ‘But mama, I want to check for my money’ she responds in a high-pitched voice. ‘You’ll check’ I agree, ‘but only after you’re creamed. Oya go to my room’.

E3 is awake in my room, and I know they will bicker. I try to keep them apart in the morning as much as possible, but this is an emergency.

E1 is grinning at me knowingly. ‘Go downstairs and check that all your books are in the piano bag’ I order. ‘I’ve already checked!’ she wails. ‘Go and check again’ I insist. She runs downstairs, and I dash into the girls’ room, quickly swapping the tooth for a pound coin. I can hear the girls bickering already.

I go into my room to find out why. ‘I want to be a vet’ E3 is insisting. ‘I want to be a vet too’ E2 yells. ‘You can both be vets’ I say soothingly. ‘But I said it first’ yells E3. I try to explain that there is enough space in the vet world for both of them but they look unconvinced. Only yesterday, E3 was telling me she was an ‘engi-eer’, but today, she has animals on her mind.

E2 is through with the cream so I tell her to finish dressing up in her own room. She scowls and drags her feet as she departs, but then remembers the money and takes off at a run. I soon hear her yelling in delight, and my heart melts.

The strains of Nature Boy (Preview) fill the air as E1 begins her clarinet practice. I love the song, it’s not perfect yet, but still it soothes me. She switches to Ascot Gavotte and I tune out.

I have to give my wardrobe an overhaul. I have lived in jeans, shirts and jumpers for so so long, but I need to stock up on smart office-type clothes. ‘What if I have an interview tomorrow?’ I think to myself. ‘Ah, Next. They do next day deliveries ke.’ Problem solved.

The two older girls are downstairs for their breakfast. E3 is having her favourite pain au chocolate commonly referred to in our household as chocolate bun, so she makes her way downstairs slowly, the last to get dressed.

E2 wants honey on her toast. E1 is making her toast for her. E2 shrieks ‘that’s not honey, it’s shea butter!’ I yell from upstairs ‘have you ever seen white honey? Please don’t put shea butter on her bread o, the honey is not in the fridge.’

I whipped up some shea body butter yesterday. I filled up a tub but had some left over so I stuck that in an empty jar of honey and put it in the fridge. As you do. The mix has raw shea butter, coconut oil, glycerin, vitamin E oil, and water. I fragranced it with strawberry oil. I also poured in a little bit of White Musk perfume oil from the Body Shop. It smells gorgeous, but is definitely not edible. I make a mental note to stick a label on the jar.

Talking about shea butter. I mostly get mine off Ebay, from Ghanaian suppliers. The shea butter I’ve gotten from Nigeria in the past has been bitty and gritty as if not a lot of care has been taken during the production process. Ghanaian shea butter is smooth, and doesn’t seem to have as pungent a smell as that of the other. I do not use Nigerian shea butter anymore. Enough said.

I am not bothering with a wig today. I haven’t worn one all week. Instead, my head has been wrapped with a black wrap, Deeper Life style. My eyebrows desperately need the attention of a threader, my face is devoid of make-up and I am in too much of a hurry for earrings. I misplaced my wedding rings earlier in the week and still haven’t found them, so my fingers are bare too. I could pass for a church member, except my jeans and boots won’t get me past the doors of that particular congregation. And I snap back into the here and now and herd them into the car.

It’s just another school day.

Thanks for stopping by Smile.

Back to work

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My littlest one is at school now, so my thoughts have turned towards going back to work. In an office. It’s been over a decade since I’ve last done this, and the thought is a bit daunting.

The upside of this is that I genuinely love IT, and especially the aspect of software testing. I don’t consider myself a geek, but I love to tweak things, especially when it comes to my beloved aged HTC Sensation. I rooted it straight out of the box the day it was delivered and have installed so many custom ROMS since, that I’ve lost count. T-Mobile wanted to charge me just to get an unlock code from them, did it myself for free. A friend calls me a hacker. I wouldn’t go that far, but….

The world of testing has changed in my absence, and I’m doing my best to get up to speed. There are words like Ajax (not the bathroom cleaner), Cucumber, Gherkin (inedible) and Ruby (not the gemstone) swirling around. Almost enough to make one want to go off the Rails. And yes, I’m showing off with all the Selenium-esque terms I have acquired. All that remains is for me to learn them.

I’ve had help in getting my CV presentable (thank you R!), so hopefully I’ll be transitioning from a stay at home mum to an IT professional in the near future. My dream role will be a remote-working one, but for now, I’ll take whatever will help enhance my skills.

I’ve been advised to set up a LinkedIn profile. Someone on Google said a profile picture is a great idea. I scrolled through my Facebook pictures to see if I could a suitable one. I soon realised that in most of them, I am either wearing native, and or grinning like a Cheshire cat. And when I’m not grinning, I’m trying to look sultry, and scowling at the camera as a result.

I came across this picture though, and was sorely tempted to put it up. E1 asked me ‘Mama, how come the hair is sticking up like that. Does it have wires in it?’ I answered ‘No dear, it’s done with thread. Would you like me to do your hair like that?’ ‘No thank you mama’ came her swift response. I might try the style out on E3, but only when she is fast asleep, obviously.

I put the picture on Twitter. I got one job offer, but not in the field I am aiming for.

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What are your thoughts? Thanks for stopping by :)

Pictures–Tales from back home

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T has asked me to drop the aso-ebi matter. So I leave Tinuola Agbabiaka of http://pclng.org/ to her conscience and the God she serves. Oh, and Lamide Adegunwa too.

I was back home earlier in the year, had a great time, and took some pictures. Enjoy.

Somewhere in Balogun market

Somewhere in Balogun market

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The changing faces of the Efon-Alaaye skyline.

Brave

Brave

E1, the brave.. She chased down the squawking hen till she caught it. Me, I’d have been petrified.

E2 won't be outdone...

E2 won’t be outdone…

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E3 wondering when the ram would land on her plate, cooked.

Aso-ebi, Akure style.

Aso-ebi, Akure style.

T and his girls.

T and his girls.

Evening stroll in the country.

Ikogosi

Ikogosi

IMAG3653 - CopyIkogosi warm springs.

Thanks for stopping by :)

See me, see aso-ebi trouble…! Part 3

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 If you haven’t already, please read Part 1 here, and Part 2 here.

Saturday morning, I woke up early. I suspected an allergy had flared up during the night, and glancing into a mirror confirmed this. My right eye, eyelids and all had swollen to the size of a golf ball. Or so it felt.Thankfully though, the ache in my leg appeared to have abated somewhat, but I knew I had to keep drinking water to prevent a flare up into a full blown crisis. In fairness, my MIA or should that be MIT aso-ebi had nothing to do with either of this, but the stress hadn’t helped either.

I sent a Whatsapp message to Remi at 8.03am to ask how far. She replied by saying….

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I asked her if she had Rinu’s number, as I wanted to call her in Lagos myself to ask who she had sent the clothes through. She didn’t. Amina had also asked me on Friday night if Rinu would be at the airport so she could go find out on my behalf. I had replied that as far as I knew, she worked nights, and wouldn’t be there in the morning. At this point, we were all stumped.

Remi spoke to Shokan. Apparently, he had managed to reach Rinu, who then informed him that he owed his wife an apology for ‘disrespecting’ her. He had no intentions of apologising. Stalemate.

Remi spoke to Gbolaga, it turned out that Rinu was his cousin. His first cousin. And for the first time since this drama started, we had her proper name. He then sent a text to Remi which she forwarded to me. It read,

‘Remi, really sorry about all of this. I only offered to help, never knew it would turn out this way. I have just spoken to Shokan and he is also amazed about what is happening. He said he will speak to Rinu’s husband, but I’m really sorry for personal reasons I can’t get involved, pls let Shokan sort it out. Really, really sorry, apologies to Joxy.’

I asked Remi again if I should phone Ramide myself, she checked with Shokan, who said it was not a good idea. Remi then sent a text to Ramide. The gist of the text was that she had no relationship with Shokan except as a work colleague, and she had only asked him for help to help a friend out.

A short while later, she got a phone call from Ramide. ‘Hello madam, why did you send me this text?’ Remi explained the whole situation to her.  During the course of the conversation she said to Remi, ‘I am not a bad person, I am always helping others.’ She said she would contact Rinu to get the details of who the clothes had been sent through, and then rang off.

In the meantime, since I now had Rinu’s full name, I Googled her. Discovered she was a relationship counsellor, with a ministry aimed towards Christian wives. I went on her website and called the two numbers on there, no joy, they both rang out. I went back to Google and found her husband’s name, and two other numbers for him. Tried both, they rang out out. ‘Husband ke?’ I hear you ask.  Yes o, at this point, I’d have spoken to anyone who knew her, just to reach her and explain.

After about an hour or so, Remi called me. She had had a conference call with Ramide, and Rinu, who had called in from Lagos.

Rinu’s first words to Remi were ‘Ta ti e lo ni akisa oun gan?’ (Who exactly owns the rags?) She then went on to disparage the clothes. Remi struggled to hold down her temper. As she later explained, all she wanted to do was get the clothes, so she bit her tongue. She replied that the fabric or the quality of it was not the issue. We had taken the aso-ebi in solidarity with our friend, and that was not the issue at hand. Rinu was quite vociferous. When Remi explained that it was Gbolaga that had linked her with Shokan, Rinu broke in with ‘We are first cousins, my father is his mother’s younger sibling, but we are not friends. Did you hear the last part of my statement? I said, we are not friends.’ And then in an aside to Ramide, she said ‘Gbolaga yen rude gan!’.

Ramide claimed that her husband Shokan had not slept at home the previous night as he was upset with her over the clothes. She said she had been about to go and get the clothes for Remi after their earlier conversation, when her husband had returned home, and an altercation had ensued. Rinu broke in yelling ‘I don’t care if your friend is ill, it is none of our business’ and carried on in  a similar vein till the conversation ended.

As Remi recounted all this to me, I had a mental picture of Rinu walking away with a tray of red-hot peppers carefully balanced on her expensive weave-on, an educated omo alata to the core.

At this point, I was fed up. and started looking through my wardrobe for Plan B. At 12.12, Remi forwarded me a text Ramide had sent to her. It had Rolake’s name and an 0803 naija number. I called the number, it rang out. I sent two texts to the number, none of which I got a response to.

I spoke to my friend J. She knew of Rolake, said she was a Lagos big girl who was here frequently, and that it was unconceivable that she didn’t have a UK number. At about 2.30, she sent me an alternative number, this one started with 0802, and asked me to try it. I had totally given up by now, and didn’t want to bother, but she insisted.

I called, and this time, she answered the phone.  She said the line wasn’t clear, which was possible as I was using a Vyke call-back service. She agreed that yes, she had been given a package by Rinu, and that she woud text me her contact details. She said if i did not hear from her in 10 minutes, to call her back. I thanked her, and hung up. As I was not sure whether or not my number had been displayed properly, I sent her a text thanking her, and stating that I’d be waiting to hear from her.

I heard nothing back. And by this time , I was done. Agba n’tara.

I went to the party with T, the E-crew, and my friends, and we all had a blast.

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The clothes? Only God knows where they are.

Rinu works at Empire Airways. Ramide works with the British Wellbeing Providers. Rolake works at Premier Bank. Those of you that know them, will know who I am talking about. Please share this post so one of them will will get to read it. I am still looking for Rinu’s number, and will call her myself once I get it.

I don’t have any beef with Rolake, she was merely the messenger. At the end of the day, she did as she was instructed by her friends. During the conversation with Remi, Rinu threatened to have the clothes sent back to Lagos. They might have been rags in her eyes, but they were my rags, and I’d like them back. If they are in Lagos, someone will pick up for me.

So there you have it. Thanks for stopping by Open-mouthed smile.

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