Nike Campbell-Fatoki's Blog, page 3

A Fly Girl: Travel Tales of an Exotic British Airways Cabin Crew

A Fly Girl gives insight to the highs and lows in the world of a former British Airways (BA) cabin crew, in an intriguing travel writing memoir. In the global landscape the memoirist meticulously documents personal adventures, social structures and political history throughout her daring and exciting expeditions. Conveying tales from the America’s, Arabia, Asia to Africa the narrative is fuelled with race, gender and sexuality as the author walks through hip hop history and experiences terrain vibrations and eruptions. The author exposes her relation to addictions, alcohol, air rage and the life of the jet set, highlighting history of British Airways at forty.

 Amanda tells poignant stories that portray the complications of humanity; others are alarming, amusing and vivid and manifest the nature of humankind, the kith and kin of a global family. In addition to powerful story telling infused with lyrical prose the book is also spiritual and reveals a healing mindset as the autobiographer deals with the battle of self esteem, national identity, and aesthetics for women in an image conscious world.  Is Amanda transformed by travel?

Travel Writing from an African Perspective.

 Amanda Epe is the first seminal story teller on the narrative of being black cabin crew with British Airways. Amanda Epe writes articles, essays, poetry, fiction and self- help.

Her work has been featured in publications and anthologies in the U.K, U.S and in Saraba Literary Magazine Nigeria. A Fly Girl is her debut book, an inspirational memoir of her days working with BA; travel tales through the lens of a black African perspective.

She has a Master’s in Education, Health Promotion and International Development and her blog focuses on promoting health and literary art for women. She spoke to Tundun Adeyemo from www.blackandoutspoken.com recently.

What books are on your Kindle now?

I am reading a new book Bamboo and Fern by Ava Brown. I love memoirs and in this one we are in sunny Jamaica, it is really inspirational. Taken of the bookshelf once again, I am reading Adichie’s Americanah, Chimamanda is so powerful, I love her works.  I am also re-reading The Alchemist by my favourite author Paulo Coelho.

What book will you be giving away for Christmas? Mama Christmas is doing generous this year, look out for A Fly Girl at a price next to nothing.

What inspires you to write? Are you going to keep writing? Life and experiences mostly, but other writers play a part in my writing. I ought to continue as I know what is good for me.

If you had the opportunity to do anything all over again, what would it be?

A Fly Girl, oh yes I’d do that again but this time with larger wings.

Is it a time and place for African writing? It is a shame that African Writing is a new phase like our African attires, Ankara is now fashionable but we’ve always worn these garments, African writing is now more widely read, but still publishing in Africa is challenging just as it is for ethnic minorities to be published in U.K.

Talk us through the characters in your book? We have an activist, a caricature, an entrepreneur, some shopaholics, alcoholics and other addictive personalities like flirts, and of course the protagonist heroine. Also tourists, many ists, including a chauvinist!

Must we always look through the lense of feminism and race? In the next plane, when taken to another planet when we elevate there, these words will be archaic. lol

Do women fart? We are only here in this world to be beautiful, broody, wifey and contain all our toxic gases in public, but I let off with a bang!

Why is your book different? It is an opportunity to read real life writing whilst going on a world tour of entertainment, adventure and history.

What two things would you like to be remembered by? Black and outspoken Tundun, but that is plagiarism so I say a seeker of truth and transformation

Would BA cringe to read what you have to say? BA has a history of offences with Nigerian passengers, they would hardly be embarrassed by my words, but they would fear to lose bookings and business if like many passengers I have spoken to say they prefer Virgin.

Is there a message behind your book? Take that trip to live your dream, and aim for the sky.

Where can we find more about your book?

A Fly Girl, the kindle version is now available on Amazon. A Fly Girl will be available in print from Amazon, Waterstones and all good retailers by January 2015. For deluxe and author signed copies for people in the UK, you may order from Blossom Books at mail@msroseblossom.org

Connect with her on social media facebook.com/msroseblossom and twitter@msroseblossom

Reviews

This book provides a rich insight into the author’s adventures across the globe as cabin crew for British Airways. Navigating her way across the world, the author exposes the difficulties in connecting with citizens from diverse cultural and religious backgrounds, many of who held patriarchal norms that challenged the author’s normative assumptions about gender equality. It’s an interesting and enjoyable read. – Charlotte Proudman, Barrister QC

 This book is a woman’s journey to find her true identity, going through the journeys of being a black woman in non-ethnic dominated role. It’s an awakening story of learning about loving and owning one’s true identity beyond the expectation of what it means to be a woman and yes women do fart lol. – Lillian Ogbogoh, International Best Selling Author and Sensuality Discovery Specialist

 Intimate and frank stories give rise to funny and touching moments in this memoir of an air hostess.  We’ve all wanted to be a fly on the wall at times but Amanda is a fly on the world observing complex and evolving social realities through each stop on her travels. Although her focus is those she meets, when her often rose-tinted expectations are dismantled we catch a glimpse of Amanda that is at once unexpected – perhaps unintended and very compelling in its sincerity. A fresh and original voice. – Vanessa Walters, Author and Journalist Guardian & BBC

Opaque

      Afua’s head jerked back, hitting the metal pole behind the seat. Her eyes opened and darted around the cramped train.  Everyone was engrossed in reading a newspaper, on an iPad or on the phone.  She sighed and shifted in her seat.

“You know, there’s a remedy for that.”

The speaker’s breath brushed her neck.  The smell of alcohol instantly dispersed into the air and Afua’s nostrils.  She turned around to look into the roving eyes of the man regular train riders going downtown knew as Larry.  He had been absent for a few weeks.

Afua turned back in her seat and looked straight ahead.

     “Energy drink!”  He screamed into her ears.

     “Oh goodness!” 

The lady seated beside Afua shouted and jumped up to follow Afua who was already at the door.  There went the chime, and the train doors opened.

     “Miss! Miss!”  Someone called behind her.  Afua waved, not looking back, thankful this was her actual stop.  She would not have minded walking a few more blocks just to get away from Larry.  Poor Larry.  Once a successful real estate agent, he was now living off unemployment checks.  He had his good days, but when he got frustrated, he lashed out with words and objects.   Afua did not want to find out what type of day he was having. She stepped on the escalator and rode up slowly.

“Miss, I hope he didn’t hurt you?”

Afua smiled as the lady seated beside her on the train stopped on her way up the escalators.

“He just caught me unawares.  How about you?”

She shook her graying blonde hair and placed a hand on her chest.  “I almost had a heart attack! Brings back bad memories of how my husband used to shout at me before hitting!”

“Sorry to hear that -”

          “No need to be sorry my dear.  I put a stop to that after ten years. See!”  She pulled back the hair at her neck, revealing a scar running up to the back of her ear.  Afua jerked back, sucking in her breath.

“You left?”

“You bet I did! Have a good day now!” She flashed pearly whites and walked up the stairs in her four-inch heels.

          The one-block walk to the office was not without its usual sights.  In the Starbucks window sat lover boy and girl cuddling as usual with just one cup of coffee between them and two laptops opened.  They lived there.  Mr. Wall Street brushed by her in his custom-made suit talking nonstop on his phone.  Afua had overheard him talking about buying and selling stocks once and labeled him Mr. Wall Street. For all she knew he was an intern who just liked trading and dressing well.

          She glanced at her watch.  It was 8:20am exactly.   The commuter bus stopped in front of her building, the tall brick building with tinted windows.  Amor Fashion Magazine, where Afua worked as a columnist, occupied all but three of the twenty floors.

“Hey darling, how are you?”

She felt a tap on her shoulders.

“Oh, I didn’t see you get off the bus!”  Afua exclaimed, falling into step with the tall man in the off-white V-neck sweater with a tie peeking out.

“I barely made it in!  Lalah was at it again this morning.”

“Really?  Why can’t she let up?”

Daniel pulled the door open for Afua to enter.  They were met by Lucas’s smiling face in his over-the-top multicolored cardigan and patterned bow tie.

          “Children, welcome! It’s about time too. Your boss lady just went by a few minutes ago!”  He called in his nasal tones from behind the receptionist counter.

          “What?!  Sureeka’s here so early?” Daniel pushed his glasses up. He did that when he was excited or upset which happened too frequently of late.  Afua grabbed his hand and ran for the open elevators.  They got on just as it closed.

          “I haven’t finished the write-up yet. She expected it on her desk first thing this morning.”

          “Relax Daniel.  She doesn’t normally get in until 11am. Maybe she has an early meeting.” Afua tried to reassure him but he was already panicking. He dropped her hand and held on tight to his messenger bag.  He stepped out the moment the doors opened.

          “Oh, pardon my manners.” He mumbled, stepping back to let Afua by. She smiled and patted his arm.

          “Trust me Daniel, she must be here for an early meeting.”

They walked by the empty cubicles.    The light in Sureeka’s office was on.  They entered the shared office across from hers.

          “Daniel!”

         They glanced at each other.  Good luck! Afua mouthed.  The door closed behind him.  It didn’t matter.  Sureeka’s shrieks and Daniel’s muffled apologies could still be heard.  Afua turned on her monitor and was soon staring at a familiar face. Her eyes fell on the same face in several picture frames on her desk. The door opened and closed.

          “I didn’t ask you to close it Daniel.  Afua, come in here!”

She sighed and got up.  It was one of those days.  Daniel sat in his seat, smiling sheepishly.

         “It’s just practice for when I get home.”

         “Not funny Daniel. She shouldn’t speak to anyone that way,” Afua muttered and walked by.

          The head of thick wavy hair was lowered when she entered.  Afua stood and took in her former friend and colleague, now boss lady. Her once- fitting Valentino dress hung on her.  Afua sat down in one of the chairs across from Sureeka’s desk as she looked up.  She dabbed quickly at her cheek.

“Is something wrong Suree?”

Her gray eyes melted for a second.

“You can tell me.”

Sureeka hissed and pulled herself closer to the desk.

           “There is nothing wrong Afua.” Her voice could freeze water instantly.  Flinging back her hand, she pointed to the calendar behind her. “Now, tell me, how many days before we go to print?”

“Three days.”

         “So where is your write-up on the fashion show?” Did it bypass me?” She raised her hands.  The diamond ring flashed conspicuously as she waved back and forth.

Afua shook her head.

          “Suree, but I told you yesterday I’d get it to you latest tomorrow. I’m working on it –”

          “Be quiet! And stop calling me Suree! We are no longer in college.”

Sureeka’s hands hit the desk as she got up.  Afua shrieked and jumped out of the chair. It fell to the ground and Afua on top of it.

          “Afua, are you alright? Oh God!”  Sureeka ran around the desk, in tears.

Daniel dashed in and fell to the floor beside her.

          “Afua! What happened?  What did you do to her?” He demanded from Sureeka.

She sobbed into her palms.

          “I’m calling Human resources the minute they get in!”  Daniel said, taking hold of Afua’s hands to pull her up.

          “Please Daniel!” Sureeka shouted, grabbing his hand.  He shrugged it off and helped Afua to stand.

“I will! The way your treat everyone around here is despicable!”

“No, you can’t –” Afua said, hands shaking.

Daniel stopped midway from picking up the chair.

“What?”

He straightened up and put the chair in place.

Afua and Sureeka looked at each other.

“Daniel, I am fine. Please, a moment with Sureeka?”

He looked from one to the other.  “OK, I will leave you two. But if I hear another sound, I will be calling Human resources and security.”

          “Th…Thank you!” Sureeka said as he closed the door behind him. “Come, sit. I am so sorry!  I didn’t mean it.  You know that!” She pulled the other chair beside Afua and took her hand.

“It’s been really rough lately Afua.”  She whispered.  Afua looked up.

“Ib?”

Sureeka nodded and dabbed at her face.  Afua took it and gasped.

“What?”

Afua touched her cheek, hands shaking.  Sureeka’s foundation had washed off her face, revealing a dark bruise.

“You told me he stopped.”

Sureeka sniffed and slumped into the chair.

          “I thought so too. Then I was promoted, and you know how that went – late nights, taking work home.  I had no time for him –“

“But that’s no excuse!”

“I don’t know what to do! Sometimes he’s so caring, other times-”

“He will do it again and again!  You must leave.”

Sureeka shook her head slowly. A brief knock on the door brought both to their feet.  She patted down hair and dress.

“Yes?”

A red head appeared behind the door.

“Are you ready for your nine o’clock?”

“Of course Samantha, good morning.” Sureeka smiled

Samantha’s eyes widened.

“Oh, good morning.  I…I’ll take them to the conference room.” She glanced at Afua before retreating.

“Su-”

          “Enough Afua!” Sureeka whispered. “I will deal with this. I am sorry for lashing out at you but this is my problem and Ib’s. We will deal with it.”

Her eyes were the familiar icy gray again.

“Sure. I’ll get my write-up to you before leaving today.”

“Thank you.”

Afua closed the door behind her and walked back to her office.  Daniel looked up from his monitor.

“What was that about?”

“It’s a female thing,” Afua said, looking up. “I think.”

His brow came up.

“You think?”

          “I can’t talk about it. She told me in confidence.”  Afua put her hands over her mouth and continued in a hushed voice.  “Just like you tell me about Lalah’s shouting and throwing things at you in confidence.”

“Oh.”

He turned his attention to the monitor.  Sureeka came out of her office and waved at staff coming in.  They paused in their tracks, unsure of this new Sureeka.

         “Samantha, please get me coffee!” She called, cat walking to the conference room.

“Let’s see how long that lasts.” Daniel muttered, typing away.

The phone rang on Afua’s desk.  The number appeared on the small screen

          “That’s my cell number!” She shouted and picked up the receiver.  “Who is this?  Did you find my phone? I didn’t even know I lost it.”

There was silence.

          “Hello?”

          “Did you think I wouldn’t know how to get you?  Leaving your phone carelessly around!”

His slurred speech made her skin crawl. She glanced at Daniel who seemed intent on finishing his write-up.

“I will call you back!” She whispered.

“Don’t you dare!”

She dropped the receiver and turned to her monitor. The phone rang again. This time she pulled the cord from the wall.

Daniel looked up.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes of course.” She smiled and began typing.

          The train ride home was shorter than Afua hoped.  Her legs dragged as she walked the two blocks to the apartment complex in the quiet neighborhood she had called home for the past five years.  Terry, her neighbor’s teenage son, was standing outside his door when she got to the second floor.

“Terry, what are you doing out here? There’s no soccer today?”

“No Miss Afua.  It’s Wednesday, remember?”

“Oh yeah! So why are you outside?”

He scratched his head.

“Oh no Terry!  You lost your keys again?”

He shoved his hand in his pockets and looked down.  “I think I left it in my room this morning.”

“This is the last time I open the door without your mom knowing.”

“Thanks Miss Afua! This is the very last time, I promise!”

“Sure.”  She muttered, already searching through her bunch of keys.  Terry’s mom and Afua had exchanged  extra keys just for this very reason -  incase either of them ever lost their keys or was locked out. Terry moved aside as she approached and turned the key in the lock.

           “Thanks Miss!  And please, no word to my mom?” He batted his eyes at her, reminding her of the ten-year old boy she had first met years ago.

           “Be good Terry,” Afua called to him as she turned to her door. The hallway was dark and quiet as she closed the door behind her.  She sidestepped the stool she knew was beside the door to the guest restroom.  The ticking clock sounded very loud in the quiet.  The key rattled in her hand. She steadied it with the other hand as she walked into the living room and pulled back the shades.

          “And why would you do that?!” the voice growled from the recliner.

Afua began walking backwards.  The figure sat up, revealing the face that had haunted her all day.

“I didn’t see you there Larry.”

“Of course you didn’t, always caught up in your own world.”

“Larry, please, not today!”

He got up, still in his rumpled clothes from two nights ago.  Her first sight of him on the train that morning had her almost weeping with relief.  In two strides, he was glowering down at her.

          “Why did you not answer when I called you on the train? I was shouting ‘Miss, Miss!  come get your phone. Why did you drop the phone on me when I called you at work?”

His hands were on her neck.  Afua shook her head as the tears streamed down her face.

“You feel you’re too good for an unemployed free loader huh?”

“Larry, please stop!  Stop doing this!”  She whispered.

His breath stunk from days of drinking. He released her and stepped back, his face crumbling into a watery mesh of skin and tears.

           “Why do you make me do this Afua?  You know I love you!” He fell to the carpet, sobbing.

Afua sank to the carpet beside him.

          “I love you too Larry. But you know I’m not complaining. We have enough money to get by.” She put her arms around him and kissed his bushy head.  “Don’t worry; you’ll get a job soon.” She whispered and kissed his temple. He stiffened in her arms and raised his head, eyes flashing.

          “How dare you rub my lack of a job in my face once more?  Do you remember what happened the last time you did that?”

The punch had her flying across the room into the table in the hallway, shattering the glass frame of the picture they had taken in Las Vegas.

          “Oh God” Afua muttered.  She tried to get up, but the pain in her hip was unbearable.

“Miss Afua!  Miss Afua!”

The front door shook from the heavy banging.

“Terry?”  The glass cut into her palms as she crawled to the door.

          “Don’t let him in Afua! This is none of his business!” He was getting up.  Afua scrambled up and ran for the door just as it opened.  Terry held the key.

“Miss, are you alright?”

Afua grabbed his arm and stepped out. Her front tooth felt loose and blood trickled from her mouth.

          “Boy, you get out of here while I settle this with my woman!”  Larry shouted from within.

          “Thank you Terry, but I have to go back in.  I don’t want him to get into trouble.”

Terry shook his head, holding on to her.

          “No miss.  Mom said next time this happened not to let you go back in there and to call the police.”

          “What? Did you do that Terry? Did you call the police?”

The faint sound of sirens pierced the quiet evening.

 Nike Campbell-Fatoki © 2014

Photo credit MGDA ©

If you need help call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE(7233)

Don’t Tell Me How It Ends!

     I’m a sucker for surprises.  I’d watch in horror as my friends would open to the last pages of a thick novel to find out what happened at the end; push the tips of my fingers into my ears to stop from hearing the end of a movie I was still waiting to watch while I screamed ‘don’t tell me how it ends!’

     I love opening up wrapped gifts (with multiple wrappings), soaking in the last sentences of a novel, or watching a movie and realizing the end was not what I’d expected.  The anticipation and journey has actually been more enjoyable than the gift, ending of the story or the movie.

     I’ve been on a journey for many years now, and so have you.  Not a journey to any earthly destination but a journey of our lives.  I’ve taken a detour once or twice, made friends and acquaintances along the way (hopefully no enemies), even taken others along on the journey with me (family).

     I wonder why people like to know what their future will be, they visit palm readers, fortune tellers, comb the newspaper for their daily zodiac readings, all in the hope of finding out what will happen next.  So what happens when you know? Will it change behavior? the future? Make you a better person? Will it make you work harder?  Sometimes I wish I could know how it all ends – my life that is.  But then again, I wonder, if knowing will make me change how I approach things.  If I’d have put in more effort if I knew I wouldn’t get the expected result.  Our life’s journey is the sweeter in the not knowing.  In the not knowing, we:

Formed friendships, some leaving bad tastes in our mouths, others, lasting for the rest of our lives
Began that start-up company, even with the sad state of the economy; the start-up is now a midsized company with employees
Married that heart-throb, amidst failing marriages, and you’re still standing
Took a step of faith following our passion and the journey has taught us that fear was what held us back.
Realized that we are indeed the authors of our destinies.

      This past week, I lost a close friend, a sister, a confidant.  She was beautiful inside and out.  She touched everyone around her, always had a kind word, a lovely smile. I met her in primary/elementary school, not knowing that ours would be a friendship that would last for over 20 years.  She lived not knowing and she lived it well.  Here’s to Y.O.

 This post is dedicated to all my friends, old and new.  My life is richer because of you.

(Photo credit trainingforwarriors.com)

Ileoriomi: My Visit to Makoko, Lagos (Pt II)

It took me about three weeks to completely unpack from my trip to    Lagos.  In my unpacking, I was happy to find the extra SD card with more pictures of my visit to Makoko. 

Thanks to all that have reached out and want to help.  I’ll be getting back to you shortly on how we can effectively reach the people who are in need to work collaboratively with them.  The goal is to empower the people of Makoko so they can stand on their own -        sustainable development.

Here they are.  My favorite picture?  You tell me…I’m sure it’s yours too.  Trust you’re having a great week. If you’re not, take control and make sure you do. 

One life. xoxo

 

With Baale Jeje and his visitors,  Benjamin and  one of the youth leaders[image error]Benjamin explaining how the base of the houses are first filled up before building starts  [image error]Trash [image error] [image error] [image error]He asked for his picture to be taken[image error]

 

    

 

 

 

 

Ileorimi: My Visit to Makoko, Lagos

     “T he people of Ileoriomi were a happy lot.  Though they did not have much, they were content.  They were a typical fishing and sawmill community.  Their weather-worn homes stood proudly on wooden stilts over the murky waters of the lagoon as they had for many years.  Looming in the horizon was the bridge which joined the island to the mainland.  Bordering Ileoriomi was the sprawling metropolitan city of Gidi.

     Every morning, the men would go out in two different directions.  Some would get into their canoes, pulling their fishing nets in and rowing out onto the lagoon.  Others would row towards the saw mills close to the mainland, returning just as the sun went down behind the clouds.   The women would lay out their wares, mainly fish, which their husbands brought home, in front of their wooden houses.  People came from far and near to get their robust fresh  fish, turning a blind eye to the trip across the waters amidst smell of burning  trash and lumber, array of scantily clad or naked children running around and the shouts from the hunch back begging for alms.  They would arrive at daybreak to buy large quantities of fish to go and resell at the city markets.” – Excerpt from The Hunchback, by Nike Campbell-Fatoki © 2014

Ileoriomi, means house on water in Yoruba.  It’s the word that came to mind when racking my brain  for the name of the community in The Hunchback, one of the stories in my collection of stories for my next book project.  I visited Makoko Community in Lagos State in June, a place I had never set foot in, but only viewed from a car as  I drove or was driven  down the Third Mainland Bridge.

Makoko is comprised of wooden and concrete buildings built over water, some areas are filled up with sand, the majority built on the wooden platforms standing proudly on matchstick-like stilts.  The people are no different from any other anywhere – living, making the most of what they have and desiring a better life for themselves and their children.

It only seems appropriate to put the spotlight on Makoko in the month of July.  This month, two years ago, a resident of the community was killed as he joined in a peaceful demonstration to stop the demolition of the community.  The state government’s 72-hour vacate notice to residents led to the unfortunate incidence.  Per the state government, the structures were built within 100 meters from a power line installed on the lagoon. The case for the community – they have nowhere else to go.  If they must go what other options do they have?  It’s been two years and the population is getting larger. I visited Makoko two days in the same week, the first, on  Wednesday, June 18th to meet with the Baale (Baale means the ruler/head) of Makoko, Chief Raymond Adekunle Olaiya Akinsemoyin, a lawyer by profession who became the Baale in January 2012.  He gave a detailed history of how Makoko came to be.

 The warm-heartedness of this community was in full display when my mom and I just happened to take a drive down to Makoko in Yaba that lovely day, since I insisted I could not come home and not visit this place that I had seen in my dreams and written about.  The Baale welcomed us with open arms, and offered us something to drink.  He listened to the request to find out more about Makoko and proceeded to tell us how this African Venice on the Coast of West Africa was founded:

Baale of Makoko, Chief Raymond Adekunle Olaiya Akinsemoyin

History of Makoko

Makoko was part of a large expanse of land owned by the Oloto royal family circa 1892.  The Baale’s maternal great-grandfather Adam Emmanuel bought the land from Esugbayi Oloto and left it for his children.  The child who inherited this area, now called Makoko, was Ramota Emmanuel.  She fought a lengthy battle with encroachers and finally won after 25 years.  She married the great- grandson of the Oba of Lagos, Oba Akinsemoyin and four of her five children were for him – Gafari (first Baale of Makoko), Chief Wahab Kadri Olaiya Akinsemoyin (the grandfather of the present Baale), Raheem Kadri (first Imam of Makoko), Alhaja Sariyu  Alake Olaiya Akinsemoyin, and Yekini Olaiya Ekelojuoti.  “Mama,’ as she was fondly called, invited fishermen to fish at Makoko and in turn collected rent from them.  The area’s population soon grew, attracting settlers  from different tribes – Egun (by the way, the Egun Community originate from Benin Republic (I cannot seem to stay away from my kin.  Re: Thread of Gold Beads).  Ilaje (from Ondo State), Ojo, Tapa, Igbos, Hausas.

 

Mama – Ramota Emmanuel , owner and founder of Makoko  

My second visit on Friday, June 20, culminated in canoe ride, winding between the stilt houses on water. I met Baale Jeje (jeje means gentle), Chief Ayinde Albert, one of the six Baales of the Egun Community. I understand why he was called that, as his demeanor is gentle but strong.  Asked how the community got the name, he replied that there used to be a recurring ceremony years ago where a deity – Osangbeto Orisa –  would come out to solve disputes between the inhabitants and discipline them.  This ceremony used to be called ‘Mankoko’. Soon after, the community decided to retain the name.  The Egun community arrived Makoko during the Biafra war.  The fish brought them there. They stopped first at Ilubirin before settling down in Makoko.

 

Baale Jeje, June 20, 2014

Per the Baale of Makoko, the population is about half a million.  Most people bypass the entrance to this community unknowingly.  The community has most things every community has – schools, markets on water, shops, churches, mosques, traditional herbalists.  It continues to expand. Residents  keep filling up the water with sand and building outwards.  Displaced persons on the mainland have also taken refuge here.  The question becomes how sustainable is this?

 

Benjamin Ayinde, Baale Jeje’s son, is the leader and founder of the Impervious Youth of Makoko.  He and one of the leaders of the group were the tour guides.

 

Pictures of Makoko Community

  Fresh fish from the waters

Smoked fish for selling

Benjamin’s passion for his community is infectious.  He is 22 years old and graduated from high (secondary) school in 2013.  It took him that long to graduate because he had to stay out of school a few terms due to of lack of funds.  He remains committed to helping the youth.  His youth group targets youth at risk in the community, keeps them occupied by teaching them  drama, dance/choreography for community events, environmental sanitation, providing counseling, and community advocacy.  He has keyed into the solution for Makoko – education of the youth. Benjamin told me about different international and national nonprofit organizations visiting to assist with education of the students and vocational training  for older people within the community as well as the cleanup of the environment.  He is excited for the future of the community as shown in this video below (parts 1 & 2) .  He one day hopes to become a lawyer. Here again is someone on his path to greatness.

IMG_3155 for blog pt 1 IMG_3155 for blog pt 2

I thank the people of Makoko for letting me into their Venice, a place of great potential, a place where the leaders of tomorrow have been born.

 You can be a part of the new Makoko by contributing your time and/ or resources.  There are children to teach, areas to clean up and develop and eager hands to train.  Feel free to reach out to me at nikecampbellfatoki@gmail.com to connect with the leaders of Makoko community.

I join hands with Benjamin and support his vision for Makoko - in 10 years time there’ll be governors, doctors, lawyers, engineers to help the families and the community to grow and there will be transformation of life in Makoko through education.  Let’s all be a part of it.

Happy July 4th.

 

 

 

 

Book Review Series: STILL (Book I) by Eniola Prentice

Still takes the reader into the world of medical students. The four main characters – Sola (Fadesola), Nikky (Nike), Tayo, and Ladi- Nigerian students, each with a past or a hurt they carry with them, open the reader up to the joys, hurts and challenges of medical students, dispelling the myths and stereotypes.

 All four apply to Stedman College of Medicine in Washington DC for different reasons.  Sola, with family issues and a  dark secret that follows her from Nigeria, applies to medical school to get away from it all. It is at the College where she thought peace was finally hers that she must confront the secret buried in her soul.

 Nikky, an only child, practically smothered by her parents’ love finds an escape to the East Coast  from her home in California a welcome one.  Carefree and highly intelligent, her parents gave up their life in Nigeria for her to attend a gifted school in the United States years ago.  Her mother, Elizabeth and mother’s twin sister also named Nike are initially reluctant to let her leave,  but finally release her, only after Nikky hints she is likely to find a husband in medical school. She finds him, but he is not content to commit to her nor settle down.

 Tayo is the ‘bad boy’ of the story. Bad decisions and catastrophic consequences follow him.   Raised in a wealthy family, he wants for nothing. His partying, drinking and drug use  in his teenage years result in an unfortunate incident that follows him to Stedman  College of Medicine.  Like a magnet, he attracts every type of female. In the crevices of his mind lies  his darkest, deepest secret committed many years ago in Nigeria and covered up by his brothers.  The revelation of what he did and whom he did it to  will leave him shaken to the core, forcing him to confront his true nature.

 Ladi is the Christian brother, who has challenges too. His reason for attending medical school after so many attempts is personal. With the support of prayerful parents, he appears to be the one that will make it out in one piece. But Ladi, like everyone else has a cross he must bear.

 Still tells the stories of these four characters in a nonjudgmental manner as they grapple with emotional and physical challenges while gently leading the reader to the core of the message  – the enduring love of a heavenly Father waiting on His children to come to Him. The reader will empathize with and relate to each of these characters, cheering them from the sidelines.  This debut novel by Eniola Prentice is commendable.

About the Author

[image error] Eniola Prentice was born in Lagos Nigeria where she began to pen her stories as early as nine years old, inspired by an eclectic group of writers. Her budding writing career was put in the back burner as she pursued her dream of becoming a medical doctor, completing her undergraduate degree in Chicago, Illinois and her medical degree in Washington, DC. However in the third year of medical school inspired by the holy spirit or the voices in her head (she would prefer to blame God for this one) and the unique and inspiring stories of friends that became her family in medical school she began to write her debut novel and series, Still. She hopes that her writing compels challenges, inspires people and draws people to the Christian God’s redeeming love.

Follow her posts at http://eniolaprenticewrites.blogspot.com/

Twitter @eniolaprentice

 Still is available at Amazon

To  enter for the giveaway to get free signed paperback of Still,  a 40 dollar amazon gift card and a mystery gift, visit http://eniolaprenticewrites.blogspot.com/2014/05/still-blog-tour-and-giveaway.html to en

 

 

Precious: What I Learned from Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou is no longer with us, but her life will forever be a constant reminder of one lived robustly and with no apologies; a reminder that we are here but for a moment and have only one chance to get it right.

Born Marguerite Ann Johnson, Maya had every excuse to give up on life at an early age.  Raped by her mother’s boyfriend at seven/eight years of age, she did not speak for the next few years.  She found her voice through writing.  Never allowing her temporary misfortune to dictate the course of her life, she went on to live out one of the most remarkable lives in history in my estimation.  She was:

The first African-American female cable car driver in San Francisco

A singer

Dancer

Screenwriter, Poet, Waitress, Cook, Orator

Author

Educator, Historian, Producer, Film maker

Actress

In the movie, Roots

Civil rights activist

With Malcolm X

With Coretta Scott King

The first African-American woman to be nominated for a Pulitzer Prize

Awarded Presidential Medal of Honor by President Barack Obama

I’m quite sure more can be added to this list.  She was all this and much more.  Now tell me, what is your excuse?  Maya Angelou has taught me many things.  I have learned, through her life to:

Be Fearless – she wasn’t afraid to be the first to do something.

Give myself permission to make mistakes – That’s the only sure way not to make them again

Be flexible and leave room to change my mind – She worked and lived globally

Be anything I want to be – She did that

Be as many things as I choose to be – I’m not limited to pursuing one career or profession.  She certainly proved that

Believe that I am never too old to do anything – She became an author at the age of 42 with her novel I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Be phenomenal – Be me and not a duplicate of someone else

…and that I am precious – how I treat myself is exactly how others will treat me.  I AM PRECIOUS.

 

Maya Angelou lived her life to the fullest; I strive to do the same.

This is for you Dr. Maya Angelou – Precious

 

Beautiful we were

Bound by unspoken experiences

Shaken by things forbidden

Rooted in our search for acceptance

We blossomed in the attention

Averting our eyes from what was

Hurtful words, sudden outbursts

Hauling objects, broken frames

We blossomed still in the attention

   

Coy and brutal you became

Conquest, your only pursuit

Determined in your will for dominance

Effortless in your ridicule and disdain

Bent on traveling the path of destruction

A smile became a snarl,

A caress, a rope around the neck

Every breath, a miracle

We traveled down the path of destruction

   

Barricaded from the world

Beset by loneliness

Oblivious to the passage of time

Camaraderie slipped into distrust

Thoughts begot whispers

Whispers begot fears

Fears birthed mayhem

Self-doubt tore us from within

We ceased to be one

 

  Silence ate at our bones

Shattering our will to live

Fear, uninvited, made our heart home

Separating us

Precious clung to life

I dangled on the edge of nothingness

Wishing, hoping, praying

Time will heal

Change will come  

   

Riddled anew by chaos

Roaming death but a thrust away

Precious faded

Rattled by the thought of loss

I gathered strength and my spirit rose

Freed by self-love

Freed from self-hate, self-doubt, self-pity

Blood throbbed in my veins

Overtaking my heart with force

 

Free to finally soar

 

Rest in Peace Maya Angelou.  You will be missed.

 Pictures from http://mayaangelou.com/, Getty images.

Thread of Gold Beads Play

Naturally , we all go into something thinking it will endure for a while.  Why would we start out doing it if that were not the case?  So I  went head-on into writing Thread of Gold Beads.  My ending, short-sighted as it may seem, was in publication and sales.  I never thought at the time to step out of my box and comfort zone.  It took feedback from readers to prompt me to take my vision to the next level and adapt the novel into a play.

[image error]Well, it has been.  Thread of Gold Beads will come to the stage with the help of supporters like you. Your donations will go towards production of this independent play.  I made a short video of myself talking about the novel and vision for the play.  I’m proud to say the video was recorded by my son who supports my dreams as much as I support his  :-)

Thread of Gold Beads will hit the theater on October 4th in the Washington DC area with two show times.  My vision goes beyond Washington DC area, maybe it will be in your area next.  TOGB, as I fondly nicknamed the novel, will educate, entertain and inspire you.  Please support, share, and support again!

https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/thread-of-gold-beads-play

I’ll be back soon sharing a new poem this week. In the meantime, watch, support and share.

xoxo

Guest Writer Series: Domestic Violence Amongst Sisters in the Diaspora (Pt I) by Dr. Mobolaji Oyebanjo-Popoola

Domestic violence is real and very high amongst immigrant populations. Over 50% of victims that die by homicide in the hands of domestic partner are foreign-born women. The high rate of domestic violence can be attributed to various reasons. The main reason is the lack of a social network or extended family and friends.  Some women feel trapped and helpless in an abusive relationship due to the lack of a social support system.

Hitting Close to Home

I recall a close friend who is a physician and married to a fellow physician.  Both had emigrated from Nigeria. We all thought they were a happy couple until one morning when she called me from a hotel. She called to inform me that she was no longer with her husband. On my arrival at the hotel to check on her, I was shocked to see her swollen face. I listened in disbelief as she narrated her ordeal. Apparently the abuse had gone on for more than a decade. It initially started as verbal abuse but gradually escalated to physical abuse. Recalling her word to me she said “Initially he was verbally abusive, calling me names but one day he slapped me, I threatened to leave him but he apologized. “We had peace for some time but lately he started hitting me again.”  Apparently he wanted a divorce but realized the potential financial impact on him, the alimony and child support that he will probably be subjected to pay. He had a couple of affairs, wanted out to run around the streets and sow his wild oats but he knew it would cost him.

The final straw was when he threatened her with a gun during their last fight. As usual, she called the police and recanted her statement once they arrived at their home. Pursuing the allegations of domestic violence could cost him his career and livelihood, as many physicians are subjected to regular background check. In the heat of their fights she would usually call the police but only to recant the story on their arrival. This time when she called the emergency number 911, she reported that her husband had threatened to kill her with a gun.

 On the arrival of the police, she withdrew her statement as it was her pattern.  To her, the police was just a show of force to stop her husband from hitting her any further. The police officer that was dispatched to their home that particular night was a regular at their home as he was usually among the team dispatched in response to her call. This time around, instead of just leaving them, he called her aside and informed her that he was aware she was covering up for him. The police man acknowledged it was common amongst foreign- born women to cover up domestic violent to protect their spouses. He expressed his concern about the report of a gun in the home. He asked about her family and predicted that the next call from their home will made by her husband or 12 year-old daughter asking them to come pick her dead body. He predicted that very soon he would have to come retrieve her dead body in a body bag.

He also advised that since she did not have any close relative around, her four children will become wards of the state as her husband might end up spending the rest of his life in prison for killing her. On hearing those words she had an epiphany. That very night she picked up her important documents, got her kids and drove to a nearby hotel. When asked why she did not reach out for help, she said she felt shame.  She also expressed her fear of living  alone.  “It is very lonely here,” she said.

She was one of the privileged women - financially successful, from a rich family that had the means of her mother, father and siblings visit her multiple times in a year from Nigeria. Imagine a woman totally dependent on her spouse for money, immigration papers and whose family members do not have the means of visiting her or know her living conditions?

Why are Domestic Violence Incidents Among  Immigrants on the Rise?

The loss of identity that occurs with immigration is very frustrating for men. Women tend to fare better as this affords them more opportunity. How can you explain an engineer with a driver and cook in Nigeria coming abroad to work as a cab driver? They usually take the frustration out on their immediate family.

Another reason for the violence is the clash of cultures. The demands of the society in the western world is different from the demands of the country many people come from. In Africa, the average person can afford a house help and a driver so they can cater to every demand of their husband. Imagine a husband who has a wife working long hours and demanding fresh soup every day, how will she cope? The western world offers some liberations to women, if the husband is willing to forgo tradition. Some men are die hard traditionalists.

Displacement is another issue in immigration. The young truly shall grow old and rule their society. Many immigrants lose their turn in their society of birth as they have to start again in another country. Despite an initial socioeconomic gain, many of their peers they leave behind eventually work through the kinks and make head ways. Many of their peers left behind in their own country eventually occupy the corridors of power.  For many people especially men, this can be very frustrating.  Many go through an identity crisis, when they wonder if leaving home was really the best thing for them, particularly when their childhood friends start assuming positions of authority such as commissioner and minister. This underlying frustration and a question of their identity usually turns into anger towards their immediate family. This is sometimes compounded by them having to work under the supervision of a bossy young female supervisor.

Some men bring women here to use them to make money for them. They send them to school and expect them to work long shifts in return. The women are expected to hand over their pay checks to the men. The men use the proceeds to take care of their extended families back home or build a home back in his village. Eventually the women get tired of this arrangement and refuse to hand over their checks. Many women have been known to pay back with their lives.

The divorce rates are high all over the world as it is. This rate is further compounded by issues peculiar to the foreign born woman in a strange land.

Knowledge is power,  be informed.
There is safety in numbers, stay connected.
In all your getting, get understanding, seek to understand the man you are with, know which  buttons you can press and those you must avoid, every one has a breaking      point.
Reassess your safety  on an ongoing basis, stay out of danger.
You deserve respect just as your spouse deserves respect too.

Here are helpful links:

http://www.futureswithoutviolence.org/content/features/detail/778/

http://www.futureswithoutviolence.org/userfiles/file/Children_and_Families/Immigrant.pdf

National domestic violence hot line. tel:1-800-799-7233

Disclaimer. This is not to be taken as personal advise or consult to anyone as in a the context of a doctor patient relationship. This is just my opinion. If you are in danger of domestic abuse please seek professional help.

Mobolaji Oyebanjo-Popoola. M.D.

Board Certified Psychiatrist and Addictionologist

*Picture credits via www.examiner.com (istockphoto.com)

Path to Greatness Series: ‘My Name’ by Oluwatimilehin (Timmie) Fatoki

My Name

I always wondered what life would be like

If I changed my name ?

How would my life be changed ?

Would I be the same girl

Everyone sees me as ?

Would they forget me ?

Would I be just another face

In the crowd ?

I then realize my name

Makes me who I am.

It defines me as a person,

As a Christian,

As a Nigerian,

As an American.

People see my name

And they remember who I am.

I’m not another face in the crowd.

My name is Oluwatimilehin.

And with God behind me,

I can go on with life,

With confidence,

And with pride

Knowing that

I can show people

Who i am

And where I come from

With my name.

2014 (c) Timmie Fatoki

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Timmie Fatoki

This poem was written by my 16 year-old niece, Oluwatimilehin (aka Timmie) Fatoki.  This worthy poem was selected out of so many and included in the Building Bridges Between People Everywhere:  Healing the Heart of the World; An Anthology of Writings from the Maryland Connects Writing Project.  Timmie was recognized along with other recipients at the Chinese Embassy, host of the event, last Friday, April 25.  The event started with a tour of the beautiful building.  One thing we noticed was that every room had a work of art.  It was either a poem mounted on the wall, or art work.  Just beautiful. I can’t promise a translation , but I can promise you pictures in this post.

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Timmie with her proud parents 

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Timmie and I

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Timmie is a remarkable young lady who has found her voice at such a young age. Congrats to you Timmie!  I am so proud of you!   Your poem really got me thinking about the importance of my name.

Like I tell the young ones around me - ‘know who you are so the world will not tell you who you are. ’  My kids have been subject to ridicule because of their names.   I remind them it’s because those who ridicule are ignorant of the importance of their names.  They must educate them and more importantly be proud of who they are.

I am sure many of us (immigrants) or children of immigrants have thought of changing our names. Maybe because others couldn’t pronounce it so you shortened it to make it easier for them to pronounce.  Shortening or outright changing the name makes life easier, but we would be lost in the crowd, wouldn’t we?  We would just be another Nikki (Nike) or Sean (Seun by the way) or Tony (for Tunde) just to name a few.   Where I come from,  a name is more than just a name, it represents our origins, beliefs and culture.  Your name personifies you. My full name is Adenike – ‘Ade’ means crown and crown represents Kingship/God ; ‘Nike’ means pamper/care for me.  Now, I will not list my additional five names, I don’t think I can hold your attention for that long.  Timmie wrote it brilliantly – my name:

Makes me who I am

It defines me as a person,

As a Christian,

As a Nigerian,

As an American.

People see my name

And they remember who I am.

I’m not another face in the crowd.

Well said sweetie.   Another young lady on her path to greatness.  Look out for her!

As you read this,  remember and keep in your prayers, the 200+girls  kidnapped in Chibok, Borno State Nigeria.  They have names, but their names haven’t  been released.  Whatever you can do to help, please do.   Sign the petition.  http://www.change.org/petitions/over-200-girls-are-missing-in-nigeria-so-why-doesn-t-anybody-care-234girls?recruiter=91355651&utm_campaign=signature_receipt&utm_medium=email&utm_source=share_petition.  There are several events happening this Saturday  to speak out against what happened. Let your voice be heard.

What does your name mean? Educate us by sharing.