Ever Present Ex

Susan stepped out into the streets. It’s what it’s called around here – each portion of the community that lacked the shelter and exclusivity which the confines of walls and doors bestow on real estate. The uniformed door attendant unlooked Susan’s bewilderment at the building she just stepped out from. Once a block of flats for local government employees. Later a motel. Now it houses a Sports’ betting shop, a computer school, two Pentecostal churches, and the pharmacy from which she just bought an item.

There are streets, and there are streets. But Akinlade road is a clash of street civilizations. Gang fights, police raids, an open air crusade by a church, a Town hall meeting, and a wake keep procession could all be happening at the same time while the clouds are mildly threatening a downpour. And on some days, there’s just not one activity. Not even a little more sunlight or wind speed. Not a shy moon. And on this day, not even one faint sign of Emeka.

“On this day in history”

Continue reading Ever Present Ex



We are shaped by our most dominant thoughts
——- Stella

Stella never forgets,
Her mind always deep in thought.

Stella never forgets
The wrong she did;
Though she’s repented a million times,
She still feels guilty.

She never forgets
Friends who said they’ll be there,
Who left when evening came;
Friends who left and evening came.

She still regrets
That one act of carelessness,
While juggling job, hubby and baby

The pain of separation,
The loss of her baby,
Her joy tampered with.

The pain and the hurt,
Kisses of betrayal,
The time wasted with a fake lover.

Stella never forgets,
She never forgives,
Not others,
Not herself.

Can’t say if its a natural gifting or a learned skill but Stella has an incredible ability to recall really unpleasant events in her life.

For someone who can barely remember the topic of her final year undergraduate project, you may begin to wonder how she’s able to recollect the date (day, month, year) of almost every misfortune that has ever befallen her.

Before now she was a slave to the memories of her past. Every decision she made (or didn’t make) was predicated upon unobjective and/or emotional deductions from some unpleasant experience in her past. A loop was initiated, such that one hurtful experience led to another. The common link being the fact that she was hard at letting go of the awful memories. Of a truth, our lives are inadvertently shaped by our most dominant thoughts.

At the part where our wall of defense against hurt is highest, there we are most vulnerable to it. The more we try not to be vulnerable, and are suspicious of everyone and everything we come across, the more we move into zones where hurt is more subtle, not easily identifiable, but is most potent – especially with the element of surprise. Moreover, the sting of a hurtful experience is in our habouring the hurt not in the hurt itself. Of course, that’s not to say that hurt is an illusion, or that we shouldn’t be careful.

When we gloat over previous disappointments, we run the risk of training our minds to see failure in every assignment, hypocrisy in the most sincere motives, betrayal in the best of friendship, and blessings as disguised curses. Given the fact that no friend, colleague or family member is perfect, and no situation is trouble proof, these things become clearly visible and we then pride ourselves to be of great intuition. Not knowing that we are gradually becoming opportunity blind.

Forgetting is so difficult. To gloat over a misfortune seems like the easy thing to do. With little or no effort, one can recall with clarity, certain experiences that have left scars.

Therein lies the challenge – that we forget the past, approach life boldly, making friends, opening new doors, massively investing time and resources in new frontiers – and when the unexpected happens, we take a moment to ease the grief, evaluate the situation, learn our lessons, then move on.

Since Stella finds it difficult to forget, she has decided to redirect her energy. No longer a slave to hurts, grudges, revenge, guilt and disappointments. Focused on the nice and sweet things in her life, she’s surprised to find so many.

Her marriage is on the brink of crashing, but she’s determined to save it, though married to a man whose only discernible talent is the ability to creatively design new ways by which life will be unbearable for her.

In spite of all, she chooses not to forget that each hurt was designed to make her stronger, each disappointment for her to see new opportunities, each wrong done was not to burden with guilt but to help her identify with other people in similar situation. And most of all, she chooses not to forget that She Is Blessed.

Stella’s marriage eventually crashed, But she’s resolved to forget her awful past and step boldly into a new life.



Copyright (c) February 2015 clickpresh’s blog. All Rights Reserved.

EUNICE | Daddy’s Girl… by clickpresh

How would they have treated me if they knew?



‘Physics teachers! They won’t leave the class after their period is over’. Mr Collins was no different. Also known as ‘Agent Inertia’ after Newton’s first law of motion – a name no one dared call him to his hearing or that student will tell the difference between an oscillation and a vibration. I was having a hard time grasping the concepts of each term – much less their difference. The only difference I knew of was in their spellings, so I never dreamt of mouthing his well deserved nick name. Mr Collins had walked into class smiling sheepishly, waving a print out in hand and in no time announced that the time table for the West African Senior School Certificate Examination WASSCE was out. Well, that wasn’t news at all. My friend Linda – the queen of hearsay – had all the latest gist in and around school. She had told me about the time table and gone further to inform me about Mr Collins’ planned proclamation. The morning hours dragged on as Agent Inertia ranted about the half-life of radioactive substances. ‘At least they have a life’ I thought.

Talking about life. Was Mr Collins thinking what I was thinking? Were his half-life theories figurative of my half-way journey to creating life within my body? I was disturbed. I was always disturbed. Everything seemed to bother me from the day I first noticed hair under my arm. The way I look, the way I walk, who’s looking at me, who’s not looking. Even Prince, my favorite classmate could not talk me out of being bothered. Prince wasn’t so cute, but he had a sportsman physique, and he seemed to like me. Like me? That was another reason for which I was bothered. What exactly did he like about me – my face, my smile, my company? Or was it my budding cleavage? Not so hot legs or better still – my warm legs? To make matters worse, the dude never told me he liked me. I stole unreturned glances at Prince periodically as he was a better option to looking at the half-life equations Agent Inertia had brandished on the board. The time-table had become for him a permit to remain in the class for as long as he desired.

How I longed for the class to come to an end! I needed to have a chat with Mr Collins. In spite of his excesses, he was just a man who had his struggles. He lost his wife during childbirth and had since not recovered from the loss. I could confide in him about almost anything. What did I not tell him? My first period, the boys who make passes, fantasies and all. Prince, though caring as well, was way too immature. The sort of boy who had Justin Bieber as his only role model. I once told him about a friend’s dad forcefully kissing her. The young man was sweating profusely on his face and palms by the time I was done narrating the episode. How would he have reacted had I told him I was the friend I referred to? I had to streamline the scope of my chats with him to things like ‘top 10 music videos of the month’ and ‘who’s dating who in class’. Poor boy.

My dad and I had the strangest of relationship. He had me while he was a teenager. At the time I was preparing to write WASSCE, he was in his mid-thirties. He kept only a few friends, drank occasionally, didn’t attend church except on new year eve, never smoked, loved theatre, and hardly noticed other women. But he had one inexcusable vice- an insatiable desire to have carnal knowledge of me. His first attempt at defiling me was on the evening of my 11th birthday. Something appeared different about the birthday wishes. I was young but old enough to tell when something was out of place, even if I couldn’t place exactly what it was. My dad walked into my room that evening after my friends had left, sat beside me on my bed, then went into a sermon I could have titled ‘You Are Now A Big Girl’. My physical features lent credence to his assertion – puberty came pretty early for me. My saving grace that night was that I was ‘on’. But I yet endured an innocence shattering abuse session on the same night. Several attempts followed. He kept saying that it was a part of the tradition of his kins men for fathers to be intimate with their daughters – kins men he hardly had any contact with. He eventually had his way with me. My dad raped me when I was 14. I will never forget the agony of that fateful night.

Mr Collins finally left the class. Prince came over to say hi and to ask if I’d hang out with him during break. I replied that I’d be with Agent Inertia at break time. He shrugged and said ‘I kinda like your mood this morning, whatever it is you ate for breakfast works for you.’ I wasn’t surprised Prince couldn’t tell that I was neither fine nor had eaten breakfast. In fact my last meal was lunch the previous day. I hadn’t even had a good sleep for two days. I didn’t blame him at all. How many 16 year-olds think straight after a 145-minute physics class on radioactivity and energy quantization?

The bell rang! It was break time, but Mr Collins was nowhere to be found. I checked on him at regular intervals. The bell rang again. Break time was up, yet he wasn’t back from wherever it was he went. While I awaited his return, I thought about my dad and how he treated me. Tears rolled down my face. I was just 15, but had suffered more abuse than most women may suffer throughout their entire lifetime. I was being treated as a sex slave in my own house. Now when I share my story, my listeners ask why I did not speak out at the time of this ordeal. I usually reply by asking how they would have treated me if they knew my dad was sleeping with me.

Mr Collins did not return. There are just a few persons here present at his funeral – his colleagues at work and the few friends he had. Not one of his relatives showed up. His bus was involved in a head on collision with the truck of a road maintenance agency on his way back to school from a private hospital. Prescription contraceptive pills were found on him – he certainly had plans for his girl for later that night. A good hearted fellow volunteered to take him and a few other victims to the nearest hospital, but could not make it in time. The roads were in a deplorable state.

I stand heartbroken at his grave side, my friends Linda and Prince beside me. I did not get the chance to tell Mr Collins that I am two weeks pregnant for my dad.

My name is Eunice. Mr Collins was my dad.


Copyright (c) September 2014 clickpresh’s blog. Rights reserved.