Memoirs of a Church Girl

After years of dodging and making excuses I finally made up my mind to learn how to drive. I mean if my immediate younger brother who was terrified of driving for years is cruising around Pitakwa, who is that man-made god or uncircumcised Philistine that said I cannot drive. Truth be told I was weary of fellow passengers telling me ‘madam abeg shift, this is not your parlor abeg” and drivers asking me ‘madam you go pay for two?’ is it my fault that I look extremely healthy…lol (mbok chunky is the new slim) Anyway, I got a driving instructor and God made sure he was a very patient one, and I started learning. After some weeks of intensive training, he cut me loose and I paid him. I was now left on my own, just me and the red cut out ‘L’ dangling in front of the car and behind it. I kept remembering what my instructor told me, ‘I can’t teach you everything, you’ll have to launch out and learn the rest by yourself but I guarantee you in the next few weeks you’ll be as good or even bett

I could beat my chest as a single lady that I was a good cook and a  fastidiously tidy person. But marriage and motherhood quickly changed all that for me. I came into marriage armed with three cook books , five Home and country magazines and a truckload of confidence about how nice my home would be but right now the magazines are probably at the bottom of the Ghana-must-go bag in my wardrobe along with all my Dean Koontz , Stephen King and Michael Crichton novels. Evidence of a time in my life I had time to read novels. My first month in marriage I was out to ‘WOW’ oga and show  him I was the Nigerian version of Martha Stewart.  But to my greatest shock the plate would return to the kitchen almost the way I served it. Initially I felt insulted, then I felt slapped in the face, then deflated. I asked why, wasn’t the food okay, and in his usual quiet manner he would just tell me he doesn’t like it. What is the meaning of this kwanu ? This was strange to me and a big assault to my