Tag Archives: gift

Shoes Glorious Shoes

My earliest memory of falling in love with pair of shoes was when I was about 7 or 8 years old. The shoes belonged the original Aisha Joda, my late maternal grandmother who we all called Mamie. They were dainty slippers, skinny wedges with black skinny and some stonework round the front. Beautiful classic shoes, kind of understated in their elegance. Mamie had the most beautiful small feet. A size 3 to 3.5. At 7-8, my feet were that size so I would sneak into her dressing room and put them on and stare at them in fascination. I think she or my mama caught me once or twice. She must have realised how much I loved them because when I turned 10, she gifted them to me. I was so thrilled. I wore them every chance I got (unfortunately not enough as I didn’t have many occasions to dress up back then). It was with deep sadness when I came home at the age of 12 to find my feet had outgrown those shoes.

My love for shoes grew slowly and steadily. I found a bargain faux leather black boots in 2001, just below the knees and for the first time, they fit perfectly around my skinny calves. I felt much like Julia Robert’s character in Pretty Woman and that meant I felt fabulous because it was my favourite movie and still ranks in my top 10. I wore those boots everywhere anytime. For two years, aged 15 and 16. Sadly, they were not of the best quality so after a lot of miles walked in them, I reluctantly stuck them in the charity bin.

My first really lovely grown-up pair was bought by my sister. They were a classic black suede stiletto pair with 4 inch heels. It took a bit of getting used to with the height of the heels but once I broke them in, I loved them to bits. I had them for nearly a decade and had dozens of pairs of shoes by then but parting was still difficult. I gave them to a sister because I knew she would love them much as I did.

I will mention two other significant shoes. I love polka dots in any shape or form. I even had a polka dot wedding cake and have bonded with many a parent at work over their polka dot top/skirt/tights. 2 years ago, I found a beautiful pair of black with white spots polka dot high heels by Rocket Dog. They are absolutely stunning and I wear them every chance I get because even if things are going pear-shaped, I look down and my feet clad in polka dots never fail to lift my heart. My husband loves shoes and he is a generous soul so if I let him, he would buy me shoes costing hundreds of £££. I am of those who believe that if I have hundreds to spare, I would rather go on holiday than buy a pair of shoes I am too busy to wear out anyway. For my last birthday, my husband gifted me my first pair of Jimmy Choo’s. Black knee length pure leather boots with a gorgeous soft lining that caresses my foot. A bit like my first pair of boots but more grown up and of better quality. I still feel like Julia Roberts but a classier one.

I shan’t go on about every pair of shoes I own but suffice it to say, there are quite a few and I keep running out of display space. One day, my husband and I hope to build our own home reminiscent of some of the inspiring Grand Designs homes we have seen. My one wish is to have a decent sized dressing room adjoining the master bedroom. The main reason being, I would like to be able to display all of my shoes in a beautiful setting, like Carrie in Sex and the City. Mmmm….

Sweet Mama

When I think of my mama, there is a theme song that plays in the background. ‘A Song for Mama’ by Boys II Men. The song talks about her teaching her child everything, teaching them about right and wrong. It talks about the mama believing in her child when no one else would. It talks about loving mama being the food to the soul and her being the child’s strength. Amazing song!

My mama was never the most traditional of mums. For majority of my life, she was a single mum. She is a feminist. She travelled often to attend conferences and seminars and to take part in courses, for weeks and sometimes months at a time. She did not enjoy the traditional female roles of cooking and cleaning day in, day out.  I rarely saw her do laundry and she certainly never ironed for us. But…she also did a lot of traditionally mummy things. She woke us up for school every morning she was home. She bathed us both together in the bathtub and wrapped us each in a large bath towel, tucking us in just the way we loved it so that we were like worms in a cocoon of warmth. We would hurry off to our bedroom and fall into bed, clean and warm for a quick ‘shut eye’ and make her go through the process of getting us up again. She washed my hair and patiently combed out the tangles and put hair cream on my hair and scalp. She took me to buy school books, stationary and shoes when the new term began. She waited at the end of the school term for my exam results and told me how proud she was.

My mama recounts that when I was born in a busy maternity ward in Ahmadu Bello University (ABU) Teaching Hospital, Kaduna. She says she knew I was different in that first hour. The maternity unit was very busy which meant that as babies were born, they were given a cursory drying and wrapped up and placed in a queue for proper cleaning before being placed in their mothers’ arms. My mama says that I wailed so loud for so long that the midwife had to come away from the mother she was assisting to pluck me out from the waiting queue, give me a good clean and take me to my mama. I cried all through her handling and I am told that as soon as my mama took me into her arms, I took a deep breath in and fixed my eyes on her. Apparently I was as good as gold for my mum throughout childhood. Not so to everyone else. I was a right madam and often fussy especially when my mama was away on one of her trips. I cried so much that I grew up with a husky voice but my mama swears I was always good for her. I think my tears were from missing my mama and fearing that she had abandoned me.

I was a different baby from my sister. My sister was the baby that wanted to be handled 24/7. I was the opposite. I wanted my mama to cuddle me with breastfeeds but I wanted to be in my bed when I was asleep. I was happy to be at home playing when my mama went out as long as she didn’t have luggage in tow. When she went on a trip, it felt like she took a piece of me with her. I remember vividly going into her room and sitting on the side of her bed. I would stare at the enlarged picture of her taken before I was born and feel the tears well in my eyes. I would press the button on the talking clock on her headboard and lie on the cool tiled floor in the dim light and wonder if I would ever see her again. For some reason, I was always afraid that she would never come back. Even though she told us how long she would be, it always seemed to me that the deadline had passed and no one was telling the plans had changed. I would lie on the floor of her room in the silence as my sister played with the neighbourhood children and imagine she had been killed in a plane crash and everyone was keeping it from us. I would cry quietly as I imagined the worst and eventually, I would find some hope from deep within and say to myself she was OK or I would have heard of the plane crash on the news. I don’t know why in my young mind, I didn’t think she could die in a car crash which was more common place.

When she came home, she always came bearing gifts. Nothing too extravagant but all special. I got my first Barbie after one trip and many years later a Cindy doll after I got over the loss of my Barbie. On a long trip to Venezuela, I got a t-shirt which I loved to bits and wore until its stitching unravelled and I had to be begged to throw it in the bin. I got a ‘born to be wild’ t-shirt from the US which when made me feel like the bee’s knees whenever I wore it. On the same US trip, she got me arguable one of the best gifts, a special edition perfume from the Disney store shaped like Belle from Beauty and the Beast. I still have the plastic Belle bottle more than 15 years later. One trip she went to the Disney store in London and got me a Tazmanian Devil woolley hat and gloves combo. A regular treat were the pick and mix sweets. The highlight was the marshmallows covered in strawberry-flavoured slightly tart sugar. Yummy! Those sweets taught us a highly valuable life lesson. She handed us each a large plastic bag full of sweets and left us to our devices. My sister would go through a fair few in the first day then slow down over the next few days. I was more calculating. I would pour out all of my sweets and group them into types and work out how I could make it so I could make my favourites last the longest. I always tried to save a strawberry sweet for weeks and ate it last. I will never forget how special that last sweet was. It almost made it okay that mama had to travel AGAIN a few months later.

I am one of those weird people who love salads. The secret? My mama. She makes the most amazing salads. I don’t know exactly how she did it but she made it so that having a special salad was an occasion in my home. She would take us to the shops to buy baked beans, sweetcorn and mushrooms. Then she would slice the tomatoes, hard boil eggs, fry the mushrooms and re-cook the beans then dress the lettuce with all of that, laid out in the most beautiful pattern. The salad would look and smell so good that we couldn’t wait to tuck in. It was so delicious that it was the main course of dinner. Thinking about it now is making me salivate. The other thing my mum is a queen of is smoothies. She loves them and she makes the best ones. What makes them extra special is the love she puts into preparing all the fruit and blending it all in batches and giving us all a helping. I have always watched children whine about eating fruit and vegetables and to be honest, I have never understood why. Because my mama was so good that she made us love fruit and vegetables.

Of course I am biased but looking back, I think she did an amazing job. She was the disciplinarian whose love I never doubted. In a society where smacking was considered the norm, she was very restrained and I can count how many times I got smacked. Each time was totally called for too and even then I knew. She is now one of my best friends, cliched though that might sound. I can talk to her about anything. My opinions are valuable to her even if she argues about it all. I am her confidant, her financial adviser, her personal doctor, her baby and her friend. I value her above everyone else and everyday, I thank God that she was gifted to me as my mother. I am thankful that she is healthy and strong and fiesty to a fault. I owe her everything I am. She is my greatest love.

What’s in a Bouquet?

Nothing gives me the pleasure a nice bouquet of flowers gives me. One of my dearest friends came to see my new home after the wedding and brought along her nice boyfriend to dinner. He came bearing flowers and I could not hide it. I was smitten. He is now the lovely boyfriend, upgraded from ‘nice’.

All flowers and come to think of it, portable plants have that effect on me. They upgrade a person. Maybe it is because a person who appreciates a bit of nature automatically appeals to my inner green goddess. Or maybe it is because they are so beautiful that they appeal to my love of beauty. I am a big fan of beauty in so many ways my husband gets confused. I will digress, as you know I am prone to, but I do find beauty in unusual places and features. My own mama is still grappling with the concept of ugly cute which my sister totally gets. Think the Grinch which I find irresistibly cute down to his pointy paunch. Lol.

Back to the flowers now, I think I also love them because I know they and their leaves more importantly are tirelessly hovering up all the CO2 I am producing and providing me with fresh oxygen to breath. Some of them are also emitting the most gorgeous natural fragrance to turn an ordinary room into an oasis. So when I get a bunch of flowers, it goes beyond the thought for me. It is a gift of love, of happiness, of health, of beauty, of fragrance and of generally amazingness. Never does a £10 gift generate so much appreciation and gratitude. Love love love.