Category Archives: Imagination

Your Body is Your Temple

I don’t mean that in the gym-bunny, mirror-worshipping way mind you! I mean it in a biology-is-amazing way. I genuinely am proud to be a geek when it comes to biology and how amazing it is to study. I knew I wanted to be a doctor before I understood what a career meant but I think it must be because I looked around as a tiny tot and thought, wow! Everything God has made is simply amazing. The trees, the animals, the sky, the insects…I will attempt to give you an insight about the little things (or not so little depending on your perspective) that make me so awe-inspired.

First, the atoms making all matter up. When I look at the structure of an atom and how it greatly resembles a planet, I am immediately amazed. How can something so simple and so tiny be so organised? The bit I love best are the electrons whizzing around like little moons outside of the nucleus of an atom. The fact that there is a space (albeit miniscule in human terms) between nucleus and electrons yet there is an almost unbreakably strong force holding those structures together. And the fact that when you think every small particle has millions of atoms all linked together but all quite independently holding their ground with their electrons orbiting and repelling each other, creating a little force field of protection for their little territory. Then multiply that by millions and you make a little baby whose atoms are organised in equally amazing cells.

Cells are just a feat of engineering. Google the structure of a cell and maybe look at an animation of what a cell is doing all the time. As you sit here reading this, your cells are busily functioning. Making energy from glucose, enzymes and oxygen in the mitochondria and funnelling that energy in the form of molecules called ATP where they are needed for your cell to do more stuff. As the cells work, they are making waste products and heat that they are getting rid of either into fluid around them to go ultimately into blood to be excreted mainly via the skin, lungs or kidneys. The nucleus in each tiny cell is using up some of that energy to copy your DNA either to make little proteins out in the cell fluid (cytoplasm) or copy the cell’s DNA depending on what type of cell it is.

These proteins are what run your body. Your enzymes and hormones. The building blocks to build more cells to replace those that are dying (happening all the time) or  to repair damaged worn out cells (like nerve cells you can’t make more off). The enzymes help you break down your food, absorb it into cells and then process it, making ATP for more energy. They also help you to convert hormones and other chemicals from one form or another to be used in other intricate processes. Some very important security proteins are those that control how your cells are copying their DNA and therefore multiplying – they often have names like p53. In simple terms, they spot if your cells have copied DNA wrong and the new cells are abnormal (those are the cells that either die or could potentially become uncontrollable and may become a cancer). They then stop that cell being made and destroy it. It is only when something goes wrong with these proteins that you fall victim of cancer or more accurately a tumour with the potential to become cancerous. The hormones tell your organs and glands how to function, whether to make more proteins, work harder or relax a little. Other bits like your white cells also help you fight infections by either producing poisons that kill harmful organisms or simply by wrapping themselves around the bugs and effectively imprisoning them.

I will mention cancer briefly because I find it fascinating and scary and impertinent in equal portions. Like I said, cancer is basically a mistake made at some point when making cells. Some of these defective cells will just die because they do not work well enough to process energy needed for them to survive. Some though become super-cells and not only can they make energy, they evade your bodies normal security proteins and start to multiply at a crazy high pace (fascinating!). These cells then take up space they should not normally take up and even more impressively, they somehow hijack your blood vessels by producing proteins that encourage growth of blood vessels around them so they make themselves a nice super-supply of blood, getting extra blood with all that extra glucose and oxygen to fuel their drive to multiply further (making you anaemic and breathless because you are short of oxygen). The ball of supercells (tumour) then grows and grows, taking up space and pushing your organs out of the way, making them function not as well (giving you some of the symptoms of cancer like constipation when they press on something like bowel) or blocking tubes (like the trachea in the lungs so you become breathless eventually or your bile ducts so you become jaundiced and cannot get your digestive enzymes to your tummy to allow you to digest and absorb food so you lose weight). This is the impertinence of cancer. Eventually, it replaces your normal organs and that’s when the real big problems present. That scares me because you have millions of cells all multiplying constantly and mistakes are bound to happen. It takes just one mistake that goes uncorrected and you potentially have a cancer in the making. Goodness gracious me!

Back to awesomeness though. The next thing that never fails to impress me is reproduction. You can’t escape it. People say love makes the world go round. Some say it is sex. Really, it is reproduction. From simple cell reproduction as above allowing a little baby to grow and for a body to keep functioning to actual mating and reproduction. It really is not all about sex. Even ‘simple’ beings like bacteria reproduce by exchanging DNA in a very unsexy way. Have you ever seen snails/molluscs ‘mate’ for example on nature programmes? It is so weird and amazing all at the same time. That is what binds us all living beings together. We are all programmed to reproduce to ensure our all-important DNA is preserved. So sex my friends is beyond physical lust. You are pre-programmed to want to procreate.

Babies in general are simply fabulous (take it from this paediatrician who is daily seduced by their endless charms at work). However, baby girls are a cut above the non-girls (sorry boys). When a little girl is being made, by 20 weeks of pregnancy, she already has ovaries which have made all the eggs they are ever going to make. In fact, she normally has more than she needs in her lifetime (more than one a month for all of her fertile years) and about 80% will degenerate leaving 20% of her (best) eggs ready for when she one day is ready to become a mother. A baby boy in comparison does not produce any sperm so has no capacity to reproduce. At the earliest in a healthy normal boy, sperm do not come into being until the boy is at least 9 years old. So yes, I know I am probably coming across as very feminist but hot diggity! Girls are awesome!!!

I will stop at that incredible piece of biology because I will get too excited if I carry on. When I stop and think about biology, I have all the evidence I need for God’s existence (or whatever you like to refer to that life force that controls us all whether we are willing or not). There is clearly intelligent design at play. Biology did not just happen and continue to happen. It is a true miracle and I thank God that I am human so that I can appreciate all of nature’s amazing-ness.

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My Very Own UN

My sister is (or should that be was) a social butterfly. She always had more than friends than she knew what to do with and she never had issues making new ones. A classic extrovert. I considered myself an introvert for most of my youth. Now with more self-awareness, I know I am more of an extrovert than an introvert but I am pickier than my sister, the true extrovert. Because I have been so picky, I think I have ended up with the best friends in the world.

Some of the people I am talking about might not realise how much I value their friendship or indeed that I am talking about them but I hope when I describe how fabulous they are, they will realise how great and valued their friendship is to me. When I was little and my mama was my only role model, one of the things I thought was absolutely amazing about her and her life was her array of friends. They were young and old, some local, many from far afield (and being in Yola that is quite something I tell you). Some Muslim, some Christians. Some skinny, some fat. Some beautiful, some not so beautiful. Some quiet, some loud. Many feminists like my mama. All sorts. The one unifying thing about them was that they were kind and caring, they spoke to me like I mattered and they were passionate. If she ever needed anything around the world, all she had to do was pick up the phone or send an email and the cavalry would arrive. Subconsciously, as I grew up, I think I looked for all those things in my would-be friends. I think I succeeded in developing my very own passionate, kind, caring, loving, helpful and loyal circle of friends. The inner circle is a small one compared to my mother’s but I happen to believe the best things come in small packages. I will talk about my current inner circle in no particular order as I value them all fairly equally. I won’t mention my mama and my sister but they are my best friends and are the core circle.

First one is my Ethiopian friend who I met in 2001 who I shall call Lizzie. We were in the same tutor group in Gladesmore Community School (10AH massive) and we both joined in year 10 so we had common group but our big unifier was where lived and that we had to get 2 buses to get to school. So, earlier than the other pupils, we were up and out, dragging sleepy bodies onto the 144 which I caught at the first stop in Muswell Hill and Lizzie would hop on 4 or 5 stops later in Hornsey. We were normally quiet in the 144 but by the time we got on the 41, we were awake enough to chat. It was on the 41 that I got to know Lizzie’s life story and about her very grown up relationships. At this stage, I had never had a proper boyfriend and despite having a crush at school, I wasn’t really interested in a relationship. So I lived vicariously through her. We also bonded over our love of heels (low enough to wear to school and get away from censure) and long braids. Also I have been mistaken for Ethiopian so we had a similar slim innocent look. We have remained friends over the years, closer after school than in school, through her babies and marriage, through my medical school. Lizzie was a bridesmaid at my wedding and she regularly makes the drive up to Birmingham from London to visit. Even though we had periods were we got too busy with our lives, she has remained a constant. We may drift (although not so much now) through complacency but we never fight and we are there to listen. So here is to my yummy mummy Landan friend. For being constant and loyal and inspiring me to be more glamorous and feminine.

Next is my Northern Nigerian friend who I shall call Halima. We met in 1996 in Queen’s College, Yaba Lagos and we were friends from the very beginning. It was the Hausa lessons that cemented the friendship and as we were both boarders, prep times and dinner times were there for us to foster the relationships. In another blog, I have mentioned Na’ima and I was close to a couple of other girls, 2 of whom were boarders. Halima was in a ‘House’ located all the way across the quadrangle which thinking about now wasn’t so far but during those years was enough to make visiting her during weekends a significant event. She was responsible for the one and only time I had periwinkles (the hairstyle) for Sports day in JSS2 (see blog on that). Those periwinkles make an appearance on my first ever British passport and my husband loves the photo so much he keeps it by his bedside. She was one of the only girls whose homes I would visit outside school too and I knew her family so that made her more special than many others. Post-QC, she is certainly the one who would always make an effort to come and see me whenever I went to Nigeria. I knew about her wedding as soon as she had a date in mind because she wanted me to be able to jiggle my doctor on-call to make it there.  I am so glad I did. We shared her pregnancy from across the distance too. In all these years, I do not remember ever fighting with Halima. She is probably one of the gentlest and sweetest women I know and her son and husband are so lucky she is theirs. Despite being many thousands of miles apart and despite our other friends from that era being on social media and living in close vicinity to her, Halima is the one of all that I would be able to count on today if I needed a friend in Abuja. What a sweetheart!

Then there is my Southern Nigerian friend, let’s call her Tolu. I met her through NLI which is a (NGO) Nigerian initiative to promote young accomplished Nigerians living at home and abroad to be the champions that make Nigeria great once again. NLI was in 2010, or was it 2009? I came from here and she came from the US. We bonded over our passionate pitches and speeches. Never before had I met a young woman who seemed so like me. She exuded integrity and honesty and passion. When I told my husband about her, the words I used were ‘Tolu motivates me to be a better person. I wish she lived nearby so I could be in her presence regularly’. Being next to her or chatting with her on the phone or on social media never fails to give me a positive boost. Tolu to me is everything a young Nigerian should be and she makes me so proud to be in the same circle as hers. If I could choose anyone for my baby to be like, it would be Tolu. She went through a very harrowing time a couple of years ago and being so positive and so strong, she didn’t say anything for a long time because she is that type of a person who will be everyone’s shoulder but have no shoulder to lean on herself. She has come through all of that in a way that is no less than heroic. She is generous and kind. She is a wonderful listener. She is passionate about life and justice and selfless in her outlook. Maybe I don’t want my baby girl to be like her, maybe I want to be like Tolu. Anyway, if you are reading this my love, I might not have said in so many words but your strength, honesty, passion and selflessness makes you wonder woman in my eyes and I could not be prouder of you. I hope your dreams for Nigeria and the world come through because this world is so much better for having you in it.

Following on neatly is my only fellow Iro-Nigerian, who I call Irish anyway. She is Irish in all the best ways possible except she lacks an accent being southern England-bred (sadly but she can put on a pretty good one). We went to medical school together and once again it was fate that brought us together because we met in student halls in 2004. Being the only two medics in the flat of 6, naturally we became close pretty quickly as we were together pretty much all day every day for the first 2 years of our medical school. We were up ridiculously early and gone all day. We couldn’t party any night of the week like a certain somebody we lived with. We had plenty of work and exams to keep us busy. The first thing about Irish is that she is a morning person. I am most definitely not. She would wake up at dawn even on weekends and whistle cheerfully. She had these dryer sheets that smelled of fresh laundry…even today, that lovely fresh scent equates to Irish to me. She has tremendous boobs (sorry Irish but I feel they need to be celebrated) and the loveliest bouncy hair which is NOT mousy brown as she used to claim. She is one of those friends I have never fallen out with. It’s strange to think but we don’t have fights at all. Perhaps it is because she doesn’t tend to get dragged into one of my deep philosophical conversations because she is quite squeamish with deep emotional stuff and would rather the happier topics. That is not to say that she won’t indulge me if I need to offload. She makes the best butter icing cupcakes and has managed to teach me to bake a couple of things. She loves sunflowers. That is in a nutshell Irish to me. She is little Ms Sunshine with a spine of steel underneath all the Gaelic charm. She will stand up for what she believes in and will call you out if you do something wrong but all with the sweetness of honey. She has dealt with family issues that would faze many but she remains unfazed and strong. She also has lovely blue eyes and dimples which I would give my little toes for. Oh and she gives the best hugs ever! If Tolu is the girl I want my daughter to grown up to be, Irish is the woman I want to be for my children. I want to be all sunshine and sweetness and quiet strength and I want to be charming just like her when I grow up.

Then there is my Indian friend who around birth was inadvertently called One on some documentation and that is my name for her which I shall stick to. She is the only one of my friends who is younger than I am. We met whilst I was out doing clinical experience in SEWA rural, Jhagadia – a village in Gujarat State, India. She was out there too doing field research and being the only other single girl resident in the flats on hospital grounds, we instantly gravitated to each other and became fast friends. She is a biomedical scientist. We quickly found common love in tea and laughter and feminism. We quickly fell into a routine. She would come over after ‘work’ to put her water in my fridge and we would go over to hers for tea. I would usually drape myself all over her bed and even occasionally on the cool floor for it was pregnant with heat during my 3 months there. My friendship with her is very similar to the one I have with Safa except the age difference and my having a bit more life experience. And our life stories seem to mirror each other down to meeting the ‘wrong’ boy as defined culturally but actually believing them to be our Mr Right. Unlike Safa though, she is the only one of my friends who is shorter than I am so I feel refreshing normal size next to her. One is rather fearless I think and having lived in remote Jhagadia for a whole year, she then applied for a post-graduate course in the US and off she went to live in NY. Now she is in Malawi, again independently sourced job and seems to be flourishing. What makes her so special goes beyond her fabulous tea, her wicked sense of humour and independent spirit. She is also very honest and open, kind and supportive, generous and when she loves, she gives it her all. One is going to be great someday soon. Mark my words!

Last but not least is my youngest adopted mama, Farah for today. I met her in 2009 as a lowly FY1 doctor in the crazy world of City Hospital (Birmingham). She was soon to be medical registrar and had a reputation for being brutally honest and fierce. Did that put me off? No! I love my women fierce and fearless so we became friends in the mess when I was on surgery and actually had time to go to the mess every day. I loved her unconventional ways and I think she liked me because though small and ‘quiet’ on the face of it, I gave as good as she gave and never seemed to take it personally when that sharp tongue was pointed my way. Despite the difference in years, in the hierarchical world of medicine, we remained friends over the years and have grown closer since we stopped working together. She is another one from a Muslim background who was born into the religion and though respects me for practicing, is not of the same opinions about it. I respect that despite being from a middle-eastern background, she is honest enough to say this is how ‘I’ feel about religion and all that comes with it. I love that despite that prickly first impression she gives out, she is a big old softie with a heart that is good as gold. She is loyal and supportive and she is always there for me if I need her. She wore a polka dot dress to my wedding – if for nothing else, I will love her forever. What a woman! Farah I salute you. You are one of my heroes.

There you are dear readers, my wonderful array of close companions without whom I would be less of the woman I am today. I will take this opportunity to say that for the reasons I have mentioned above and for many more that I cannot put into words, I feel privileged to have met and befriended you all. Thank you for all the love and support. I love you all.

The Greatest Heist

When people talk about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, I want to shut my ears and not have to listen about who started what and whose fault it was. Initially (I’m talking about the most recent spate of killing this summer), the UK media was all pro-Israel and blaming it all on Hamas and Islamist militants. Of course this is the currently flavour of the new millennium so I don’t expect any different. However, I do wonder why we have got to the point that legitimises Israel enough that we question who started what.

I know history isn’t my strong point…indeed I dropped the subject as soon as I was allowed to in school because the lessons were so boring for me, I felt like I was having a mini-stroke each time I had to endure one. But these days with the internet and good writers, I am loving my history. So let’s look at the facts about Palestine and those who came in to steal their land.

Palestinians (comprised of mostly Muslim and Christian Arabs and a minority of Jews) were living peacefully in the South-western corner of the Middle East. In the years around 1948, Europeans of Jewish descent (mostly Russian, German, Polish and Romanian) mobilised and en-masse emigrated to the ‘Promised land’. They were led by a group of political extremists who called themselves Zionists who wanted their own State. Unfortunately, it was already occupied by the Palestinians. These Palestinians were home and had no intention of letting someone else move into their land and displace them. So they didn’t quietly give up their land. They fought to protect their homes. The emigrants decided that if the occupants would not create a space for them, they would force them to. So they killed nearly 1 million Palestinians and they moved in. In 1948, after a lot of bloodshed, the Zionists lay claim to over 50% of the land occupied by the Palestinians.

The UN did a lot of hand-wringing and said the occupation was illegal but their voices were quiet because politically and economically, the Zionists were powerful and for the UN big players (the US and UK especially), the Zionist money trumped the human rights of the people of Palestine. So the UN threw up its hands and turned away without any real admonition to these land-grabbing killers. Over the next 60+ years, the Zionists grabbed more and more land for their new territory (Israel), all the while killing thousands of innocent Palestinians and generally making life for the majority of Palestinians intolerable.

Today, Israel with its approximately 7.5 million population occupies a territory of just under 22,000 square km compared to Palestine’s 3.5 million population who occupy less than 6,000 square km. From all accounts, the Jews only owned 7% of the land to begin with. So they owned less than 2000 square km and that has somehow grown to 11 times its size (now occupying 78% of the area). Israel has built walls effectively imprisoning those within them and controls movement of the Palestinians. It controls the movement of food and other commodities needed in daily lives. Palestine which existed hundreds or even thousands of years (as there are historical texts that talk about Palestine from around 600AD) is not a UN-recognised country but Israel which was created within a lifespan and who illegally grabbed land has a seat on the UN council.

Am I missing something here? Put yourself in the shoes of the Palestinians. Whoever you may be and wherever you may belong. I try to imagine what I would do. This is how I imagine this. My husband and I have a house (not imagination). It has a few bedrooms and a few bathrooms, a kitchen and a living room, a garden and a garage. It belongs to us. It is newly built so it never belonged to anyone else. We have papers of ownership. The records all show the deed are in our name. My husband and I live in it. We are chilling at home one weekend when someone knocks on my door. It is a family of 4 from neighbouring Coventry. They are from out of town and they have no place to spend the night but they have a tent. Can they camp out in our back garden until they are rested? We let them have our garden. One day, we come home from work and they have moved into our garage. Sorry, they say, it was raining so hard that we just needed to get some more concrete shelter. Okay I say, being kind-hearted. Days roll into weeks and I say to my husband it would be nice to have access to the garage again but we decide to just let them be because they are not causing undue inconvenience. One day, both my husband and I work late and come to find the family has moved into the house and occupied 2 out of 3 bedrooms. There are only 2 of you, they reason, and you really don’t need more than the master bedroom and your bathroom. My husband and I are not happy. It is our property after all and we paid for it. We contact the police who says it is your home but our hands are tied if they say you invited them in. As we try to think of a solution, we come home one day to find our things have been moved into the garage and the locks to the doors to the house have been changed so the only room we have access to is the garage. We knock on the door angrily and are told through the letterbox to leave or else.

What would you do? Of course, we would try to get the Police to evict them and restore our property to us. We might involve the local media and social media in an effort to get some support. However, if everyone sat on their hands and were not interested in our story would we just leave it at that? The truth is we would try anything to get them out. We would break down the door and throw their things out and move our things back in. We would drag them kicking and screaming out onto the street outside if we were strong enough to do so. Or we would mobilise our neighbours and friends to get them out.

This is what Palestinians have done as far as I can see. They fought not to leave their land. They were forced out. Many tried to appeal to the world for help to restore what was legally their land. Then a small fraction of the population got angry enough to pick up arms and resort to violence. Hamas and other political groups were born and as they gain more support, their weaponry gets more sophisticated. However, the moneyed Zionists have far superior weapons and superior defences so again, it is the whole population of Palestine that suffers. But Hamas and their ilk do not stop to consider that and neither does Israel. The innocents of Palestine (mostly unarmed young men, children and women) continue to die as they are caught in the crossfires.

Now picture that Palestine is located in Europe. Imagine that England was Promised to a group of people in their Holy text a couple of millennia ago. And these people decided to mobilise in 2015 to collectively travel to England. Then imagine that they initially claim asylum and stay with people of same ancestry. And over months, they move into neighbouring lands until the neighbours protest and resist. The invaders then mount violent assault on the people occupying England, pushing all those people North and across in Wales and Scotland. Imagine them killing more than 10% of the people currently living in England and then declaring England is no longer to be called England…that they have renamed it ‘Promised Land’ and the English are no longer citizens of a known legitimate state. Imagine…

What a dire situation those people live in! What kind of a world sits back and watches the conflict deepen and life become more and more inhumane for millions? What kind of world rewards criminality with legitimacy? I feel desperately sorry for those who are living under this tyrannical rule and feel they have no choice but to put up with because it is their home. Obviously I know that the issue of humans and their attachment to land is complex and people have always valued land more than most things including significantly their lives. And there is the small issue of the walls around Palestine so many cannot merely leave and move onto greener pastures. What a hot mess!

I Had a Son

I used to think having a baby boy was as bad as not having any babies. Over the years, I have come to embrace the idea of a being mother to a baby boy and even hope that my second will be a baby boy. This hope came from another one of my vivid dreams. This dream happened 5 years ago.

It was one of those busy dreams with a lot of running around and stress. I don’t recall most of the dream but the first bit I was aware of featured a heavily pregnant me in a room with several other women and in the first stages of labour. I remember being very hot and I was perspiring as the labour progressed and I got instructions on what to do. For some reason, no one in the room was in focus. I could not tell if my mama and my sister were amongst my birth attendants. I suspect there was at least one midwife. All I know is that I felt in control despite the alien event that was unfolding within my body.

Next thing, I was half-sitting, half-lying down with my legs in stirrups and pushing the baby out. It wasn’t real time…time seemed to be moving very fast as I watched myself going through the process. I felt a searing pain deep in my pelvis and I thought ‘I don’t think I can do this’. Then there was a more solid pain that threatened to break me in 2 and I looked down to see a baby. I blinked and the baby was clean and in my arms, all wrapped up in the softest cream-coloured blanket and a baby blue hat. I had a son.

As I held him, his dark brown eyes popped open and fixed on mine. As our eyes met, I felt a surge of love deep in the pelvis which he had just reluctantly exited. The only way I can describe the feeling is that of falling deeply and irrevocably in love. I felt the warmth of my love for this tiny boy spread out to every fibre of my being. It felt like the whole world fell away and the only thing I could see in its full glory was my son. The rest of the room was a blur. I could hear dimly conversation in the background but all I could make out was his breath sounds. My olfactory nerves jangled with the smell of him and even my taste buds tingled like I was gorging on the most delicious meal I had ever tasted. My skin prickled as if electrified and the hairs on it all stood on end. My muscles quivered. Tears dripped out of my eyes. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I felt like I was simultaneously floating on a cloud and being sucked towards the centre of the world. I was in free fall. I was in love.

The heat and pain were forgotten in that instant. My head emptied of all thought and all I could think was ‘here he is’. Like that was the moment that all the preceding days of my life had been leading to. Together with that love came the overwhelming urge to protect him from the big bad world. I shivered as the protective tigress in me snarled to life with a ferocity that scared me. In that instant as I gazed into his eyes, I felt love, pride and an irrational fear that he could be hurt. I knew then that I would love him more intensely that I had ever loved. That I would celebrate every achievement of his with a purer joy that any I had ever experienced. That I would feel his pain like it was mine. That I would move heaven and earth to ensure he was happy. That I would die to protect him.

I was frozen to the spot, staring into his unblinking eyes when I snapped awake. The power of my feelings stayed with me for the rest of the day. I felt exactly as the great romance writers describe being in love. I had butterflies fluttering in my tommy. The colours of the world seemed sharper, brighter and more intense than usual. The weather was perfect regardless of whether there was rain or sunshine. My creative juices were flowing. I had ideas coming out of my ears. I did not feel thirst or hunger. I just felt ridiculously happy and I walked around all day on a high, humming to myself and doing little dances when no one was looking. So, I thought, this is what so many mothers feel when they finally hold their long-awaited baby in their tired arms. What an incredible feeling! I only experienced it in a dream and the depth of the feeling was immense. It was like a high to end all highs (not that I know what an actual high feels like but I can imagine!). No wonder some women carry on popping out babies long after everyone thinks they should stop. No wonder there are women out there who admit to being addicted to being pregnant and giving birth to babies. All I can say is that I pray one day I will have this experience for real. Because it felt damn good. The best feeling ever!

Silence is the Residue of Fear

…Says Clint Smith (find him on YouTube) on the topic of ‘the dangers of silence’. I am sure we all have had things that we have been afraid of and that we have sometimes let those fears get the better of us. I know I have but as I have got older, I have learnt to deal with it better. The way I see it: either we let fear rule us and it limits our lives or we rule our fears and find ways of neutralising them and despite them make progress in life.

I used to be scared of heights, snakes and spiders. Many children are frightened by these things too. I guess one reason is that these things are potentially dangerous so we are physiologically and psychologically programmed to have a healthy fear of them. Secondly, children listen to their parents and siblings and as these phobias are the commonest in the world, we tend to feel that if mum/dad/older sister/brother is scared of them, there must be a good reason so we copy them.

I know personally that my fear of heights came from the fact that whenever I have gone higher than 4 metres off the ground, I feel this irresistible pull to jump off the edge and that scares me. Over the years, I know that the urge to jump is weaker than my desire to live so I am not so scared anymore but honestly, there is still a seed of fear in there somewhere when I am in a glass elevator over 10 floors high.

With snakes, it is simple. My mama is scared stiff of snakes. She will not wear anything with the image of a snake on it. She doesn’t want to see snakeskin shoes or bags. She can’t stand jewellery in the form of snakes. She doesn’t even like harmless cartoon snakes like the ones in Jungle Boy and Aladdin. So I was scared of them. Despite that, I loved the 2 cartoon snakes I have mentioned and I am happy to look through a glass wall in a zoo at the prettily coloured snakes and watch a documentary on them. Plus I would not turn down a ring or earrings shaped like a snake. However, I draw a line at having to handle one (God forbid someone tries to drape it over me) and I would never buy anything made up of snakeskin.

Icky spiders – I just don’t like the rough fuzzy texture of their skinny fragile legs. And they are a little stupid aren’t they? Because when you try to lead them out or catch them gently and release them outside, they run at you, try to climb all over you or cling to you and then in your irrational fear, you squash them. Oh dear!

A fear that was harder for me to deal with was my fear of commitment. My parents were divorced before I was born and I didn’t know very much about the reasons why until more recently. What I knew back then was that he must have been bad because my mama is an angel and he hurt her. Also through my mama’s feminist work and from attending feminist conferences with my mama, I heard a lot about the bad things that men do to women. Naturally I thought it was crazy that any woman would subject herself to a committed relationship with a man.

I didn’t have a proper boyfriend until I was 18 and that didn’t last long because he, rightly, wanted a girl who would keep in touch regularly (it was a little long distance, he lived about 2 hours away from London) and I resisted his requests because it felt like too much commitment to me at that stage. My next relationship was nearly 3 years later and this time, he was keen on being more intimate and yet was happy to be non-committal. I guess at 21 years, I had matured a little bit more and wanted some commitment. My fear then became that he wanted to use me and that I would fall in love with him then I would have my heart broken. So I broke it off.

I met George, my husband, when I was nearly 25 years old and he is the first to tell anyone who would listen that he knew he wanted to marry me within 48 hours of meeting me. Well, I embroider slightly. He insists he knew in the first hour of us meeting that he wanted to marry me but I think he is being rather dramatic. He did tell me on our 2nd date, 5 days after we met, that he liked me and he thought I was potentially the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Wow! Honestly I wanted to run away as far as my little legs could carry me. Instead, I sat in the reception of our favourite Chinese restaurant and tried to shush him because I didn’t want anyone to hear. I also told him that he was lucky I was leaving for a year abroad in the next week because if I hadn’t been, the fear his words had struck in my heart would have sent me into self-destruct mode and I would have sabotaged that relationship too.

The time and distance made me realise that here was a man who made me laugh, who loved me for me and whose heart is good. Here was a guy with whom the chemistry was just right. Here was a man who I could be myself with. So I meditated about it for many months whilst I was away. I talked to my mama, my sister and my friends. I prayed for guidance and I realised that although I was scared, petrified even, of committing to George, I was more afraid that I would throw away the chance to be happy. So I took a leap of faith and 3 years later, I am married to him.

So are you fearless now? I hear you ask. No, not quite! I have many small fears. I have one big irrational fear and I have one proper grown up fear. The grown up fear is my fear of failure. I have been lucky never to have failed at anything I set out to do until I failed my specialist paediatric (the dreaded 1b) exam last year in June. That failure threw me for six. I knew I had to retake the exam because I cannot progress beyond ST2 year (level 1 of specialist paediatric training). But I hated every minute of it. The fear crippled me. I couldn’t sleep, eat or work properly for many months in the lead up to the repeat. My ability to deal with the normal stresses of my relationship and work was at its lowest level ever. I even got to the point that I was thinking of giving up on the career I love because I was so scared I would fail again.

I got over that fear by thinking up a plan B. There are so many things I could be. I might want to be a paediatrician first and foremost but actually the underlying love is of children. So what else could I be that would allow me to work with children? As soon as I gave myself the permission to imagine, the list of alternatives was extensive. Top was human rights activist, academic teaching medical students, author of children’s books and even babysitter. The last one was particularly tempting especially because I know from my doctor colleagues that a babysitter taking care of 2 young children full time can earn as much as I do without any of the stress of being a doctor. Food for thought.

The last fear I will confess to is my irrational fear of mice/rats. I love Tom & Jerry – and as a child, I would always root for Jerry the mouse over Tom the cat. However, in reality, I hate those rodents. It comes from the time we cornered a mouse in our kitchen and tried to capture it. it poked its head into the drain hole of the kitchen sink and then squeezed through that tiny aperture. That was the freakiest thing to me! How can a round mouse do that? Bleurgh!!! So now I am petrified of them. A decade ago, I was in an uncle’s house in Nigeria and went into the guest bedroom to grab something. As I turned round to leave, I spotted a tiny mouse flash past the doorway and it must have been behind the chest of drawers beside the door. I jumped onto the centre of the bed and tried to work out a route of escape. My 2 year old cousin came to find me and joined me on the bed. We tried to shout for my sister and friend to come and save us but we were too far or too quiet to be heard. My sister finally came to find us about 30 minutes after we disappeared. She still laughs about it because when she came, I could barely speak in my fear as I tried to warn her that the mouse was there. She had to coax me off the bed after proving to me that the mouse was not laying in wait. That is one I still grapple with and I am not sure I will ever outgrow my fear of mice but luckily, I rarely have the misfortune of tangling with one.

School Refusal

My sister exhibited school refusal behaviour for years when we were little. Every morning was a huge trial in my home before I was old enough to start school. My mama would battle to get my sister washed and dressed in her uniform and she would dawdle as much as was humanly possible to my mama’s intense irritation. Then, as she approached the door of the car, all hell would break loose as she would weep as loudly as she could. If I hadn’t been witness, I would have assumed my mama was draconian and was whipping her to shreds with a dourinah (a.k.a. koboko – a leather whip that is extremely effective for whipping and causing exquisite pain). She would get as far as the door of the car and like a limpet, grab onto the frame of the door with hands and bracing her feet on the floor of the car refuse to get into the car. My mama would withdraw because she couldn’t face this torture every morning and either the driver or one of the cousins/aunties or 2 would have to prise my sister’s hands and feet off her brace position and someone chuck her into the car and shut the door. Once in the car, her weeping would settle into less loud sobbing and the last image I would have of her was her face pressed longingly to the back window, staring at me whilst tears streamed down her face as the car reversed out of our drive and took her away to school.

Coming home was a much happier affair for my sister. As soon as I heard the car’s horn blare for someone to open the gate, I would stop whatever I was doing and race onto the veranda and wait for my sister to alight. Then I would excitedly tell her about my ‘amazing day’. Truth was I hated being left at home almost as much as she appeared to hate leaving for school. I was so bored without her that I would make up stories about how much fun I had at home whilst she was away. The best recurrent series of stories that I told my sister was as follows. We had a concrete electrical pole by the side of the house that stood about 7-8 metres high. I used to pretend I could climb up this pole and once I got to the top, I would whizz around the country using the electric cables, having adventures as I went. A bit like time travel but without a tardis or similar machine. To be fair, my sister was sceptical to begin with because it was a little far-fetched but two things convinced her: an older cousin who was home with me corroborated my story and I embroidered the stories with so many details that her imagination overcame her scepticism.

Basically, I could only go up this pole on a weekday morning when my sister was never there. I somehow had special strength in my limbs that would allow me to climb to the top during those hours of the day but not outside those hours. I remember demonstrating to my sister how I could climb about 1-2 metres then get stuck so I guess she could imagine how if I carried on, I would get to the top. Then she questioned why we would go to certain places only. I was wise enough to know that if I started to talk about places I had never been, I would be caught out so I always went to Kaduna or Lagos, Mambilla or Kano or even Michika on my time travels. I told her that I did not control the time travel. All I did was climb to the top and I was beamed somewhere. I cannot remember the exact details of my stories but it generally involved being chased by someone or some animal and escaping or visiting the seaside or a mountain. Once my sister was convinced, it was easy to spin the tales into more fantastic stories. Little did I know that she believed for many many years after I stopped those tales. Apparently my story-telling was so good it was only after she was a grown up that she questioned those tales. She only admitted that to me in the last couple of years!

Looking back, I think perhaps that my sister hated leaving for school because she was missing out on the adventures of the pole travels. Also she must have missed me as much as I missed her and it was like a small bereavement every morning. Poor little thing. This must have been the case because I think within a week of my starting school, she would skip happily to the car every morning and I don’t remember any more early morning tears. Phew!

My Legendary Granddad

We all call him Baba. He is 84½ years old and still going strong. He was born in Girei, a small town not far from Yola. He went to the famous Barewa College back in the day and he has lived in many many places over the years. Many Nigerians know him or of him because he was around when Nigeria got Independence from the UK and back then he was a Permanent Secretary for Education to the Federal Government of Nigeria and was involved in a lot of the well done legislative processes related with forming a new Government structure. Unfortunately, a lot of the good work done then has been unravelled by our unscrupulous Governments but enough said on that one!

Nowadays, he is just a farmer. I say just because all my life, he has been a farmer but he was also working full-time in Civil Service and an active board member of several companies and institutions. His farm is massive. It’s many hectares of prime land in Fufore…I used to think it was as big as Yola but maybe not. It stretches from the main road to Fufore from Yola to the mountains in the horizon. Within it are a lake and a large pond. There is the round house, the abattoir, the horse stables, the building that houses the tractors and other large machinery, the barns for the cows, the clusters of huts and bungalows housing all the farm staff. As a Fulani man, his main focus is the cattle. Of course. He has cows for beef but his love is dairy cows and he cross-breeds cows from all over the globe to make them better milk-producers. He is also big on his fish farming these days so has 3 other farms with fish ponds etc. Over the years, he has kept horses, rabbits, chicken for eggs, sheep, goats and more. To feed his large herds, grass is obviously a necessity so a lot of the land is given to planting of grass and making hay. He also routinely plants rice, maize and beans. The beauty of it is that a lot of our food at home is fresh from the farm. We have fresh milk which we make into yoghurt every evening at home. We have fresh meat and fish whenever my granddad decides we are due some. We get large sacks of maize, rice and beans every year so we never have to buy some things.

One thing that stands out about Baba is his discipline and strong will. I found out that he used to be a heavy smoker until he was in his 40s. I was stunned to find that out because as far as I knew he was too strong to be addicted to anything. I am told that he woke up one day and decided he did not want to be a smoker anymore. He went into his room, got his stash of duty-free cigarettes and gave it to one of the house staff and told them to take it away. He never, to our knowledge, smoked another cigarette. Now that is how you go cold turkey. He also used to drink strong black coffee every afternoon at 4pm on the dot. I would have sworn then that he was addicted to his coffee but apparently not so because nowadays, he can do without any coffee for days.

Back in the day, his Yola daily timetable was almost military. He would wake up and leave for the farm at 6am every morning. He would come home for 8am in time for breakfast which he expected to have on the table at 08:00. After breakfast, he was a little flexible and would go out to visit people, have meeting, work in his home office etc. Lunch was at 1pm followed by a siesta which ended around 3:30pm. He would wake up and play solitaire on his bed (back then using real cards) until about 3:45 to 3:50pm when he would get dressed and go into the living room to await his 4pm coffee. He was in the car for the farm at 4:15pm and then back at 6:00pm. So basically, it was a strict timetable from 6am to 6pm daily.

His military tendencies also extend to punctuality. If you say to Baba I will see you at 7pm, he will call at 07:05pm to check why you haven’t yet turned up. If he asks when to expect you and you say between 7pm and 7:30pm, he is a little better but again, he will be on the phone or go out at 7:35pm because he will get impatient at your ‘lateness’. Travelling by road with him can be a hard trial too. Even if the journey is for a holiday somewhere 4 hours away, he will insist that you set off at 6am in the morning and woe on you if you are more than 5 minutes late getting to the car. He once invited a young woman friend of his to join him on a trip to Gembu in the Mambilla which is one of his favourite places to go in Nigeria. He asked her to meet us at home at 6am to set off. He never mentioned to us that he was expecting a guest so no one knew anything about her. Off we went to Gembu that morning and we were there at around 1pm. He decided he wanted to go check out his farm and see the cows in an hour. Now, my sister and foster sister were there too and we were sharing our room and bathroom. We also had to use a kettle to boil some hot water for our baths because there was no working heater. Suffice it to say, Charo (my sister) and Bilky (my foster sister) managed to have their baths and I was last so at 2pm, I was just about to step into the bath when my granddad gave the order for the troops to assemble for departure. Knowing my granddad, I said to the girls ‘you go without me’ and took my time freshening up. I was mooching in the kitchen trying to find some food when there was a knock on the door. I hesitated for a second and then went to investigate. There was a strange woman at the door with a guy. Apparently, they had driven down from Abuja to join us on the Mambilla trip and they had turned up at the house in Yola 30 minutes late and found we were gone. It took them 2 extra hours because they kept getting lost (no sign-posting and no satnav then) but here they were. I shook my head and took them out with me to find lunch. LOL.

Baba decided when I was in Primary school that because I had an aptitude for mathematics, I should be an Economist. He didn’t share his brilliant ‘plan’ though until I got to midway through secondary school when I had to make choices on subjects. One of the many choices was Economics which I opted not to do because I was into my sciences, biology and agriculture in particular. When he found out over dinner one evening that I was not going to be studying Economics, he wasn’t impressed. I was like ‘why do you care?’ Then I found out he thought I would make a brilliant economist. Sadly for him, I am a girl who knows what I want and I knew from the age of 4 that I was going to be a doctor. He is still somewhat sad that I chose to become a doctor and not an economist.

Baba is a type 2 diabetic and has been since he was in his 40s. He was so good with his lifestyle modification regime that he did not need any medication for decades and he has only in the last 3 years or so started using insulin. However, about 2 years ago, he became naughty with his diet. I went to Yola for 6 months in 2012 and one day, I came to the kitchen and found bottle of diet coke in the fridge. Now there are never pop/fizzy drinks in our home unless there is a dinner party or a wedding or something so this was highly unusual. I questioned the cook and found out that Baba had taken to sending the boys out for bottle of coke after I had gone to work when I was on-call or after I had retired to Mammie’s side of the house for the night after work. I was shocked. Why would he after 40 years of being good suddenly opt to start drinking probably the unhealthiest drink on earth? Of course, I took all the coke bottles out of the fridge and gave it away and I never allowed him to store any in the fridge. I am not sure whether he snuck some past me into his bedroom and drank it hot but I know there was no way I was going to let him kill himself slowly through high blood sugars and the attendant miserable complications. Oh dear!

Another stand-out thing about Baba is his vigour. By that I mean his physical stamina and strength. As I have described, he would spend hours every day on the farm and still does when he is Yola (he is not in Yola most of the time these day). He used to walk at such a speed that we had to trot alongside him to keep up with him when we were younger. My grandmother Mammie had tiny size 3.5 feet and walked quiet slowly (don’t know whether it was because of her baby sized feet or just that she was such a dignified lady that she never rushed). We found it quite comical this contrast between Mammie and Baba. I remember once bumping to them on Oxford Street in London. Well, I say bumping into them loosely. We bumped into Baba as he hurried down the street and asked where he had left Mammie. ‘Oh she is back there somewhere’ he said, pointing vaguely in the direction he was coming from. So we had a brief chat and he moved on whilst we went searching for Mammie. We found her about 300m away, calmly walking and window-shopping as though she wasn’t supposed to be with her husband. When we teased her, she shrugged and said ‘you know what he was like’. Yes we do.

He was on his way out in his home in Abuja about 4 years ago when he slipped and fell down the marble staircase. My mother found him unable to put his weight on his leg and when examined, they found he had an open fracture of both his tibia and fibula (the 2 lower leg bones). He was flown to London for surgical repair and then had to learn how to walk again. He went stir-crazy and sent my poor mother up the wall by refusing to do anything. He must have been depressed and scared because he refused to co-operate with physiotherapy for many days and just wanted to be left alone despite claiming he had never felt any pain except at the moment he broke the leg. When he finally made it out of bed and was confident enough on crutches, he was sent home with the plan to use the crutches for 6 weeks until the wound was fully healed. He called me 2 weeks later to ask permission as a doctor to ditch the crutches. I asked what the Consultant Orthopaedic Surgeon had instructed and he brushed off my question and insisted he was fine to walk. I refused to give him the go ahead to go crutch-free so soon. It didn’t make the slightest difference. To my mama’s misery, he threw out his crutches and was back to walking in no time. He is now almost back to pre-fracture vigour and only if you look closely will you notice that when he has to step down when walking, he hesitates ever so briefly as the memory of his accident comes back to him.

As I already mentioned in another blog, I inherited my facial features mostly from my grandmother Mammie. I did however inherit some things from my grandfather. His toes which my mum has and I have too with the funny 4th toe. Also the vein-iness of our hands and feet. All of us (my mum, sister and I) have a funny patch 2/3rd of the way of one of our eyebrows which has coarser longer haywire hairs that like to stick out rather comically. Mama studiously ignores her eyebrows and bats our hands away when we try to smooth the funny patch down. My sister gave in to the eyebrow shaping. I am resisting shaping my eyebrows and usually brush them into order but these days, there are usually 1 or 2 really stubborn long pointing hairs that I have to pluck out. A big thing I have inherited from Baba is my stubbornness. I prefer to call it tenacity, determination, decisiveness or ‘knowing what I want’. Most of the Joda grandchildren exhibit the same characteristic to one degree or the other. I have been called hard-headed a few times in my life. I never back down from an argument if I know I am right. I will do things the right way even if it will make my life awkward as long as it is right to do it that way. I would face the scariest person down if they lie about me rather than be quiet for an easy life. I will plan and work hard for years to achieve a goal or dream.

The last thing I have inherited from Baba is his principled ways. As you probably know, for anything to work in Nigeria, you need money and the more money, the better. That is why corruption is so rife. People want to get things done for personal gain and the more they want, the more money they need to accumulate to pay for it all. Sadly, many of these people are the people governing Nigeria so a vast chunk of all of our wealth (and it is vast being one of the largest oil-producing countries) is diverted into personal accounts and safes in homes and spirited away to offshore accounts in Switzerland, the Caribbean Islands and Asia where it can be kept private from inquisitive eyes. Baba is often accused of being a ‘bature’ because he will not make a penny more from a job than the contracted amount. A ‘bature’ means a white person which in the Nigerian context means the colonising Brits. So when you are accused of being a bature, they are suggesting that you follow the white man’s laws and are transparent in a way that is not natural in the Nigerian tradition. 3 out of 4 of his children are just as principled when it comes to earning their way the honest way and I strive to be like them. To me, money is nice to have and necessary to provide the basics of life but my ambition has never been to be rich. I just want to be comfortable. Baba is also straight-talking. If you want to know something, you ask him a direct question and you get a direct answer. Unless he doesn’t know, in which case he will say so. I too am a straight-talker…although people have called me precocious, abrupt and even rude because of it on occasion. To be honest I don’t really care what people say about me unless they misconstrue what I say and get mad. And fair enough, rarely I am intentionally rude because someone is being mean, unhelpful, unfair or verbally abusive at work.

Anyway, I digress again! I will finish by saying that I know Baba is lonely these days because at nearly 85 years, his friends and all of his friends have died. Most of his brothers and sisters are gone too so he feels alone a lot of the time as his children and grandchildren are busy leaving their lives and many of us are not even in the same town as he is. He had diabetes and hypertension and several other organs are beginning to show signs of old age. He keeps losing interest in all of his old interests and every day, he has a new project that gets abandoned when he dreams up something else. Despite all that, I pray that he stays with us until we can have an even bigger party on his 90th birthday compared to his 80th. Because I want to have children and for him to meet them and look at them with the wonder with which he looks at my nephew, his first great-grandchild.

What or Who Was I in My Past Lives?

I was reading a book this weekend just gone and the main character had hypnosis to remember her childhood. This reminded me of the popular BBC day time show which put celebrities through ‘regression’ and re-enacted their past memories to try and establish who these celebrities were in their past lives. Before I write down my thoughts, I have a disclaimer. I do not belief in reincarnation and living multiple lives. Sometimes I think it would be rather nice to have another chance to do it all over again but then again, if you come back into a worse situation what is the point? One life is long enough for me, thank you very much.

I figure the biggest clues to what or who I might have been comes from the things I love instinctively. So first of all, I love physical contact. As a child, I would literally drape myself all over my mama whenever she was seating down. I also loved to climb and sit in tree tops. I was light on my feet and despite many falls, never broke a bone. I have always loved hugs and being stroked particularly on my back. Remind you of anything? That’s right: a cat. I remember loving the Jungle Boy, the film adaptation of Disney’s Jungle Book and my favourite thing was when Mowgli came face to face with ‘Shere Khan’ the fierce tiger and stared him down. Since then, I have loved big cats as well as the domestic ones we kept and tried unsuccessfully to keep safe from our dogs. I loved seeing the white lions and tigers at The Safari Park and I know that if I could choose to return as an animal, my 2nd choice would be as a lioness.

My 1st choice animal would be a horse. My granddad has a farm and when my mama moved back to Yola, I was less than a year old. She was the farm manager in those days so being a baby, I naturally spent a lot of time on the farm with her. The stables were full to bursting with mostly polo horses in those days and my mum likes to recount that I learnt to ride before I could walk. What she means is that I loved the horses and whenever there was a stable hand with any spare time, I would be popped onto the back of a gentle mare and walked around. I never had proper lessons but I watched my uncles play polo and I always knew I wanted to ride horses. When I was old enough, it came as naturally as breathing for me to be on the back of a horse. Of course in those days, I couldn’t handle the frisky younger polo horses but there was 1 in particular called Sofia that I favoured and every chance I got, I rode her.

So why do I love horses so much? I think they are absolutely gorgeous creatures. I love their soft velvety noses especially when they brush it across your palm as they take sugar cubes from your hand. I love their large teeth and long lean faces. I love their beautiful manes especially when they are shaved and plaited before polo matches. I love the deep brown of their eyes and their ridiculously long eyelashes. When they look at me, I feel like they can see into my soul and read my thoughts. They whiney at exactly the right moments in a tale. I love their foals with their ungainly long legs and how they skip around and play as their mums graze. I love watching them breastfeed then lean contentedly into their mums’ flanks. I love watching the adults gallop and seeing their muscles ripple under their glossy warm coat. I love to brush them down after a ride and watch the shine on their coat. I love their smell which lingers on my jeans for days after I have had a ride. As I have got older then moved away to England, I don’t get as much opportunities but I still go back to the farm and ride when I visit.

Fulanis are cow people and nomadic in origin. Beef is in general loved universally by the Fulanis and the more, the merrier. There is nothing my granddad loves more than firing up the clay barbeque pit and roasting beef straight from the abattoir. My sister is also a big meat eater and could eat meat all day every day. I on the other hand, like my mama, prefer seafood. I would eat seafood all day every day. I love it all except slimy oysters and odd mussels. The other love that goes hand in hand with seafood is being by the sea. I cannot recall ever being stressed at the seaside. Not even when I thought I was going to drown once. Not even in a little speedboat in the middle of a turbulent ocean when I can barely float in the shallow end of a swimming pool. I honestly feel the happiest when I am by the sea, hearing the waves crash onto shore, having brine sprayed onto my face and burrowing my bare feet into fine sand. Maybe in another life, I was an islander.

There are some smells I love with an intensity I cannot explain. I love the smell of coffee and did so from a very early age despite hating the taste (my granddad was addicted to it so I naturally I stole a taste). I used to add a pinch to my black tea so that I could smell coffee without its taste. Every time I walk past a coffee shop, I want to go in and sit just so every breath I inhale, I am immersed in the smell of coffee. Yet I can go months without drinking a cup of coffee. I also love the smell of freshly baked bread, particularly baguette and tiger bread. In comparison to coffee, with bread, I cannot wait to tear into the loaf and devour the piece. I do not even need butter or jam. Just fresh bread is enough for me. This makes me think of Belle in the little market town street in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. That fact in addition to the relative ease with which I navigate French makes me think that perhaps in a former life, I might have been a French girl.

Lastly, I wonder about my love for certain tastes. Sweet and sour fruits are a particular love for me. I especially love tamarind which I started eating when I was about 4 years and over the years, that love has never waned. And since then, I have found many other fruits with the same sweet and sour nature. Sour sop (or guanabana), mangoes, chappulle and mboye (found in north-eastern Nigeria), agbalumo (found in Central to South-western Nigeria) and tsamiyan biri all over the north. When I couldn’t find something to satiate the hunger for sweet and sour, I would cut one lime into 2 halves and dip the top of each half into a plate of sugar, allowing it to soak up the sweetness then suck on it. I can feel my taste buds tingle now as I remember the sweetness giving way to sharp tanginess that made me tingle all over and screw up my face even as I revelled in the taste sensation. The other taste I love is chilli pepper. There is rarely a time when I feel that no chilli is a good idea. Sometimes I crave the heat of scotch bonnet peppers so badly that I get up and cook up a scotch bonnet chutney. This chutney is so fierce that just opening the jar I store it in makes my eyes water and draws an unexpected sneeze from me. I must have 5 or 6 different chilli containers in my spice shelf yet every time I see a different form of chilli, I am tempted to buy it. This all despite the fact that my gut has decided that it is rather sensitive to chilli and the older I get, the less tolerant it gets. However, I am so passionate about chilli that I could not live without them. That combination of loves to me brings in mind Thai food…which means I could have been Thai in another life.

Of course I have many other likes that make perfect sense. Like peppermint. My mama’s main craving whilst pregnant with me was Trebor peppermint so I think her blood had high levels which became the norm to me. As far back as I can remember I have always loved Trebor peppermints and buttermints which are still ever present in my home to this day. I love all small animals and people and for me, the smaller the better. But who can resist a small helpless creature with massive Irises and total innocence? I also love vanilla ice-cream but only in an ice-cream cone. Without a cone, the experience just isn’t the same. I think it is the contrast in texture between crunchy and soft creamy ice-cream and the contrast of room temp cone with freezing cold ice cream. I love pancakes, thick and fluffy as the Americans make them. I love pies with mash, mushy peas and gravy. I love the colour red. I love elephants and camels and riding them. What I am trying to say is, even with a long list of likes and dislikes, there are some irrational ones that make me think for a second: what if I like them now because I loved them in another life and it is the leftover memories making me feeling the love? I wonder…

Philosophy 101

My best friend did a BSc in Sociology and Philosophy at Uni whilst I studied Medicine. She would come home and tell me what they had discussed in Philosophy and we would have debates about the issues they raised. I cannot remember what exactly we were talking about that day but we got to talking about gravity and the world being a sphere. We ended up making our brains work overtime and we had to stop imagining after a while because our heads literally hurt at the concept we were trying to grasp.

First we imagined being a giant, as in being bigger than the planet Earth. So we looked at it from his perspective (this giant is male for some reason). We imagined if he came across the Earth which would be like a large alien ball to him, what would he see and feel if he examined it closely? Maybe examined it under a giant microscope? First of all, there is the atmosphere which we think is nothing concrete so we thought maybe the 1st thing he would see/feel would be the clouds, wispy inconsequential bits of fluff to Giant. Maybe the clouds would feel like a wet wipe, cool and moist.

Next, would he feel the highest mountain peaks as hard sharp jagged spikes? Looking at them, maybe they would be the size of massive zits. The highest building and towers may feel bendier than the mountains and maybe look like black heads in comparison to the mountains. How about the oceans? Would they be like squishy jelly to him because we imagined he would stick his fingers in the Arctic ocean and think ‘cold jelly’ then into the Indian Ocean and think warmer. Looking at the oceans must be like looking at an abstract painting with the shifting blues, greens, indigoes and even corals of the oceans and seas. Active volcanoes would give Giant an impression of hot spots and to look at little cones discharging puffs of grey smoke with hot red goo in their centres. Forests would feel soft with bristle underneath and look like broccoli and herb gardens to Giant. Deserts would feel like grit and look like fine brown powder. Huge waterfalls like Niagara and Iguaçu falls would look like steaming water dripping off the sides of the heads of broccoli onto the stalk.

Then it got harder for our brains to imagine. Would anything else really be significant to Giant? Would houses and roads and lakes be large enough to make an impression on him? We certainly didn’t think humans would attract much notice. Elephants and blue whales he would probably be able to appreciate under the microscope but humans would be like tiny ants and would only make a mark if there were thousands gathered in a demonstration or large arena concerts. Large birds would be like butterflies or even flies. Anything smaller would be a mere irritation to feel and he certainly wouldn’t see them.

We had to stop imagining there because the scaling down was scrambling our brains. The other things we thought is, although many of the structures/features of the world we have imagined above are either mobile or fluid, because of the effect of gravity, it is all held to the surface of the ball that is the Earth. This must mean that if Giant were to hold up Earth with Africa on the top, Britain would be on its side and it would look like Ben Nevis was horizontal and not vertical as we know it is. Also if he were able to see humans, still holding the Earth in this position, we would all like little particles, all stuck onto the surface of the Earth.

So now I have re-imagined all of this, I wonder about the microscopic world. When I look at lichen that looks like it is stuck to the ground, is it really stuck to the ground? Or is it just so lightweight that the gravitational pull to the center of the Earth is too strong to allow a mere mortal like me to see that it is actually mobile? I mean, it must be mobile at least to begin with because when the pavement was put in place, there was no lichen and years later, there is lichen that has come from somewhere else. As are the ringworms/warts that must be living in baths so that you unsuspectingly step on them and ‘catch’ ringworm or warts which you only find out about weeks later when you get the rash of ringworm or feel the pain of a verruca. There is so much we do not know about because we cannot see or feel them but all the same it doesn’t mean that they are not there. That is why I say, we never know what else is out there (aliens etcetera) because how could we when we don’t fully know what is living right here on Earth with us. Maybe right under your feet, right now as you sit and read this. Boggles my little brain!!!