Broken people. Everywhere

Hello beautiful people, 

I've been thinking. Writing Ebun's story (my last post) really did something to me that I can't even articulate yet. Thus I went to Hyde Park yesterday to get "fresh air" but somehow ended up watching people. Yes, I sat down and watched people, it's called 'people watching' apparently. Anyway, I was there for a very long time and just when I thought my mind was empty and got up to leave, surprise surprise, Ebun's story filled my head once more. And I started thinking again.

       Photo: www.amazon.com

Then I got something. Ebun's story is her story but everybody has a story like that. A dark story hidden somewhere in their lives. I tried to imagine the stories behind some of the people I saw, and as you probably guessed, I couldn't. We have perfected the art of covering our stories. Nobody on this earth hasn't been broken. Well, maybe except the children under age one and it's just a matter of time before something breaks them. When I sat and watched everyone regardless of what they were doing, I realized something. When we are all born, we are clay pots and unfortunately, none of us come in a box clearly labelled "Fragile" so life doesn't get the memo. And life is clumsy and rough. 

      Photo: www.bobvilla.com

Sooner or later, it drops the clay pot and either breaks it completely the first time or creates a crack in it. A crack that'll probably be joined by a lot more cracks as the clay pot ages. Just before I left the park to get myself a drink, I searched my mind for a solution. If we are all manhandled due to no or very little participation from us, surely there must be a remedy. There must be some sort of glue to keep the cracks from shattering the pot completely and there must be some sort of glue to put back a completely shattered pot. What is that glue and where can we find it?

I watched a mother or maybe it was a nanny or an auntie bend to kiss a little girl on her forehead in a stroller and the answer slapped me hard across my face. Then I slapped my forehead and wondered why I didn't see it since it was so obvious. One word. Love. And it is all around us. Life is the problem and love is the solution. Believe it or not, as long as you are born of man and woman, life is the problem. It just happens to you no matter how much you think you control it. Fair enough, some people ignore the cracks and put on a brave face for the world and tell us that life doesn't happen to them while other people ogle and wish they were them. Some others, are broken completely from such a young age that they spend thier whole lives trying to put back the pieces. But the honest truth is that, we all have cracks and sometimes we break.

If you ever listen to the true story of people who've been broken but are fixed or put together or mended, you'll find a common factor. And that common factor is love. The healing always begins with love.The amazing part of love being the solution is that, it is a seed. When you sow love into a person's life, and help glue the pieces together, that clay pot may not be perfect but it is whole and now has the ability to sow love into another clay pot and help fix that pot too. 

       Photo: www.heuning.co.za

There's a twist though. Because we don't realise we are all either broken or cracked, we mastered the art of hiding our brokenness. The problem with that is, because so many of us never show the cracks or broken pieces, the true healing love eludes us. As you have probably realized, human beings are busy. So, if you are not willing to expose the cracks and pieces, they walk right past you. Why is it so difficult for us to expose our cracks and broken pieces? Simple. It's painful and so many other people live like their clay pot hasn't even been scratched, so we feel alone. Well, news flash, it has. Infact it probably looks like yours and just because they cover it, doesn't mean it's whole. Incredibly, humans are willing to pour love onto broken pieces once they see it's broken. Our creator, gives us the problem, the solution and goes a step further by making the solution a reaction to exposure of the damage the problem causes (you should probably re-read this sentence). If that isn't amazing, I don't know what is.

      Photo: yvonnechase.com

I have different messages for everyone. For the ones hiding their pieces and making their clay pots look flawless, please tone it down a notch. You are human and life has manhandled you too just like the person beside you, accept it. You need to, to receive the healing love you need and to also give others the courage to reveal their flaws. For the ones still shattered and broken, drop all the ways you are trying to cover the clay pot up, it's obviously not working and expose yourself to the love around you. Before anyone says there is no love around them, there is. It's in your child's eyes or your friend's eyes, or your sister's eyes, or brother's eyes, or mother's eyes or father's eyes or even that stranger's eyes, just waiting to be sparked. The most beautiful part of this story? That love is sparked the moment you lift off everything you're covering your clay pot with. So please, I dare you to do two things today. One, expose and embrace your brokenness so you can be healed and put back together. Two, love someone like you see their shattered pieces or cracks.

Have a wonderful day! 

With all my love,

Dara Rhodes

Piece of the puzzle (Ebun's story)

It always started with a light tap on my shoulders and her whispering in my ear, "Ebun wake up". Her name is Chidinma. Unfortunately, I don't know her surname. 

I was a loud, bright, dramatic and musical four year old girl when Chidinma became my nanny. She dropped me off and picked me up from school with the driver everyday, she followed me to the hairdressers to get my hair done, she followed me on all my holidays. She sat beside me on the plane and she sat opposite me and made sure I finished my breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner everyday. When she left, I was a shy, stammering, insecure, confused and lonely eight year old girl. In hindsight, what she said to me, every other night "Ebun wake up" had a lot of meaning. Ebun wake up from your innocence. Ebun wake up from your childhood. Ebun wake up in to the real world. 

My parents are amazing and I love them but for some reason, I can't remember where they were during those four years of my life.  Chidinma sexually molested me. In all my years of hiding and suppressing those dark years, I can't remember a lot about how she did or what we did but three different times remain in my distant mind like stubborn wine stains on a white piece of cloth, etched in my memory. 

 Photo: www.healinginthehurtingplaces.org

The first one or my now earliest memory, was when she woke me up from my bed one night and took me to the kitchen, then told me to lie on the cold granite floor. I think I was five. The next memory was in another one of our houses. I was playing outside with all my siblings, and she called me into the house. She told me to lie on the grey day bed in the children's parlour. When she was done, I pulled down my dress and went to my aunty's house. I remember praying she'd ask me what was wrong and wondering how she couldn't see something terrible had just happened to me. I think I was six. The last memory I have is the one I started this piece with. I was on my bed one night and she tapped me. I was seven. I pretended to be asleep but when she didn't go, tears rolled down my face and that was the first time I prayed to God from my heart. "God, please I need your help". Of course she didn't leave so after about ten minutes of lying on my bed and wishing I was never born, I rose up and went to her bed. 

Of course as you can probably imagine, she made me promise not to tell anyone, ever. The amazing part was, I remember that after every night she abused me sexually and told me she loved me, the next day, she'd abuse me physically and mentally. She'd hit me several times throughout the day and then insult me about how I looked. I think that was what really messed me up. At school, I was dyslexic and my Nigerian teachers couldn't understand it, so they constantly called me dumb and said that I wasn't trying hard enough, despite the fact that I was doing everything I could. The other children at school bullied me because I was always the one crying in the corner over the words I couldn't get out of my mouth or understand. I stammered, failed at school, everything and anything made me cry and I was taller and skinnier than every other girl in my class. I hated school and I hated my house.

My mother always told all our nannies to never hit anyone of us and the first day she caught Chidinma hitting me, she sacked her. I was eight years old. I went about my life from that day on, happy the worst human being alive had left my life and house but I was a completely scarred person. I often woke up deep in the dead of the night to cry about what had happened and then, I'd comfort myself the next day by telling myself that it was in the past and I should just forget about it. The first woman I ever told about it when I turned seventeen, I told because I felt it was driving me crazy. My greatest fear then, was that Chidinma did the same thing to my sisters and I couldn't live with myself wondering if they were suffering as I was. Thankfully, my sisters had their own nannies and were completely clueless when the counsellor asked them. I failed at school till my seventeenth year. The counsellor was wonderful and prayed with and for me and encouraged me. I told my mother via BBM months after that when I could not sleep late one night. 

Those were the darkest days of my life but now, I am thankful for it. Of course, if I could choose to erase it, I would in a heartbeat. But I can't and it has helped in shaping me into who I am today.

If you don't believe in God, I really feel sorry for you. Not the way religious people say they feel sorry for you, but in a heartbreaking way. How can anyone go through life without believing in God and speaking to him and telling him things you can't tell any other human being? It sounds crazy to me. I would have committed suicide a long time ago, if I didn't have God. I would have run away from my house and into heaven knows what, at age seven, if I didn't believe in God. The truth is, he was with me then. Yes, he was there on those nights that Chidinma tapped on my shoulder and said "Ebun wake up". He was with me when Chidinma left and I thought I was free but really was a complete wreck. He was with me when I had those nightmares as a teenager and woke up crying, scared and angry. I don't know why he let it happen yet but I know he didn't let it destroy me and I thank him for that because now I know it was a piece of my puzzle.

           Photo: sayforward.com

Chidinma whatever-your-surname is, if you ever stumble upon this post in your life, I want you to know two things. First, I forgave you when I was seventeen and secondly, thank you.

That time has a purpose in my life. It happened for a reason. It made me want to know God and be close to him. It built compassion in me towards other human beings. It made me realise I was created for a very special purpose. It makes me appreciate my journey and how far I have come even more. And I still don't know all the reasons why it happened. No matter how bad what has happened or is happening to you may seem, always remember that in the end, it'll be a vital piece of the puzzle that is you. 

Finally, thank you so much Ebun for telling me your story. I hope it touches people as much as it touched me.

With all my love,

Dara Rhodes

Lagos City by Teniola

The hot afternoon air, carries with it the stench of neglect, frustration and disgruntlement. With cars held up in traffic, lined bumper to bumper, as if awaiting judgment from forces above, the occupants grow wearier with exhaustion and frustration. The sun beating down through the windows of the cars, does absolutely nothing to improve the state of the drivers and of the passengers as it has immobilized the air conditioners. In situations like this, Lagosians will find their minds wandering far and wide, to bigger and better cities. They begin to consider relocating. It will be very easy of course, just a phone call away. For the upper class, that is. 

      

        Photo: www.ufok-africa.de

For the middle class, a phone call or two away and for the lower, they begin to curse the day they were brought into this unfair world filled with such evil. And then, the cars move at a snail’s pace and stop after a minute and then, the process repeats itself over again, maybe asides the thinking.

Outside the window, a female child hawker can be seen. Probably called Ifeoma or Salewa or if the madams are feeling excited and maybe a bit fanciful, they opt for Roselyn or Nora. This little angel has probably not been privileged to lay eyes on her mama and papa since last Christmas. She resides in the sitting room or backyard or toilet or store of her madam’s house. This madam who charmed her parents when she drove her black SUV with loud music, blaring from the speakers to the dejected village of this poor girl. She promised her parents heaven on earth and the next Sunday, the parents gave thanks in Church. Empty promises, with the most catchy one being that she will ensure Ifeoma or Salewa or Roselyn or Nora gets an education and becomes a damn successful woman in the future. She stands at the edge of the road, taking shade under the big tree, exhausted from running after vehicles, and awaits the call of a buyer. After what seems like two years, a black Honda halts to price her juicy agbalumo. They argue endlessly, until the buyer finally agrees to pay the three hundred naira. At about five o’ clock, she packs her goods and begins the long walk to her madam’s shop to present her with the day’s earnings.

        

       Photo: womennewsnetwork.net

Adjacent the barber’s shop lies Baba Mulika’s abattoir. He slices the meat into buyable and eatable sizes, unaware of the flies dancing around the meat, as if to the beat of an imaginary song. But, is the song really imaginary or just audible only to the flies? And is Baba Mulika actually unaware of the unwelcome presence of these creatures? Or does he just think it unnecessary to make an effort to press the stop button on the stereo so as to disrupt the dancing of the flies? Baba Mulika cuts like he has not a care in the world. But, does he? His wife is having an affair with his best friend, has had one for a while now; his first son finds standing at the side of the road hailing females and watching their buttocks move up and down, North to South, East to West and getting a beer or six with his no future ambition friends, more important than getting an education. And his last daughter, Halima is pregnant.

Alhaji Sanusi’s daughter drives past in her father’s sleek G-wagon, oblivious to the fuel tank on E but, more interested in the going-ons of her environment. Her glasses are wound up tightly, with Beyonce’s “Drunk In Love”, blaring from the speakers. She notices the packed lorry with goods threatening to descend under the force of gravity and the different hawkers, with bells, shoe racks, laundry baskets, waste baskets, even wall paintings and comes to the conclusion that it is very easy to furnish one’s house in Lagos traffic. She also notices that there are two categories of policemen – the carefree ones with a smile playing on their lips to light up their eyes and who tend to socialize with almost anyone and everyone and the stone-faced frustrated ones who have seen more nights than day. She also notices how she has been in the traffic for over an hour but, when she eventually moves, the road is as free as can be and the cause of the traffic has evaporated into the atmosphere before her arrival. She sees the wheelbarrow pushers with destinations unknown; the ghetto girls with mismatched earrings and red hair wearing boots and skirts, the people cramped together with beads of sweat trickling down their bodies, to read the dailies; the cars with a wide-awake driver and passengers immersed in their sleep and the little child carrying a table on his head. She also sees the jobless people that arrive at the scene of an accident right on time and she wonders whether these individuals always stand in tow, awaiting something to happen, or just find themselves at the wrong place. She then comes to the conclusion that there are just some things you’ll never know.

Teniola Oriola

Teniola Oriola is a 15 year old Nigerian girl that writes beautifully as you can see. She is the future of literature in Nigeria. 

Ignoring poverty costs too much

Earlier this year, Nigera was listed as Africa's fastest growing economy however the paradox is that as the economy booms, millions of Nigerians continue to wallow in poverty. Figures show that between 1980 and 2014,the percentage of Nigerians living below the poverty line, has risen from 30% to 67.98%. As if this staggering increase is not sufficient reason for every Nigerian to weep, It is estimated that by 2015 Poverty will further rise and Nigeria will have more people living below the poverty line than have both China and India.

        

        Photo: benchmarks.cancer.gov

The issue of the rising poverty is one that has been ignored for too long and as a result we as a country are now at the mercy of the consequences of our negligence. 

I first heard about the Almajaris on my father's return from a trip to Zamfara, a state in the northern hemisphere of Nigeria. He narrated how these children, some below the age of 6, called the Almajaris would chase any car in sight with broken plates, begging for any lose change. I was quite young and at the time all I felt was a sense of gratitude, to be more privileged than they were.

Plagued by curiousity, I recently researched the Almajaris. Much to my horror, I found that these children are now actively being recruited by the Islamist terror group, Boko Haram. It is unfortunate that these unsuspecting children, primarily as a result of their poverty, are now susceptible to ill-use. To accept that some of the Almajaris are now a part of Boko Haram is for Nigeria to accept that through our inattention to the poor, we have helped to facilitate the national mercenaries known as Boko Haram.

Nigerians in diaspora pay the biggest price for the tarnished international reputation of Nigeria, especially the ones struggling to live noble lives abroad. Coming in as the number one most fraudulent country in Africa, we Nigerians have quite an unfavourable reputation which precedes us. Although fraud or any other duplicitous means of survival must not be justified or appraised, we must be able to trace it to an underlying factor or factors rather. The correlation between crime rates and the percentage of people living below the poverty line is often seen. As the percentage of people living below the poverty line increases so does the crime rate within that country. We can then assume that crimes such as fraud are partly caused by the grave poverty that envelopes Nigeria. 

When looking at ways in which we as a nation can progress in the right direction, we must also recognise the steps that have already been taken to induce a positive change. The Jonathan administration must therefore be commended for establishing boarding schools in Northern Nigeria for the Almajaris; these schools will not only provide shelter and nutrition for these street urchins but a sense of belonging which the children before now have never been privileged to have. Minister Akinwunmi of the Agricultural sector has also launched a plan to add 20 metric tons of food to our home supply, a scheme that will also provide 3.5 million jobs. Considering the efforts of the government, I believe we have at least found the right paths to alleviate poverty. Relenting now on our efforts as a nation however would be foolishness.

 Looking at the statistics listing 64 million Nigerians as currently unemployed, even the blind will assert that there is still much more work to be done.

The consequences of high levels of poverty within any country are usually grave and Nigeria is no exception to the rule. Learning from past blunders and taking the right steps to ensure that we prevent the reoccurrence of such can only mean a brighter future for us all. 

Lots of love,

Feyikemi Rhodes

"We are not alright" either

Hello beautiful people, 

Feyikemi (my sister) is currently doing research for a brilliant post on poverty. That is great but I want to take a minute to look at the other end of the spectrum. In comparison to Feyikemi's piece, this is probably trivia but it tugs on the heart of some, nonetheless. Today, I want to talk about privilege.

Confusion, guilt, crippling isolation and unsettling levels of shame are a few companions of many children born into wealth. Though they'd rather die than expose this secret. I was talking to one of my good friends the other day and she poured her heart out to me and said things that she didn't know often kept me awake at night. Our discussion compelled me to write this post, on a subject I didn't quite know how to approach without getting too personal before now. Trust me, we get it. People like to see the suffering and humiliation of the rich. We know, there's nothing new about that. It happens everywhere in the world, alright. Okay, we understand.

However, what we do not know or can't understand, is why people can't see past the facades. Rich people's tears are just as salty. Before you start thinking I'm writing baloney, hold up. If you absolutely cannot feel any sympathy for the rich amongst us, can you at least try to have some sympathy for their children? Yes, there are some things they will never have to worry or even think about in their lives that plague the poor daily, but there is also a great deal they will have to face that the poor cannot fathom.

Photo: winefolly.com

I was shocked that my friend was talking about such a taboo subject that all of us are too scared to talk about but she said something that intrigued me. "Dara, the truth is, maybe our long dead family members that created our name and gathered wealth couldn't complain because it was what they wanted, but I can. We can. We didn't choose to be born into our families and people often forget that. People think, they are from that family, they go to school abroad, their family did this or that, their children are alright. The bitter truth is, we are not alright." Her words stung me and I have replayed them over and over again in my head a thousand times since our lunch date. The amazing part is, this my friend is the most put together person I know. If I were to name drop, half of you wouldn't believe it.

It's very complicated. I can't go into all the details but I have a message. I know more messed up people than not messed up people. And they are all good stock, come from good families, got the best educations, blah blah blah etc. Who our families are, shouldn't determine how we are perceived but unfortunately it does. Keeping up, trying to figure out who we are, trying to deal with the guilt and deep loneliness, is doing more bad than good to innocent children. And the society isn't helping. My friend and I know it happens all over the world, because we both met numerous children from Hong Kong and Russia suffering the same fate at our different boarding schools. I'm not trying to evoke the spirit of the poor little rich girl, I just really want to speak for a small sect of people too scared to speak about a subject we are not allowed to talk about. We, they, have problems. Deep problems that maybe the average man would never understand. Untop of that, we, they, have images to protect. Images other people created for them. They are not allowed to fail, they are not allowed to hurt, they are not allowed to go through bad or difficult times and they are not allowed to cry. 

Well, my friend cried to me and it broke my heart and when I opened up and cried to her, it broke her heart. I can't write half of the things we suffer or enjoy because of who are families are in Lagos but I can tell you that it is not always pretty. The first day one girl told me that she wished she was born into my family, I stared at her for a few moments and wondered how she could see a completely different picture from what I saw. Now, when somebody says that or tells me they wish they were me, I shake my head and smile. I thought I was dressing in a way that misled people to think everything was all sunshine, so I flipped and became carefree. Most times,  even though I'm the most under dressed person in the room, the moment I say my name, it doesn't matter. Everything the people I'm talking to, think they know about my family (good and bad) takes over their minds. 

I know 27 year old men, crippled with the intense pressure to surpass their parents and grandparents, who have crumbled under the burden. They have succumbed to alcohol and drugs to deal with public expectations or to hide from their image. I know girls my age, who are desperately trying not to rock the boats by wearing all the right clothes and behaving in all the right ways, while depression eats deep away at their souls. Despite what you may think you know, my friend was right. Somehow, in the great mystery of life, the people and children that everyone else think have it best or should have it best, don't. In many ways (when you consider the added pressure of maintaining an image that wasn't even created by them) they have it worse. The offspring of the wealthy that many think are alright, are not. For reasons not known to many of us, the privilege we are born into, more often than not, ends up being a curse. Always, remember that before you gloat or wish you were someone else's child. My parting words? In real life, nobody is really better off than anybody. We are all on the same sea. In different boats maybe but the storms, tides and long nights happen to us all and they are no respecter of boats. Well, what do we know? It turns out life is very fair. 

With all my love,

Dara Rhodes

We are all the same

About four years ago now, I studied photography Alevel. And it changed my life forever.

“A photographer must always work with the greatest respect for his subject and in terms of his own point of view.” - Henri Cartier-Bresson - 

We were given a theme at the beginning of the school year and told to develop/express it however we wanted. In AS level ( year 12) I struggled to get my bearing. I tried to do photograpy like every other subject and I think I failed woefully. Photography in yr 12 only taught me how to use my fancy new camera, put together a beautiful sketchbook and the powerful wonders of Adobe Photoshop. Back then, I didn't even know I had failed personally because I still passed the course by just learning that. 

In year 13 and my last year of sixth form, I decided to go deeper. Our theme was 'Alliances and combinations' and with the first mind map I drew, I thought my project was going to be about how important alliances and combinations are. I couldn't have been more wrong. I had learnt all the basics in the previous year but after studying masters of photography like Henri Cartier-Bresson and Richard Avedon for the project, I developed a fresh understanding of the art. 

Photography is so powerful. A good photograph lurks in its viewer's mind forever. A good photograph passes a message like no other media can; sharp, concise, easy and fast. To cut a long story short, I did go deeper, even more than I thought I was going to. My project didn't show how important alliances and combinations are, it ended up showing and teaching me and all my viewers something far more important and powerful.

Be kind.

We are all seeking the same things. Underneath every single human being on this planet, we are exactly the same and we all want the same things. Strip away all our differences, from our accents to our different skin tones to our disabilities and you will find we are all the same. At the core of all of us, we just want; validation and love. 

That project got me the photography award that year and a new level of respect from my photography teacher. However, my greatest joy was seeing viewers stop by my stand in the exhibition hall, fold thier arms across thier chests, study my pictures and then nod when they'd gotten the message. Seeing all those little nods from the other side of the hall and without them knowing I was watching, was and still is my greatest accomplishment.

I'll try to post my conclusion of that project one of these days and some of the photographs I took, but my message to you today is the same one I passed across three years ago through photography. Be kind, every person you meet, no matter how different, or bad, or terrible, just wants validation and love.  Like you.  

    A photographic portrait is a picture of   someone who knows he is being photographed. - Richard Avedon - 1933

Have a wonderful day beautiful people,

With all my love,

Dara Rhodes

1st of October 2014: Nigeria is 54

It's 4:18am and I can't sleep. I always thought I loved Nigeria but the truth is, I loved the idea of Nigeria. I really want to love and adore my country but it is so hard.

I opened twitter and searched the #NigerianIndependenceDay hashtag and my face and heart dropped. Every tweet I saw was declaring its love for Nigeria, talking about how Nigeria is such a wonderful country and praying, God bless Nigeria. 

I'm on my bed wondering if I have missed something. Last year's Independence Day, on my twitter, I rambled on about how Nigeria is not where it's meant to be but is on its way. I professed my undying love and dedication to Nigeria. This year, today, I couldn't. Nigerians really need to stop deceiving themselves. I tweeted about how Nigeria needs to grow up and I got a random reply from somebody I don't know, telling me that no country achieved success overnight. 

I am confused. Can't we see that we are in love with the idea of loving Nigeria? The people praying for God's blessings on Nigeria prayed that prayer probably since they could talk and will pray the same prayer every Independence Day till they die. God forbid, I'll sit and watch. The truth is, God has done his part for Nigeria, he has blessed us already with every good blessing. Nigeria has the natural resources and human capital to be one of the greatest countries in the world, yet our people wallow in abject poverty.

Thinking about Nigeria always makes me sad and evokes very strong emotions in me. Thinking about Nigeria on the 1st of October every year, breaks my heart. It is particularly painful because it is one day that many educated Nigerians take to the internet to say something about the country and a whole lot of them are saying the same, "I love my country" "God bless Nigeria" "Nigeria will get there". 

I didn't even want to write anything about Nigeria today because I knew I didn't have anything new to say. But opening my twitter and seeing what Nigerians had to say about the country kept me awake in my bed. Maybe as the day progresses, the angry Nigerians will hit twitter. The Chibok girls are still missing and 50 per cent of the Nigerians claiming to love Nigeria on Twitter, have never left their state in Nigeria or been to other regions. It's so sad that we obviously desperately want to love our country but the government (present and past) have done little to help us love it. Thus once a year, on the first of October, we deceive ourselves that our very unwell and wicked country is loved and advancing.

   This is how google sees Nigeria. In the words of Fela, suffering and smiling. Suffering and waving our flag seems more apt.

Dara, what exactly are you saying? The summary of my late night tossing and turnings today is, Nigeria needs to grow up. But as we all know, growing up is never easy.

With all my love,

Dara Rhodes