Tag Archives: Birthdays

Thoughts, on turning thir…cough! cough! cough! Excuse me.

I am still looking for where I mislaid my original nose, but it’s okay. I’m sure wherever it is, my pre-pregnancy waistline is keeping it company.

Piña Colada can be a breakfast drink if you have it with eggs. And you don’t drive. On that note, it is perfectly fine to be a bit buzzed at school run. Just don’t try to make conversation. That thing you think is so hilarious probably isn’t. You’re buzzed. Go home.

Writing is the best gig ever!

Writing is the worst gig ever.

I don’t shave my legs. Deal with it.

Ditto armpits. Yes, I realise our friendship may now be in jeopardy.

These are my parents:

My dad likes having his picture taken.
My mum hates having her picture taken.

I feel I have been smarter than I currently am. But I have never been poorer than I currently am. Both things can be fixed, which means I am very lucky.

I hope to not be living in this country next year because I am a bit tired and there is a whole lot of world to see. However, I will miss the NHS.

Save the NHS!

Why is IS destroying everything?!!

I’d like to build my house from mud. Like those mosques in Djenne. Or like our ancestors’ houses. I already have an architect.

I really like the name Mehitobel and have been wanting to give it to a character. Except she’s a demon, my character.

I wish I had spare robotic eyes that I could switch my human eyes out with so that I can read all the books I want and never have to sleep ever.

I inherited my grandma’s glasses. She had all her teeth. I should have asked to get those too. Clone myself a little baby Mama Onitsha.

I’ve been working on a story for three days. I finished it yesterday. Now I have two stories.



Where’s my jumper? Oh no.

Cheers to the frickin' weekend.
Cheers to the frickin’ weekend.

Throwback: Birthday playlist. Also Chris Mba is a sexy beast.

Now what kind of Nigerian would I be if I did not introduce my son to the only version of ‘Happy Birthday’ he should ever sing? Or these other fantastic songs that coloured every birthday party in the eighties/early nineties?

What  birthday party songs do you remember from your childhood? Let  me know  your birthday party playlist in the comment box!

And finally…(Thank you Waffarian for this!)

Anyone that tells me that Chris Mba is not a sex god is a liar and God is watching that person. Look at the manly forearm vein. Those superhero shoulder pads, sleeves well rolled. See that Soul Glo’, sef. Thank you Kessing Sheen! Whatever, man. Chris Mba is a legend.

Are you out there? It’s Chikodili. Again.

Hello Universe?! Can you hear me?

I have spent all my years on earth believing.

I was Mulder and I was Scully. And before that I waited patiently for Voltron to arrive, falling asleep each time, only to shake myself awake heart pounding in my throat with the fear that I had missed them. I knew my toys were moving around, living, breathing, having fun without me. Why did they keep still whenever I came into the room? Did they not trust me? Was there something lacking, some element that meant they could not let me see them as they truly were?

Nevertheless, I’m tired of waiting now. I know you’re out there. I don’t know what it is I need to do but I REFUSE to believe that I have to die first. Yes, yes, I know. We’re all energy and I might need to transcend this state in order to see, to know. But I do know. In this state, flawed, near blind, I know.

So quit it. Enough is enough. Surely, the eve of one’s X-tieth birthday more than qualifies for the ‘Something Special’ category? The planets have aligned. Don’t be selfish. Beam me up.

Oh and hi parallel-universe Chikodili, you total badass. Say hello to your wife for me.

My first Valentine EVER.



I think my feelings about Valentine’s Day are well documented on this blog but just in case I haven’t made myself clear, let me say that I just never got the whole fuss behind the day. I still don’t.

Needless to say I have only ever attracted people who are as anti-valentine as I am; my first boyfriend didn’t care for it, my last boyfriend – now husband – doesn’t care for it and anyone else in between probably thought they struck gold when they found out I didn’t much go for the whole forced displays of affection malarkey with its exchange of material goods and expectation of directly proportional sexual returns. Since a lot of them were of the donkey persuasion (I was going through a self-hating phase. It was a long phase), it would have been hypocritical to single out one day out of 365 in which to pretend like they were Homo Sapiens.

So naturally when I found out my Estimated Delivery Date fell on the 20th of February plus or minus one week, I started praying not to have our child on the 14th. I intensified my efforts when I went into labour on the 10th.

“Please can you check me?” I asked the midwife, glancing at the clock. It was 10pm on Sunday the 13th of February, 2011.

“You’re still 4cm dialated,” she said, biting off the corner of her sandwich. I could see what looked like goat’s cheese mixed with saliva gathering at the corner of her mouth.

“Noooooooooo! This Boy why won’t you come out now?!”

He took his sweet time, arriving at 5.06am on Valentine’s Day.

“Okay God,” I prayed, holding the bloody bundle in my arms,”Since you are obviously having a laugh at my expense, please could you make sure that nobody starts calling him…”

Beep. Beep. A text from my father-in-law. ‘I name this boy Valentine’.


This Boy ‘made’ me a card at playgroup for Valentine’s Day. And even though all the other mothers gave me pitying looks when I remarked that it was my first VD card ever, I don’t care. Coming from This Boy it is the best thing ever because he is and today I finally have something to celebrate.

Happy Birthday, my darling.