Discovery: Lightbulb Moment #1

I'm not the type of person to engage in wishful thinking, as I feel that it stagnates my growth. However, lately, I have been really trying to understand the ultimate point that I have reached in my life as I feel that something is 'missing'. I can't really put my finger pulse on what is 'missing', but I do know that a myriad and a cacaphony of emotions that have recently affected me over the last few months or so have contributed to these feelings.
Sometimes I ask myself if I am running on empty, in the sense that I feel that there is nothing left in me thus my sense of self being stuck on hollow. I ask God daily to redeem and rain salvation on on me, but sometimes it's a difficult task in the face of continued adversity. I mean, how do I reach deep and far into my soulspirit if I keep on feeling depleted? How do I muster up the continuous strength for my own survival? I know this may sound somewhat dramatic, but that is how I am feeling right now!
Ok, the reality is that I am an anchor without a boat. A swimmer without a life jacket. I guess I need some kind of buoy tool to keep me afloat on this wave of uncertainity, because my ocean is currently endless and without any seams to it. Overall, my foundation remains shaky and unsteady for now because currently there is a lot of unclarity in these waters now... a bit of an oil slick situation. How can I sum up how I feel?
Alright, I feel that I am looking through a steamed up windowpane, evaporated by mist. Sometimes I clean it and I can see all the way through it. Other days it remains an enigma for me; a sense of vagueness.
I try not to have any wistful regrets in my life, but sometimes I wish that I could just pause my entire life - imagine using the pause function on a dvd player. Or, even more extreme, to totally rewind the memories in my life, so that I can replay them at my own leisure and erase any nasty memories and replay them again with the attached wisdom that I have acquired over the years.

Excerpt 'Memories Recalled: HerStory'

This is just a short excerpt on the story that I am still writing and developing.

She hated Sundays with a passion. Hated being paraded in front of the audience who always whispered behind large paper fans that her voice was angelic and heavenly, but was a pity that her father consistently played the field, kicking many home goals with some of the women parishioners.

She hated shivering in her vest and knickers in front of the parrafin heater after her hair had been preened and meticulously styled for the church audience. She detested the ritual of dressing up and being placed on a stage in front of the church audience, whose virture of attendance was due to their perceived social standing within the community. Religion was just a pause, an afterthought. Whispers on sacred lips on Sabbath and the rest of the week, with obscenities sprouting from the same pursed mouths.

They carried their leather bound Bibles as beacons of respectability and materialism. Discreetly checking for designer labels out of hoodwinked eyes, feigning innocence with their stares. With their Bibles, they turned the pages to quote relevant passages, which they thought integrated into their perfect, comfortable yet stagnant lives. She wasn't aware of the term 'hypocrite' until she became much wiser to it later on in life.

So, her hair became a foundation on how she would look like on Sundays. Slick and shiny like a motorcycle helmet. She often asked herself why she couldn't have straight and flowing hair so that she could bypass this weekly humilation. Why couldn't she voice her own valid opinions on how her hair and clothes were to look. She dreaded the way that her mother expressions quickly switched just like the UK weather, whenever she timidly questioned her overall authority. Surely, she had a voice, didn't she?

Some Sundays, she just wanted to run wild in the street, without hearing the mournful strainings of Jim Reeves. She wanted to run wild in the street with her hair uncombed and play 'house' with the Dermott children who lived two streets away. Her mother always told her that they had a satanical influence over her, in as much that they had no respect for their elders and the constant slip of curse words from their pouty mouths that could be heard in the next street. Each time when her mother came wearily dragging her feet down the street, she would just give her daughter that LOOK. Her expressions was ingrained and programmed into the girl's young mind and that was her signal to go home, where a hot bath waited for her, with home made herbs imported all the way from Nigeria. She hated standing there trembling and naked, whilst her mother poured scalding water - spiked with dettol -from the top of her head to cleanse away all her sins, as she used a rough straw scrubber, speaking in guttural tones that she didn't understand and which ultimately, frightened her. After this ritual, her mother would use this funny smelling black soap telling her that this would keep away the demons that always followed her after her playing with the Dermott children.
Her mother hated her playing with the Dermott children. In fact she wanted her to stay inside where she could study her Bible and recite them in a way which would bring a solitary smile to her tired face. But the girl had no choice. She was a latchkey chid, and her key hang stubbornly around her neck like a talisman. She had to make up her own entertainment, whilst her mother was on her hands and knees cleaning up the mess in corporate offices in the city.

Taiwo Ogunnaike
©2009

Part 2: Revelations and Reverberations of an Abandoned State

Wow, after reading my previous posts on here, it's been nearly a year since I've blogged. Sometimes, I feel that my creativity has suffered, due to my overall anxieties of how I feel about myself and my life. Although, I have been writing in my diary on many occasions -albeit, my minimal efforts have been noted in my diary - I still have lots of thoughts and ideas how my creativity will pan out.I procrastinate a lot and sometimes I feel this is affecting how I express myself with my words.

However, I can safely state, right now, at this moment, I feel that the root of my uncertainties lie with my departed mother. This is not to apportion blame on my mother, as I am aware that I have to take responsibility in my creative expressions. But it is definitely part of my 'makeup' as such. I don't want to be seen as a victim, as I am a survivor of my circumstances. Nonetheless, I can now place all of this into a clarified context.

My mother, Caroline Wuraola Olagundoye, passed over in 1989, June 30th to be exact.
Every time this date comes, I feel a sense of ambiguity and vagueness. Don't get me wrong, I had a kind of reverent respect for my mother, I mean, she brought me into this world. But the crux of my uncertainties et al, is that I never KNEW her. She was a mystery to me in life as she is in her transition.
Asking my mother about her life 'back home' was to commit a cardinal sin. I only started getting a better focused picture when she passed from her family members. This was because, myself, together with twin sisters and twin brothers decided to take her body 'back home' to bury her. Sometimes, I regret this decision. Only due to the fact that I, together with my children, are unable to visit her graveside. However, I know that her spirit is 'rested' in being buried 'back home'.
But back to how I feel about my mother.
As I said previously, she gave me life. Unfortunately, she didn't give me a sense of 'self' and who I was. Although she gave me some tools for life - 'tangible' being the key word that always cropped up in conversations between us both, she never led the way to see how I could attain this.
I have felt divorced and isolated from my Nigerian/Yoruba culture - I will be writing about this in other blog entries - simply because when my mother passed, all of the minimal contacts I had went with her.
So now, with my reflections and memories,I still try to conjure them up. Something that I can pass onto my own children as part of their legacy. But dang, it's hard.

To be continued...