It is very difficult to understand that we don’t celebrate Easter the way we celebrate Christmas or birthdays or even sometimes weddings. We share Easter eggs and say happy Easter holidays like the reason Easter existed was for another public holiday where people stay at home, go to church on Sunday and get back to work after the holidays.
Christianity exists today because of what Easter was all about- Jesus died and rose again and before he died, he said “it is finished” John 19: 28-30. No more sacrifices, no more stoning to death, no more conditional love or anything at all that could mean does God love a sinner like me? His death said it all, he loves you and he was ready to die for you as the ultimate sacrifice for any sin you committed- meaning you don’t have to sacrifice a dove or a lamb to be forgiven. You can walk freely and not be stoned or cast away on exile for committing a sin, Easter means no one can judge you.
There isn’t a man born of woman that can love anyone like that- yes, we can still have issues but yes the blood of Jesus he shed is stronger, it saved, it’s saving and it can save. It helped those before you and it can help you regardless of your sin or situation. No person can die for your sin, they too will be judged for theirs.
Easter really is more than an egg; it is a great season, it’s a season of hope and remembrance that someone loved you before you were born and that person though unseen, made a way for you to tell the person who is busy judging you for your wrong that you can and will turn a new leaf and you won’t be judged because you did something someone should not by human standards.
Easter is what makes you walk around freely. It’s an evidence of the song “He loves you” by Don Moen (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=blIRfTb6OZM)
You should date an illiterate girl.
Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.
Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.
I came across this post, a relevant story which is still alive in the Nigerian society. Here are a few excerpts
That beautiful day arrives. You dance, you are excited, you feel beautiful, finally you have been joined at the hip with the man of your dreams (or so you think)
Days pass, months crystallize into years and they begin to look at you. Your spouse begins to look at you because you have not uttered the words ‘I am pregnant’ Both families begin to give advice about how to get pregnant, you struggle with what to do while trying to stand firm on your beliefs.
When all you really want to do is run, run and stay on a bed forever.
Now and again, you are reminded that you are barren and little by little even your spouse begins to discount you as a human being. You are strong, so you must be strong.
Then in a moment of clarity in between your depression, you wonder where the ‘better for worse’ is.
You wonder if you have ever been really loved, you wonder if all the ceremony was for show. Truth is, you were married to provide a warm body and birth heirs to brag about.
Your sense of identity is lost because in your refusal to provide a child, you are not relevant in the scheme of things and everything you do is constantly weighed against the fact that you have not borne a child.
Now, I have a lot of amazing friends who would make amazing wives but for some reason, are yet to settle down. Then there are those amazing friends who have settled down and would make amazing mothers but they are not yet blessed with the fruit of the womb. I see them running from pillar to post, from one fertility clinic to another and my heart breaks for them. I find myself questioning God (I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it) why children are born into abusive poverty-stricken home with only a bleak future awaiting them and not in loving home so desperate for them.
Honestly, I cannot imagine what these women go through. They have to put a brave face to the world while their heart aches. They have to smile and rejoice as their friends and others who married years after them give birth. They turn to God in fervent prayers, wishing with all their heart and soul that they don’t see their period the next month. And when the period comes, the depression sets in month after month after month. The pressure that the husband faces to be strong for the two of them, to comfort her, placate her and make her feel secure. There are many Nigerian men who stand with their wives in this trying times, but there are so many more who crack. They question the wife’s history and assume promiscuity , they put her down, they kill her spirit and sometimes (if they are not the one with the problem) they get another girl pregnant.
The level of wickedness that a childless Nigerian woman sometimes faces from her own fellow woman is unbelievable. Even those with wonderful mother in-laws begin to feel the brunt when years pass without a child. They begin to ask questions. Some want to find out if there is something spiritually wrong. Others get downright hostile. In gatherings, women constantly talk about the achievement of their kids in the midst of the childless one. I am not saying that you are not allowed to celebrate or be proud of your kid simply because someone else is yet to have, but a lot of tact is required in such circumstances.
I know a lot of my readers would probably be wondering ‘What is the big deal? Adopt already!! Use a surrogate or something’. These are excellent choices but Nigeria is still a long way from this. Thankfully IVF is catching on and more couples are going for it. However, it is very expensive and sometimes it does not work, discouraging a lot of people from trying. There are a lot of abandoned kids just looking for a home but the average woman wants to carry and birth her kid. And who can blame her?
I say a long deep prayer to all the ladies looking for a child. It is not easy to be patient and no one would ever understand how hard it is. All one can do is empathize. Please be brave ladies. God is not asleep and he will work, but don’t sit on your hands waiting. Get proactive, get fit and visit the fertility clinics. Baby dust to the childless Nigerian wife.
Half of a Yellow Sun, Biyi Bandele’s new film adaption of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s novel, explores the effect of the Nigerian civil war on the lives of four characters. It is a subtle movie of a large war, intimate and revealing of the personal tragedies that took place from July 1967 to January 1970.
As I watched those four lives turned upside down – their houses bombed, their children starved, and their mothers killed by the advancing Nigerian army– I began to wonder if my country was ready for such a piercing glance into its past.
In Nigeria we are afraid to look back. History has recently been removed from the standard secondary school curriculum. Subjects like maths, physics and chemistry are indispensable to moving forward and building the 21st century African superpower we aspire to be. But a discipline that looks back over our tempestuous hundred years as a nation, is best left alone. For in looking over Nigeria’s past, difficult concepts such astribalism and genocide begin to appear: and how does a nation that hasn’t coped with providing electricity for its citizens, that is still racked by ethnic divisions and political instability – how does such a nation cope with that?
There is a scene in Bandele’s movie where an Igbo airport official is shot dead at point-blank range by a Nigerian army officer. It is shocking; it is unprovoked – and it is scenes such as this that my uncles, my aunties and my father who lived through the war will not discuss.
Once in an extended conversation with my uncle, I tried to discover what his experiences in the war had been. He had been a student in south-western Nigeria; he fled the campus at night, afraid he would be murdered in his bed for being Igbo; he became a soldier in the Biafran army; he was shot in the wrist. These were the skeletal details that I knew, and I wanted him to give sinew and tissues to these bare facts. As I asked him questions, he grew increasingly agitated until he shouted: “What good will remembering do? They are still killing Igbos in the north!”
And this is the trouble with history in my country. It is not gone. It is ever present. It is ever with us. Ken Saro-Wiwa and the Ogoni Eight died 19 years ago, fighting for their rivers destroyed by Shell oil spills, for their people who saw no benefit from the oil discovered on their land. After nearly two decades, oil still clogs the waterways of the Niger delta and its people continue to cry out for infrastructure. In 1966 Igbos were massacred in Kano in the run-up to what would become the Nigerian civil war. In 2013, Igbos were massacred in a Boko Haram bomb attack that targeted the Sabon Gari bus station in Kano.
The circumstances surrounding these two events were very different but the outcomes were very much the same: Igbo people were dead, leaving many like my uncle to fear that history was repeating itself. History had never receded into the past.
It is important that Bandele’s film has been made. It is important that we look back, if only to say that we have not moved forward. It is important that contesting accounts of our past be brought out into the public space. We must remember and we must do it together.
Colonel Emeka Ojukwu, leader of the Biafran forces, was a visionary, selfless leader. Colonel Emeka Ojukwu was a selfish megalomaniac. Obafemi Awolowo, Nigerian statesman and founding father, was the architect of the starvation of hundreds of thousands of Biafrans. Obafemi Awolowo was justified in every tactic he advocated in what was a total war. We must discuss all these accounts of the past in the open, together as a nation.
Every nation has a consensus account on the defining moments of its past, be it the Holocaust or the battle of Hastings. It is these accounts that build national identity. We must remember together. There is no more space under the carpet. We have swept a mountain of dirt under there and it is time we faced it.
The past is to be feared the most when it is left unconfronted. Thank you, Biyi Bandele, for drawing first blood.
Its amazing how no one argues with dad when he raises his voice, but everyone yells at mum or feels mum is always the pain in the rear parent who we easily dismiss when we really get angry at both parents. We tell mum when dad does us wrong and tell mum when she has done us wrong speaking to her as though she’s a mate of ours who will never spank us and though sometimes she doesn’t, her words are usually more painful than her spank.
Mums are everything; tailors, teachers, stylists, chefs, hairdressers, pharmacist, gossip friends, secret keeper (or so we think) and last but not least best friends. They are indeed the best (est) friend we can ever have, they tell us about puberty and what we might experience and then want to know what happens during the puberty stage, some of which most of us shy away from telling them, analyzing then that since it is happening to us, we are better off without them (mum) from that stage.
Mums are sometimes extreme, or at least they act that way. They take every word we say more serious than it sounds, our headache is theirs and our relationships are their relationships. Sometimes they become too nosy and that leads to more quarrels with them, than happy moments but they still remain our mums.
Most children are usually close to their mum and it’s not often because of the psychological idea that she bared them for nine months in her womb, it’s not even an issue of she would smack me, because many know mums stop people from smacking us. Mums are not just extremist or nosy, they are caring and that is all you need to know, to believe that mum knows best.
Every step they take even when we are in the womb is taken from care, they take sitting positions and eat healthy to make us healthy at birth. They concern themselves with our lives and our relationships because they also learn from it, they act like they know who is best for us from the very day but really they all just want to know what friend/lover will stay and treat us as good as she does. They learn from our friendships and relationships and think in a manner of “They must not hurt my child” and so every scream, acceptance, movement to our friends, boyfriends, girlfriends are usually born from care which naturally comes with the package of being a mum.
It’s like caring for someone and never want to see the person hurt; they know best because they never stop being mums; they never stop sacrificing, they never stop poking to care, they never stop loving and in every scream and force they use, they know it when its best for you.
This is how the real world goes; first you spend your life dreaming of how great things are going to be, then that one day finally comes; it’s thrilling, it’s scary, its everything and nothing like you thought it would be and you thank God for the amazing new things he’s doing, a new adventure and the way he put all the pieces in place and you pray that you would be able to handle it like you thought you could.
But if grief comes, or it doesn’t go according to plan; first you pretend nothing ever happened or you pretend you can go on as if grief didn’t happen. May be you get angry at the world, its cruelty, and people. Then you just get sad- smiles fade and nothing looks the same, things you believe in are questioned and then when you accept God, you question what God wants you to do next.
The above statement is self explanatory. It’s from the movie “This is our time” it’s a religious movie about a brother and a sister and three friends, all graduating on the same day…like life, four went on becoming all they ever dreamed about, the last one was left to work in his father’s kitchen, exhausted and confused that he is left behind, things begin to happen to the others which at the very end helped everyone to understand that no one was ever above anyone. (Sound familiar?)
The truth remains that what God wants or wanted you to do, or should I say whatever it is you worship wants you to do, is to accept that we can’t control things and that may be we ought to put him(God) first and let him control things.
This is our time trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmjQe2onm6s
Matthew 6:33: But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well
1. You know where you stand. You are his girlfriend or you are a girl he’s dating but either way he’s not scared to define it. He’s not afraid that a girl will cry and run away if she doesn’t hear what she wants to, he wants a mature woman because he is a mature man.
2. You don’t have to prod him to become a real adult. He’s self motivated to improve on his own. If there’s an area of his life that needs improvement, he’s working on it long before you notice it.
3. Texting with him is peaceful. Sometimes you have conversations. Sometimes you make plans. But it’s never a power struggle of who initiates and who texts lasts. It’s not fishing for compliments or security. It’s simply a short form of communication.
4. He calls his mom. You don’t need to tell him to do this and he does it to keep in touch, not because he needs her stamp of approval on all his choices.
5. He has interests. Like actual interests. Not beer darts or meeting women. He reads the newspaper or books, and when you ask him his opinion on something, he has an answer.
6. When you spend the night at his place, it doesn’t feel like camping. His sheets are (reasonably) clean, there’s (gasp) toilet paper and (double gasp) fresh towels in the bathroom, and there’s something in the fridge other than beer.
7. He doesn’t disappear for days or a week at a time. He knows that if he needs space or some time to clear his head when he’s stressed out all he needs to do is say that. He’s strong enough to be upfront rather than running away.
9. He doesn’t get jealous. Sure, it doesn’t make him happy when another guy hits on you while he’s checking your coats, but he doesn’t blow up about it. He’s secure in your admiration.
10. He doesn’t treat you like a child. If he disagrees with you he can tell you that. He assumes you want to engage with him rather than assuming you are a piece of glass that will shatter at the slightest disturbance.
11. He encourages you to grow and try new activities. He isn’t afraid he will be left in the dust and he genuinely wants the best for you.
12. You never have this conversation: “Where do you want to go?” “Uh, I don’t know, where do you want to go?”
13. You don’t have to play a guessing game when he’s upset about something. He tells you. Directly. With words. And you have a conversation and figure out a solution.
Read More at liveofofo.com/59355/13-ways-dating-matured-man/ © Nigerian Celebrity News Online Magazine
Man is presumably selfish; not because he wants everything but because all that he is, is but himself. He could go on and on and say to friends and family members, “I never knew I was selfish” or “I never knew that was selfish of me” but just like the heart, he think for himself and within himself, so significantly, there is no certain proof except of cause his actions which comes out to show his selfish attributes.
We are in this world and regardless of what country we live in or what goes on in that country, we are prone to think of only ourselves first, we are prone to think what can we eat first even though we think we consider others sometimes, we are prone to think what can we wear even before we consider the attires of others which we may or may not think to be something of a nice appeal.
We see this in relationships, where many think they owe nothing to anyone, subconsciously forgetting that being in a relationship means I now have someone involved in my life who everything I do, be it good or bad affects that person. This we also see among social friends who often feel they know best for the other, when in fact, the idea is to say “I was right and I am the friend for you and I will be there for you no matter what”, subconsciously making you agree that the friend or best friend is the very one they always need.
The idea of being selfish is that it is what makes us happy that is right; so being rude to us or being unfriendly or not lending a hand or whatever it is we find offensive or heart breaking that is against us and thereby you, a friend, a family member, a colleague at school, a recent acquaintance suddenly is the most selfish person we have ever met.
The ideas therefore of being a selfish person; most times have nothing to do with what we do or don’t do for others, because in reality thinking only of one’s self is not entirely a selfish means, it is an innate feeling that confirms the bible “The heart of man is desperately wicked”. Jeremiah 17:9
Doing things you know will hurt others makes everyone on the face of this earth selfish, whether you know it will hurt them or not.Mankind; that is a real flesh and blood individual, can’t always be happy to see others sad, reason why leaders who pull more than power and wealth to themselves get names likened to that of an animal.
We are and can in human flesh and blood, with the bones and chemicals in our body become less self-centered; not by admitting we are but by admitting that things around us and people around us act and get better when we let ourselves understand the predicament of others when we do things that make only we ourselves happier.
Thinking of oneself and what makes one happier, has caused more havoc than it has brought happiness.