Blog #14

Theeeee SIMPSoonnnssssss….duh duh duh duh duuuh duh duh duhh…and the beat goes on. That’s my favorite cartoon, and to me is the best cartoon in the world. 20 years running and still amongst the top 5 shows on Sunday night prime time. It was my escape, my once chance every Sunday night at 8pm to be animated along with them- from the harsh reality I lived as a child courtesy of my father.

This picture to most, if not all, would be just another picture that was taken at universal studios, but to me, it is one the best things in the world. I even went as far to buy a homer Simpson cup at the exit of the ride. In the picture, I would be Bart Simpson, not so for his troublesome ways, but more so his willingness to be in the front seat. Lol, that would be in the front of the TV, singing along as the introduction music played, watching my reality turn into fantasy as I was invincible to the word for those 30 minutes. Besides the childhood memory factor, the Simpson ride itself was one like no other. The technology and innovation behind it was both fascinating and out of this world for the mere fact that I could not tell wether the actual car was moving, or if it was just the room. It was an overall awesome ride. As I get older, I don’t see myself swaying away from what started as a like, and grown into a habit. I conscientiously watch the show, and DVR it when necessary. The simpsons not in my future is like telling another human to go a week without food. Till today, the show takes me back and away; away from my everyday trials and tribulations in this thing we call life.

blog 13

The article of clothing I chose to write about is my old football jersey. I keep in hanging in my room as a reminder of the times when my life was simpler.  All I had to worry about was getting good grades, high school crushes, and next week’s game. At the time it seemed the weight of the world was on my shoulders and every little thing was the end of the world. Looking back, however, I wish it were that easy today. Now I still have to get those good grades, factor in a full time job which usually requires well over 40 hours a week, a mother and sister who definitely require well over 40 hours, and whatever is left over for my personal life (yea right).  I am not complaining. I love my life and my family and wouldn’t change any of it. But, every time I look at that jersey I am reminded that although things seem like a big deal today in a few years they’ll be nothing more than a fond memory

blog 12

I chose to revise my essay about my relationship with my brother.  It is something that I have a deep connection to but also something I’ve never really told anyone. It feels good to finally get it off my chest but I still felt like parts were missing and I wasn’t getting the complete picture across. The more I go over this essay and make changes the more I realize that there is so much to tell and not enough space to tell it in. My goal for my revision is to make the points that I do have room to make much more clear and concise. I want the reader to feel what I feel without confusing them. I realize that no matter how much I revise and edit this piece it is something that will always eat at me. I will, however, be sure to keep my thought process clear and keep the timeline a little more chronological. I believe doing those things will help with the overall presentation of my essay.

Blog #10

HATE

If anyone got to know me, the first thing noticeable would be my manners, morals and ethics. As we know, these things are intangibles and cannot be purchased at your local 99 cent store, and therefore is either taught or learned. With that said, the sensible assumption would be that I was raised by the perfect mother and father. Well, that’s a bunch of bollocks. My mother isn’t the perfect mother- but is the perfect mother for me. Referring back to one of my earlier journals, my mother is not the most affectionate woman there is, but she definitely is the most thoughtful, kind, and helpful. If not for her, this assignment would be non-existent to me as my attendance in school would be imaginary. She saw my brother through 4 years of college and is doing the same for me. Most single parent, especially single mothers can NOT do a quarter of what my mother does, call me a bragger or boaster, but that is my story and I’m sticking to it. But enough about her, though I could go on for decades about her, lets get back to the topic at hand, the man, the lie, my father. I actually feel disgusted and embarrassed to call such a person my father for every person whose life he touched, he affected negatively. As far as my knowledge goes, my mother was not the first, and I, as part of his kids will not be the last. He was the classification of what I consider to be a waste of life, I know, yes rather harsh, but someone who wanted nothing more than to see his own children suffer, and might I add ensured of it, and also beat on his wife constantly for no apparent reason does not deserve to be alive. Death is not something that’s should be wished upon anyone, but paying respect at a funeral is by choice. If that man was to pass away this very moment as you read this, my life goes on-for the better.

Most children have some type of positive or enjoyable memory of their father, whether it be something as simple as watching professional games together, going fishing or even assembling his/her first bike. Well, I don’t. I actually have nothing but gloomy memories about this guy, and I hate to be so pessimistic about him, but that’s the simple truth. “BANG!” was the sound I remember hearing when I woke up on the floor of my room, funny thing is, I went to sleep in the top bunk bed, but the noise and the shock factor snatched me out of my sleep and threw on the floor. My brother awoke at the thudding noise of my body hitting the floor, and in a matter of seconds. We realized that my mother was being tortured a little bit after midnight. We ran to the room to find our beloved mother in the vicious hands of him. I sadly remember this particular scene like it happened yesterday. His hands were balled up in her shirt as he stood over in the corner of their room. “deji, Junior, please go and get help” (she called my older brother junior) was what she told us to do. Before we turned to run out the room-BANG!, another noise except this time it was twice as loud and we saw where the sound came from. The asshole had been head-butting my mothers head into the concrete wall-keep in mind- 99% of Nigerian houses are made of bricks and mortar and this time, my father drew blood from her. Luckily for us, our prior concern of running for help had worked itself out as the second blow to the head awoke our next door neighbors. “DADDY LEAVE HER ALONE, PLEASE LEAVE HER A-“ SMACK!!. He slapped me across my face before I could even get out the second plea to stop the violence on my mom. My ears rung for what seemed like forever as I fell down and started crying myself. In her discomfort and pain, I remember my mom trying to come to my aid and he just would not let her, it seemed to me as if Lucifer himself possessed him. Luckily for me and her, my brother had made it to the door and let the neighbors in. like angels sent from next door, they ran over and tackled him from on top of her all to my satisfaction. As they interrogated him, I did the same in my mind also wondering what she could have done to deserve such animalistic treatment. All I remember him saying was “she is my wife, and I can do what I want with her, now please leave my house!” I contemplated for a while; approximately 4 hours on why he would beat abuse her in such a terrible way till I woke up the next morning sleeping in the arms of my mother. Her head was terribly swollen with lumps the literal size of golf balls, and a cut across her forehead. I was afraid for I thought she was dead. “MOMMY PLEASE WAKE UP!”, and at the sound of that, she opened her eyes slowly as if they were shut together with gorilla glue. I started to cry, and my brother joined along, and amazingly, my baby sister who was then 2 years old slept through all of it. I was glad that she did. My mom apologized to us for having to witness such treatment and assured us not to worry that it wont happen again. As optimistic as she was and wanted us to be, that would be just the beginnig of the worst that was yet to come. I approached the bastard and asked him why he beat my mother and his response was said as cold as ice “ you will understand one day”. Till this day, I wait to hear what I couldn’t understand then. That is the earliest memory I have of that man, and rest assured, it is not the last, nor the least graphic. If I still have your attention, I want to take a minute to ask you- based on what you’ve read so far, could you find within your heart to forgive, or forget such actions if you witnessed your father ill-treat your mother that way??. Well, before you put such thoughts in your thoughts, I hope you never have to witness such violence regardless of the parties involved.

About a month later when I was comfortably seated in the living room being a fatty, stuffing my face with ice cream on a late Thursday evening as it was the last day of school. No more curfews, no homework, no anything, except play and eat. The excitement of the summer vacation was short lived when he came barging into the door demanding the presence of my mother. Out of shock and fear I went numb as my body, lips and hand went cold. I thought that would be the day I would meet my maker, which technically was him, but we all know what im referring to. Out of anger and frustration of my mother’s absence, he lashed out at me smacking the bowl of ice cream and cake out of my hand, and snatching the spoon out of my mouth. “I said where is your damn mother”. I softly answered,” I don’t know.” Boy o’ boy if I knew then that my inability to provide him with the answer he was speaking would blown his load, I would have lied. Like a lion stalking its prey, he sat in the corner chair behind the main door-patiently and angrily waiting all that same time for her to walk in. If only I could have warned my mother about what anticipated her. As soon as she walked in, he remained seated still and waited for her to turn around. My mother knowing me and being the second best friend behind my brother saw and read my fear struck eyes and knew something was wrong. As she turned around to see what was in the corner, a very swift and mighty SLAP met her across her face as she fell down to the floor. She immediately began weeping asking “what did I do now”. He responded to her question by repeating his action, and then answering, “WHERE ARE YOU COMING FROM?!”. If any of you remember back to when you cried as children- how difficult it was to muster up the courage to talk while crying. The head constantly moving up and down like that of a lizard as you tried to catch your breath and speak at the same time. If you haven’t figured it out yet, that was my mother that night. A grown woman broken down to tears, AGAIN as she gasped for air and tried to answer him. “YOU WILL DIE TODAY” is the next thing he said as he walked like a savaged beast towards the kitchen and looked for the nearest knife within his vicinity. THANK GOD my mothers brother was coincidentally on his way just to pay a random visit as he knew of my sperm donors abusive ways and wanted to make sure everything was all right. As he walked in the door, the asshole was walking back towards my mother with a knife in his hand. He sprinted as fast as he could and pushed my father to the ground, twisting his arm till he let go of the knife. If not for my mother’s brother being there at that particular time, I personally believe I would have witnessed my mother die, worst of all, I would not have been able to do anything about it. How was I supposed to have been able to live a normal life if it actually transpired?. We had to move to my grandma’s house about and hour away; for that was the only way we were going to remain safe from the deranged lunatic. My brother and sister had to be picked up from the friend’s house at which they were staying and brought to meet up with us at our grand mothers house. I had nightmares upon nightmares about everything he had done to my brother, my sister and me even while over at grandmas that sleeping seemed to be impossible for the slightest noise, or any type of rumbling made me jump out of my sleep as I thought he was at his shenanigans again. I thought for a very long time as the years progressed what my mother could have possibly done to make him behave in such sadistic manners, and couldn’t seem to bring myself to any conclusions. I asked my mother and all she had to say was that “I’ve always tried to be there for him, financially and emotionally, that was all I ever tried to do.” Obviously, I couldn’t think of approaching him to question him and possibly get some type of answer form him for I feared for my life. This was the dilemma that continued even when we got back home. His nonsense went on and on and the only time I found peace was when I was close to the cousin of death-sleep.

I could go on forever bout all the negative things that was said and done by him, even his mere presence after returning home from work cleared out the room as if a smelly fart had been released in the midst of a crowd, but nothing had a bigger psychological effect on me than what he did a few years down the road, five years ago to be exact when he did what I would presume would be frowned upon by God himself. After returning home from an evening with his mistress (how did I know that was where he was coming from?- I don’t know, I just did) being 18 helped me make better sense of the late night outings and the frequent phone calls to the house by another woman. Anyway, he had a rough night I assumed, and decided to do what he did best, take it out on his family, though the beating was no longer done for we had moved to the United States and this country does not take domestic abuse lightly. Even then, there were still scuffles that we heard in our room beneath theirs. So, he came home and for no apparent reason, picked on my sister who was then 12, called her upstairs and started hysterically screaming at her with emotionally crushing words. We all raced up the stairs to see what was going on and this was his response, “so you’ve all decided to gang up against me, okay no problem”. He took my mothers bible, placed it on the floor and said “ I swear to god who made me, I disown all four of you.”…..i just got shcll shocked all over again writing this. I was hurt from his prior actions, but certain words can be forgotten, and physical wounds will almost always heal. This on the other hand was different on all levels. He had disowned us, his children, his kids who never wronged him. I was hurt, very hurt to be exact. I began to think to myself why god had cursed me to be the son of such a human being. I wanted to hit him in his mouth with all my might, but I was paralyzed. My body no longer obeyed by brain. I remember just walking out the room, down the stairs, into the playroom and sitting in the chair, trying to count the particles in the air. My father, on that day, made me hate him. I was worn out mentally, and I knew then that there was no way this man had a chance of ever getting in my good graces again even if he was on his deathbed. I had developed a word that most people consider an overstatement. I had, and still have hate in my heart.

Now, you know a little bit about my father and his ways. The little good that became of all of this is he showed me what not to become when I became a man, which I consider myself to be now. He taught me a very valuable lesson without realizing he was playing the role of a teacher, and I, the student. Hate is not something that should be used loosely, which a lot of people do. I can almost assure you that you’ve heard someone say “I hate you” at least once this year, but let me ask you one last question, am I wrong for hating my father?

Blog # 8

A good beginning point, if you care to know, would be my place of birth, the type of parents I had and all that other kind of crap. The first truth is, you wont get to know, and the second, is that kind of stuff bores me as I see it as a fact that’s beside the point. As far as memory permits me to go back, I wasn’t the richest, or wealthiest kid in town, but I lived, and still living a content life and got almost anything that I wanted, thanks to a phenomenal mother, whom I might mention is my role model, but that’s neither here nor there, -- I was emotionally satisfied getting love and care from my brother, my mother, and eventually little sister. If you’re still with me in this, you will notice that a word has not been mentioned of my father, that’s because he was the worst/best father in the world. The best teacher I had as far as showing me what not to be as a man, and the worst father due to his physical and mental abuse along side with his negligent attributes. Bro is what I call my brother till today, I never had, and I underline the word HAD a closer friend in my life, but all of that changed when he went off to boarding school a year ahead of me. That would be the beginning of the end of the relationship that we had.

What I felt then and what I feel now are like two worlds at opposite ends of the galaxy. My brother, though not the only family I had, meant the world to me. He was everything a little brother wanted in a big brother. We did everything together, from stealing chicken out of the pot while mom wasn’t completely done with the cooking, to going to the arcades together and wasting all our money and looking at each other with baffled faces. One of my best memories with him is mentioned in one of my journal entries. A clear Saturday afternoon it was-funny how I remember the exact day, OH MY GOD! Is what I remember running out to from getting a glass of water to drink. My brother, being how we were, tried doing something that I did, except I did it successfully, and he wasn’t as fortunate. He had dismounted the gate wrongly, took a wrong flip, and landed on his jaw, breaking it and chipping a tooth. I was never as scared in my young life. The sight of his blood on the floor stuck fear into my heart and I thought then, that my brother best friend was going to be taken from me forever. The worst three days of my life followed- I didn’t have bro with me-he was bandaged all over his head in the hospital from what I was told. I never knew such grief existed. Getting him back was the best thing that happened to me in my short life for I did not know loosing someone, even for a short period of time had such grief attached to it. I got my brother back and the world continued its routine spinning in circles again. Everything got better as time went on until boarding school decided to steal my beloved brother from me. His initial departure was the killer. I really believe I then, went into a young phase of depression for I didn’t know how to continue life without my brother there with me. I almost have tears running down my cheeks now thinking of what it felt like to say bye to him when he was dropped off at school. If I remember precisely, that would be the official beginning of the end of such a great relationship.

The next time I would see my brother would be during Christmas break. Upon seeing him, a bizarre vibe was felt. He wasn’t as friendly, and he definitely didn’t seem as happy to see me while I on the other hand was ecstatic and full of joy. He didn’t want to hang out with me, but instead chose to go out with other people, whom then to me, were assholes for making my brother ditch me. Little did I know, he chose to hang out with his friends than his favorite brother. This was the beginning point of developing this “thing” which till this day I still cant name, or get over. He began hurting me in a way that Tylenol, aspirin, or the best medication in the world couldn’t heal- emotionally. Being that we’re only a year and a few months apart, my time had come to go join him in boarding school. I went in with high hopes that we would continue where we left off at home in Victoria Island by the gate and the swings. Boy o’ boy was I wrong. A nasty rude awakening waited upon me. The first time I remember feeling such hurt from my brother was in the midst of his new founded friends. Ill acknowledge that I wasn’t looking my finest, I actually remember looking horrible but I was feeling emotionally neglected, and I needed my brother to condone me. In the midst of all his friends and a couple surrounding bystanders, he told me “leave me alone, go find your own friends, I don’t have time for you.” I couldn’t figure out if he embarrassed me the way he did on purpose to show his friends who I hated at that moment that he was cool, if he was truly ashamed of me, or if he sincerely wanted me to find my own friends. Being who I was, I took the worst of all three and felt he was ashamed to call me his brother. This was the pattern for my three years at school. Another occasion that ate at me was on visiting day, which is when parents and other relatives are allowed to come see their children, or nieces and nephews. Mommy brought cooked food, and oh man, was I happy to have some home cooking. She specified that it be shared evenly between the both of us, but that’s exactly what was not done. When we returned to the hostel, what seemed to me like a bunch of hungry vultures surrounded him. I had hoped he would give me my share and did what he pleased with his, instead he ate some of it and told me the rest of the food was “massacred”, a term that was used to describe people violently grabbing at your food. I went hungry and cried myself to sleep that night. Don’t get me wrong, he tried to apologize, but I would hear nothing of it for hunger, loneliness, and hurt beat me down like I stole something. As time went on my love and care for my brother passed away like human beings do. I wouldn’t say that I began to hate him- more so began to be uncaring towards him. I eventually found myself at school, made my own friends, and slowly but surely distanced myself from him. That was the end of our relationship.

After three years in boarding school, my piece of shit father asked us to come over to the United States, that we would love it here. Being respectively 12 and 13years of age, what could we really say but go along with his wish. After arriving here in the states, the pattern continued, I did not care to do anything with my brother. From parties to just plain movies, I wanted nothing to do with him, but please keep in mind, I did not, and do not despise or hate him, I just have/had an uncaring attitude towards him. As time progressed, he noticed that he liked to rap, and decided to see how far he can take Nigerian rap, while I on the other hand noticed that I like to draw. The group he became a part of-D.N.B, persistently asked me to draw them a logo, or something of that nature, but the animosity that he had forced upon me all the years was starting to play its role. I neglected drawing the logo for them, but it was an unconscious act, for I wanted to, but I didn’t have the will to. His friends, with time began asking me, “deej, why don’t you support your brother?”, or “how come I never see you at his performances?” etc. We had drifted so far apart that even as far as his shows, I didn’t catch wind of directly from him, but from third parties such as mutual friends, and I could have gotten the information if I really wanted to, but something just wasn’t there anymore for him. This was the story from the age of 13 till now. In all of this, I never knew I would feel guilty for the way I treated him for he was the reason I became this cold

About a year ago, our house got broken into, and we evidently decided to be extra cautious as far as leaving the spare key uncaringly in the front porch. Well, it happened to be my luck that on the day that I left the house last, I left the front door open. My brother called me, in response to my sister calling him to find out if he had left the house last. I don’t recall ever being so talked down at, or disrespected so much by one person in a matter of ten minutes or so. He insulted and cursed me out- “how can you be so f**kin foolish to leave the door open, what the f**k where you thinking,” and so on and so forth. In between these insults, I might add that I was getting hung up on, which pushed me over the edge. I lost it. When he arrived home from work, I was ready to behead him with my bare hands, but in all this rage, I didn’t have the heart to throw the first punch due to my upbringing. “whoa bro, what’s wrong with you, why are you so mad?” Im sick and f**king tired of your bullshit, I hate you, I have no type of respect for you- was my response to him. At that particular moment, I saw fear in my brothers eyes like no other. That’s when it finally dawned upon him. “bro, why are you so angry?, it cant be because of how I spoke to you, especially over just the door being left open, you know that’s how I talk when im frustrated so why are you so angry with me?” this is when tears began to fall from his eyes as he cried while he spoke; “I knew there was something wrong all these years, just the way you treat me, and how you talk to me, I knew I felt some type of hate vibe from you, and I just want to say that whatever I did, im sorry bro, please don’t be mad at me, I love you so much bro, but I knew there was a cold shoulder from you, please tell me what I did, and what I can do to correct it.” I responded in tears to from seeing my brother sincerely genuine with his words by saying “all those years that you neglected me bro, left me to rot in school with no older brother to look out for me as I planned to have done. You abandoned me bro. I had to reconstruct my life as if I never had you, and it wasn’t because I wanted to do that, but because you made me.” Keep in mind, as were both talking, were crying hysterically as pent up emotions of ten years just spilt all over the floor. He asked, “bro what can I do to change, or so that you can forgive me”, “nothing “ I responded for there was really nothing he could have done.

Grapes, once turned into raisins never turn back to grapes again. It’s irreversible process. Im not saying that me and my brother will never be close again, but I can honestly say that its virtually impossible for me to love and care for him like I once did, and it pains me to speak that way of my brother but what is done, is done. As he walked into my room to use my hairbrush or something while I wrote this, I could not let him see this for I felt it would hurt him and possibly reopen an unhealed wound. My brother, my best friend- I thought not even being on separate planets could separate us but I was wrong. Some things can never be undone, while some things can. They say where there is a will, there is a way- I still till this day haven’t seen a raisin turned back into a grape. I hope me and my brother share a different fate.

Blog #6

As for my essay, i plan on following the footsteps of every writer except for Montaige. His method as stated in one of my earlier blogs, was too baffling, and puzzling, and gave me a hard time in trying to understand his point. On the contrary, the other writers on the hand told their stories in a straight forward, but yet, diverse way, leaving the reader to sometimes believe they were watching the story on a screen. Reason for choosing to be diverse with the style of writing is because i want to pull the reader in and see the story from every possible angle as to what went on, and is currently still going on. From my perspective, my borhters, and other people who are involved in my life.