The Yummy Mummy Cycle

My earliest memory may have been from toddlerhood, contrary to what the experts say (between 4 and 5 years of age). I remember my mum giving us (my elder brother and I) our multivitamins. I very well remember the yucky smell of the yellowish thick, sticky syrup that contradicted its fruity taste. It was the last drug my mum would give us to flush the bitter taste of the previous ones from our tongues. It was also only because of this drug that we looked forward to our medication time, which happened to be after dinner daily. To catalyse our anticipation, my mum would sing the jingle of the brand commercial and we would sing along with her.  

"Multi, multi, multivite," she would sing as the spoon conveying the medicinal liquid approached our infant mouths. The last syllable usually coincided with the downing of the contents of the spoon. Although, this was no coincidence at all.

Was that why we grew up so healthy and strong? That, in addition to God's grace is more like it. Mum made sure we never missed our immunisation appointments. She saw to it that we took our supplements, which might not have even been necessary because she went out of her way to make us healthy meals.  It was only natural for me to grow into a hands-on, intentional mum like my mum.

Today, my son had his 18-months, Measles II immunisation and as soon as we returned from the hospital, where other women who were once babies themselves brought their own babies, I sat at my computer to write for my blog. 

I hope, someday, my own children would be good parents to their own children  from watching me pay attention to the details of their young lives. For such, indeed, is the cycle of life.

P.S: This blog post is dedicated to my before and after, my mum and my son because it is in between these two, I stand.

*The Plight of H and C* - Ese Lewis

 There is no such thing as joy in hunger, it is like a double edged sword; it strikes at both ends. Being in school is a sweet adventure that thrills my soul. In school, there are no dull moments save when hunger strikes like ASUU, threatens my survival and leaves my human faculties to the mercy of hope.

The hunger strike changes my rhythm and turns my atmosphere sour. I feel its devouring claws in my belly, ripping it apart. I hear its voice in every dirge, and with all its dirty tricks, it leaves my stomach screaming from the faithful fangs of ulcer.

It is strange how such an unseen hand can make one weak. However, there are times I try to beat this belly whipping menace with my own little tricks; with my back pressed against my bed, I would count the ceiling. I could tell each dent in the ceiling as a result of soaked water, then there are these four tiny holes from which water come hurrying down my room. I would literarily feel the texture of the ceiling; its smoothness and every roughness. It is still surprising to me how I could go with this mental ritual, until minutes grow into hours. With time, I forget the sharp pain in my stomach.

When the eyes are clothed in tears, friends sometimes serve as handkerchiefs. Indeed, it is right to say that true friends are like gifts on Christmas day- they make you Merry. In school, my best of friends are Stanley, Goddowell and David. One would ordinarily think that Goddowell and David could pray, given their names, but no.  As a matter of fact, the only time I ever heard them pray was when hunger had its periodic visits, yet, I can say, these friends are a source of food when I am in lack.

Together, we take turns at cooking and we visit each other randomly and it keeps our foodstuffs more than the fated end. I could remember one Saturday, I trekked to Watt just to eat at Goddowell's, but his pot was as lofty as the sahara desert. Gladly, once we started our ceiling count, we heard the sound of Efik music nearby from a burial ceremony. That was our rescue, we dressed and went to the burial ceremony, wept like we were the family members of the deceased, but our rehearsed tears did not prevent us from fulfilling our agenda; we ate to our satisfaction, and in the end, we had our well fed 'aproko paper bag' to go home with. Truly,  "burial rice nai sweet pass".

Just when our second semester examination was about to start, BOOM!!! The Corona Virus struck like our school hunger. We were all happy that our exams would be shifted, but none would have foreseen it to be this long. Presently, I am at home, and instead of being the kid being cared for, I became the father of my parents. You wonder how?

See, my parents are presently unemployed. My dad was one of the victims of the recent First Bank lay off. So, as the eldest child, I had to step into my dad's shoes. Thanks to Corona virus that has, over night, forced me to become a father to my parents.


Thankfully, social media platforms help me conquer boredom. Surprisingly, even my dad who hitherto we hardly saw spend time on his phone, now clings to it as though his life depends on it. My dad is now very active on Twitter and Instagram. As a fact, he now participates in "give aways". So much for our principles when they are tested by the realities of life.

We all have been affected by this pandemic. Whoever says otherwise must be out of this world, perhaps, a visitor from Mercury. Even the gods are affected because their worship places have been empty. The few lucky gods have had their libations restricted.

I could go on with my corona life but I need to step out before the start of curfew, to book 50 odds in Bet9ja. My brother, don't blame me, that's how yours truly survives nowadays

The Wedding Gift

 Moments after our wedding ceremony, our wedding gifts were carted away to my father-in-law’s house where they were temporarily kept because we couldn’t take them with us to the hotel where we were honeymooning. We stayed in the hotel for two weeks after which we both had to go back to work in different locations. I worked in Lagos while my newly minted hubby worked in Calabar. He paid quite a lot to have the gifts transported to our new home. We agreed not to open the presents until they had reached our base because once opened, it may be difficult to repackage some gifts, making transportation even more difficult. Hubby didn’t want to open them without me so even when they reached base, he still wouldn’t open them. I thought that was thoughtful of him.

 The next time I could get off work was a month after the honeymoon. Can you imagine my excitement? I was going HOME for the first time. The last time I visited, I was in his place and space. It was definitely not my home at the time. I jumped on a Calabar-bound plane and in about an hour, I was in the waiting arms of my Angel of Love. He whisked me home, where there was a surprise party to welcome me to my new home. Some very ‘marshmallowy’ things happened when we were left alone after the party so much so that it was only till the next day that we remembered that our wedding gifts were still unopened a month and two weeks after our wedding.

 We prayed on them and began to open. I ‘awwed’ and ‘wowed’ every time hubby opened a parcel and I saw its content. There were lots and lots of Chinaware and glass cups and jugs. There were giant-sized, party coolers that I wondered if I would ever use. There was a pressure cooker, about four blenders, a set of expensive, non-stick pots, three electric jugs, two rice cookers and one electric kettle, a microwave and a three-in-one microwave, oven, and grill.  There were bibles, towels, frying pan sets, Ankara fabrics, etc. Hubby soon pulled out a baby sac, fondly called the name of the giver and smiled.

 “Hmmm…….Blessing,” he laughed.

 She was one of his spiritual daughters whom I barely knew. I giggled softly to mask the fear I was feeling or was it anger? Here I was newly married and someone was already reminding me of having a baby without giving me a chance to enjoy my marriage first. We had agreed to start trying for children between six months to a year after marriage because we wanted some time alone to know each other better as we barely courted. In any case, who gives baby things as a wedding gift, anyway? What would they then give at the baby shower? How did they know if the couple intended to have kids or not? Because of my feminist nature, the gift made me feel that all I was only good enough for was having kids. Ironically, all those kitchen gadgets didn't make me feel that all I was good enough for was cooking because I loved cooking. Hubby had no clue of my feelings as he continued to open the gifts and to call my attention to one or two unusually lovely gift items but I had lost my ‘appetite.’

 Soon, it was six months and time to try for a baby. Six months turned into one year and two years and we were still trying. People began to ask questions. When I met with people I hadn’t seen in a couple of months, I couldn’t help but notice how their eyes were more interested in my stomach than my face when we exchanged pleasantries. Family members who lived in a different city would ask if I was already pregnant whenever we talked on the phone. I stopped calling them altogether. I hated giving them a disappointing, negative answer all the time. My fear of having a child evolved into a fear of not being able to have a child. This made me try harder. The hospital tests, scans, and medications began but they were futile. Some of these tests were not only invasive but painful. Still, they didn’t show that anything was wrong with me. I gave up on medical science and turned to God when we were asked to run a new set of tests that added up to about two hundred thousand naira. One of those tests was the almighty HSG, an extremely painful procedure that checks if one or both your tubes were blocked. If all the tests returned okay, then we would be given the IVF option. If I didn’t know anything, I knew for sure was that my tubes couldn’t be blocked. I called my mum to update her on the new situation of things and she reaffirmed my belief.

“My daughter,” she said, “your tubes cannot be blocked. I just know it as your mum. Besides, you were never a wayward girl.”

 I spoke with a friend and she ‘re-reaffirmed’ my conviction. She even joked by asking, “How can your tubes be blocked? Did you use them as straw to drink tiger-nut drink.” We both laughed about it and I felt a little relieved.

 Finally, I turned to God fully. I was praying while doing all the medicals but now I completely trusted in Him. I knew of a faith-based action of getting an item that represented what you wanted and using it as a point of contact when praying.  I was about to go to a baby shop to pick up something, anything when I remembered the wedding gift that almost angered me two years ago. I ransacked the store where we stashed the gifts away and voila! It was still there. I began lifting it up in prayers long before my mother-in-law called me and instructed me to go and buy a baby item and start praying with it. I smiled and told her I had already done so. There was no use telling her it was a wedding gift I was using. Baby stuff was baby stuff. I remembered praying that the baby blanket would soon become warmed by a baby’s flesh. I also called forth the baby to come and use that which was his or hers.

 The answers were not long in coming. Soon, there was a tiny, warm flesh wrapped up in the baby blanket I was gifted on my wedding day. It has been four years since the wedding and one year since I had the boy. Most of the wedding gifts are no more: broken chinaware, blenders with stuck blades, pressure cooker rendered useless by a missing part, burnt electric jugs, etc., but not only is the blanket still there waiting to wrap another baby or babies, as God would have it, the child that came from God because I used it as a proof of my faith in Him is growing and waxing stronger every day. From my heart, I appreciate all the generous people who gifted me a thing or another during my wedding.  You are incredible! My baby blanket is not the most expensive gift I got for my wedding but it is dear to my heart because of the significant role it has played in my life.

Bribe-Free Highways.

Lately, I took a road trip from Calabar to Warri to attend a social function. Somewhere along the way, we approached one of the numerous checkpoints on the highway. As was expected of him, the driver of the vehicle I was travelling in, slowed to a complete halt beside the first policemen (the other was a few yards ahead and was in charge of the vehicles coming from the opposite direction). After a few seconds of awkward silence during which the policeman looked at the driver expectantly and the driver returned his glance with a deliberate blank expression, the policeman broke the silence.

“Gimme our own.”

“For wetin na?” the driver responded.

In an intimidating tone, “You say wetin?”

“I carry my correct passenger naaaaaaa.”

 I noticed the driver’s tone was a little subdued. The intimidation of this corrupt officer is working, I thought. Looking all around me, I saw what the driver meant by I carry my correct passenger naaaaaaa. There were three passengers on the back seat and one person in front. He hadn’t broken any passenger capacity rules as he had the right number of passengers on board. My eyes went back to the corrupt officer, who by now was fuming with fury.

 “My friend, clear well and off your engine!” He shouted like one who was being bitten by a monstrous animal. “Check e boot, inside e car and all e particulars. Make sure you check everything well well. We go delay am today, e go know,” he said to his colleague and continued to flag down other commercial vehicles for his ‘cut’ which they obliged him because they didn’t want any trouble or delay.

  I wondered if it was just me overthinking or if I really did hear the unspoken words: make sure you find something to fault him on, no matter how clean his records are.

  The driver parked the car, turned off the engine and stepped out. The ‘colleague’ who by this time had walked up to us and stood beside the parked car demanded to see his boot and the driver let him have a look in it. Next, he asked for every possible particular that a driver was supposed to have in his possession, meticulously checking the name, photograph and expiry date on each one while the driver leaned on his closed door, crossed his legs at the ankles, folded his right hand across his chest, rested his left elbow on his folded right hand with his left thumb and index finger resting on his chin, whistling away with reckless abandon, a haughty posture which would have angered the first policeman but which the second policeman didn’t seem to notice.

  Meanwhile, the passengers grew very impatient and began to complain and hurl insults at the driver for keeping them waiting instead of simply parting with 50 or 100 naira. I was surprised because I felt the person who deserved all that insult was the annoying police officer and not the driver. One passenger, who was in the most haste of all because he had a flight to catch, even maliciously commented that if the driver knew he had no money to give (bribe) the policeman, he should have asked him for some.

  It was at this time that I mustered up enough courage to speak up and tell my fellow passengers that the driver was doing the right thing and that if nobody gave this policemen any bribes, they would stop asking after a while. To have bribe-free highways, drivers should ensure that all their documentation is in place and in order to avoid harassment from the men-in-black. On our part, passengers should be more patient with the drivers as they do the right thing because some drivers do really have all the legal documents but would still ‘tip’ these policemen for fear or arousing the anger of their ever impatient passengers and hence earning their insults. I, suddenly, found myself as a volunteer ambassador of change for Buhari. I encouraged the passengers to set out on their journeys early to make room for any delays on the way, especially when they have an appointment to meet up with. They could even leave the previous day, if possible, to be on the safe side.

  My change-begins-with-me speech coincided with the driver’s getting back in the car for the continuation of our journey. He had a clean slate and so could not be faulted. Although as we drove off, I perceived that the first policeman would be angry at his colleague for finding even the silliest reason to implicate the driver.  I was so proud of this driver who inspired this blog post and to whom I now dedicate it to. I can only hope that drivers and passengers would read and learn from this post if they ever come across it. Cheers!

God’s Asking You on a Date!

    Prayer doesn’t have to be a boring chore but a loving activity. A lot of Christians struggle with their prayer lives because they do it only because someone has told them as a rule to do it or it is a traditional routine. I remember growing up under zealous Christian parents and it was a rule to wake up at 6:00am, say my prayers first, then make my bed, clean my teeth, have a shower before having brekkie. It was also a rule to always pray before I ate anything, even a gum ;-). These prayers meant nothing to me especially the ones I said before meals. Although, my lips would say the words in a hurry, my mind was always on the mouth-watering dish in front of me, the devil was in its delicious aroma, tantalizing my nostrils and distracting me from my prayers.

  I grew up, fell hopelessly in love with God and things changed. Prayer time was no longer something I avoided and pushed to the very last on my schedule. It became bonding time with my Love; a time to tell each other sweet things; a time to pour out my heart to someone trusted till there was nothing left to share. Unlike my ‘routinous’ prayers which lasted a few seconds, max, I could go on talking to God for hours and it would feel like minutes. In fact, I have had to literally drag myself off God’s presence because I still didn’t feel like going anywhere after a very long time with Him. I look forward to be alone with this Love of mine. I rush home from work daily because I can’t wait to get home, shut the door behind me, fall on my knees with a smile already playing on my lips and start to bond.

Me enjoying a beautiful moment of fellowship with God

  Prayer time is synonymous to romance time. People in a relationship or engaged to be married would know this feeling. The day your fiancé is visiting or taking you on a date is always very special for you. You prepare by making your hair, cleaning up nicely, wearing your best clothes, e.t.c. You keep looking at the time to see if it is almost time for the date or visit. Time seems to crawl because you just can’t wait. People around you who are sensitive enough can sense your excitement and know you are expecting someone special. All this excitement is only because you are going to be spending some time with the one you love, expressing your feelings to them with words and actions, laughing with them and just having fun together. Sometimes, you share your pains and worries with your love and just having them listen to you make the challenges seem to go away in that instant. You are assured that even if the problems persist, you are not alone in them. Prayer works in much the same way. Have you ever wondered why your problems seem smaller when you tell them to God? It is not only because you have shared them with someone but also because the light of His presence drives away every darkness of doubt and fills your heart with faith at that moment. 

  Now, I realize that this has been a bit one-sided so let us see this from God’s perspective. How does He feel about all these? Well, he is just as excited as you are, honey. Like a newly-wed-love-struck wife can’t wait for her husband to be home from work, He can’t wait for you to come home and fall into his arms. It doesn’t matter that He was right there with you at work doing His own protective job while you worked your ass off, he still can’t wait to have you all to Himself because He cannot get enough of you. He can’t wait to hear your voice which is unique and different from the voice of any of his children and which sounds like music in His ears. Every prayer time is a date with God and He is constantly asking you on a date.

Throwback to September, 2014. I was so troubled in my spirit. I was trusting God for an urgent miracle and as I knelt in prayer, a cute little girl snuck into my room and caught me on camera.

The Devil's Banquet

 "He who must dine with the devil must have a long spoon" is not an uncommon saying. But why dine with the devil in the first place, long spoon or not? I came across the story you are about to read five years ago and it gives credence to what my grandma used  to  say "Don't taste the food you will not eat." Read, learn and share!

 "Hi, I am Tonia (not real name), a girl who has fears, beliefs, reservations and just your regular typical Nigerian girl. This past few weeks has been one hell of a game for me. I have really been unsettled and I thought I share this story with you.

 When Cynthia (the lady killed in the hotel room in Festac, Lagos) surfaced on the internet and various news media, I was scared and it brought back a whole lot of memories to me and also served as and eye opener. Many people castigated and criticised Cynthia (may her
gentle soul rest in peace), but my point is, it could have been anybody, anybody at all.

 We have met people through various social media. Some have ended up well, some have not but with painful memories. To cut the long story short, let me kindly share with you my encounter with social media especially the very popular Blackberry Messenger (BBM).

 I am a graduate and currently serving in Kaduna. I could have runced it, but I needed somewhere to clear my head and forget about my ugly encounter. Here is my story.

 I happened to have a married man as a contact on my BBM. He had been asking me out for over six months and I refused to date him. As time went on, he invited me clubbing with him when his wife was outside the country, and I went with him all night. We spent most of the night at Swe bar, Lagos.

 I also met his clique of friends, married as well with their various mistresses. We had 'mad' fun. After all the clubbing and drinking, he lodged me in a hotel somewhere in Obalende. I felt sort of safe with him. We did not have sex, but he made sweet love to me and touched me in places I had never ever imagined.

 He kissed me passionately but guess what? He did not have sex with me. We did all sorts but there was no penetration. So, to an extent, I trusted he was a good person to be around with. I did not know that it was all part of the plan.

 He gave me N10,000 and put me in a cab to go home the next morning. We kept talking and chatting and sending naked pictures to each other and he told me naughty things of how he wanted to whisper things in my ear, I blushed. We didn't see for two weeks and that was because his wife just came back from Turkey.

 One faithful evening, he pinged me that he was organising a beach party/boat cruise and that he would love for me to be his date and that he wanted to open a BBM chat, as a medium for his friends and my friends to interact. I was excited about it, I just wanted to have fun. I was able to get five of my very hot friends.

 The BBM group opened and we got chatting. I also realise that majority of them were married and working in reputable firms. It was fun and we didn't mind if they were married, we just wanted to have fun, as well as some other girls apart from my friends in the group.

 We chatted exclusively, sent pictures to the BBM group to introduce ourselves, and we had opened group conversations pending the beach party. And as excited as we were, we went shoping for nice sexy beach wears.

 The D-day finally came, we all assembled at the Lagos Island Boat Club. I was wowed because it was a high class party. We were cruising in a boat loaded with goodies drinks and hot babes, and as well 'MARRIED MEN'. I did not care, I just said in my mind that I would not roll with married men anymore after this, that for now, all I wanted to do was to catch some fun. After all, I wasn't paying bills.

 We got there, it was a private beach resort. Most of the beach facilities I got to see there were owned by multinational companies. We got out of the boat, and went to where we were partying. It was a duplex made with wood. It was a very nice setting.

 I felt comfortable because it even had a fence around it separating it from other beach houses around. So, there was privacy and of course bouncers (heavy looking guys) guarding the place. I said to myself, this must be heaven, I must be dreaming.

 Anyways, we felt free with each other because we had been chatting. It was 5:30pm and the party just started. We had drinks flowing from the private bar tender which happens to be owned by one of the men in the group. Reality struck when I realised that I was feeling dizzy and feeling really funny and light headed. Not only me, but other girls around me too noticed there was something strange about it.

 I was also feeling HORNY as hell! I had been drugged. They monitored us and when they knew the drug had really gone deep into our system, they moved us up into the main beach house. I could still see faces, but was too weak and horny to react.

 Mr B, the man who took me clubbing, carried me in his hands like a sacrifice and put me down on the floor just as other men also did with their girls. We were eight in numbers; 8 girls, 8 guys, and they all stripped us down and had sex with us.

 I enjoyed it a bit because I was horny. It was a mixed feeling because I cried, I moaned, but I did not know how many times he came into me. He pounded me hard. I was dizzy, but he grabbed me with force. All I could notice was the wedding ring on his finger. I thought of how wicked and miserable some married can be. How inhuman and heartless they could be.

 All of them took turns in switching partners and slept with all of us. I passed out. That was the last thing I could remember. I felt water poured on me. I noticed all the other girls around me too were half naked and some stark naked. 
 We spent the night at the beach, but the men were no where to be found. I looked round me and all I could see was packs of used condoms. I ran to pick my cloths and possibly raise an alarm. I got dressed, found my phone with an envelope. It contained N16,000 and a note asking us to take N2000 each for transport. Tears of anger and rage filled my eyes and the girls around me as well.

 We were drugged and used like tissue paper. I grabbed my phone and noticed a ping came in. I checked my phone and I noticed the BBM group had been deleted, and a message via BBM from MR B came in. He threatened me that if I say a word to anyone, I would regret it.

 I told him he was a bastard, and he said try it. A picture came in, several pictures. In fact, they were pictures of us being naked on the floor. Pictures of the humiliating us but they blurred the faces of the men. In total, I got 20 pictures. I was not myself for a month.

 I went back to school, I had no one to talk to. The rest of the semester was hell for me. My CGPA dropped drastically. It was the worst out of the worst result I ever had.

 Till today, my friends and I have not discussed this with anyone, but all I could do when I heard of Cynthia's story was to narrate my own ordeal anonymously and spread the news, the word, and pray they see it and changed their ways.

 I am now born again. I have given my life to Christ. I fear men so much that I cannot even move close to them. I still have nightmares, but with time, God will strengthen me and I will move on. My advice to single ladies out there is, do not be desperate for fun. Pray to God to open your eyes of understanding, and pray hard. He who kneels before God will stand before kings and queens.

 To all married women, pray hard to God to intervene in your marriages and turn your husbands from bad habits to and bad friends. As for me, I do not think I ever want to get married or date a man again. That chapter has been closed for good in my life.

Please, do not ignore my mail. Please post it. There are a lot of things we ladies need to learn including you. Please post it on your blog and save a soul. It could be your friend, sister, cousin, neighbour.

 God bless you as you pass it on. To all readers, I do not care if you insult me or rain abuses at me. My job is to share this encounter with you and save you from any mishap. God bless you all. Amen."

The Nigerian Wedding Ring Convention

My first ring confusion came during my engagement. On that romantic evening, the fine, gentleman went on one knee with a ring box in one hand and expressed all I meant to him without mincing words before ending with the famous question: would you marry me?  When I answered in the affirmative, he got the ring out of the box, held my hand and asked a second question "Where does it go?"

My heart skipped a beat. First, I wasn't too sure where the ring went. I hadn't expected the proposal and I certainly hadn't expected that second question otherwise I would have done my research. Even if I had expected the proposal, I would either have been too excited and forgot to find out for sure what finger gets the rock or I would have assumed that being the one who was proposing, he should know. I had to think fast. I didn't want to ruin the romantic moment. Also, it was a new relationship and I was still self conscious so I also didn't want him thinking what kind of a lady of marriageable age doesn't know where her engagement ring should go. If I had only known the kind of guy, I was about to marry, I would have saved myself the trouble of all the carefulness and self-consciousness. When I am not sure of a question, I employ the non-verbal means of answering and I think it is because I do not want my words to be used against me in the future. I pointed at my middle finger because I thought I had seen people wear it that way. In fact, I figured out that one way to tell if a woman was married on not, apart from looking at the ring itself was by what finger she was wearing it: engaged ladies wore theirs on their middle finger while married ladies wore theirs on the finger before the pinky finger.Years later, I realised only one finger is called the ring finger not two. Oblivious of the confusion going on in my head, he slid the ring where my gesture directed him and that was done with.

Alas! I went to work the following morning flashing my ring proudly until two colleagues told me I had it on the wrong finger. The male one said wearing it on the third finger made it looked like I was trying out my newly engaged friend's ring or that she had gone cheating and had given me her ring to keep for her. I looked at the left hand of the female colleague. She was wearing her engagement ring on her wedding ring on her next-to-little-finger (I am avoiding the temptation of saying fourth finger because some over-zealous perfectionists do not count the thumb as a finger and saying the third finger may make many people mistake it for the middle finger). It was easy to believe her because having being married for close to six years, she should know better. I didn't waste any time in putting it on the 'married women's finger'. Of course, I wasn't even sure in the first place.

Me flaunting my ring the next day (Sunday) after my engagement only for me to get to work the following day and get told I got the finger wrong.

Being observant isn't one of my strong qualities and I would have probably not noticed in what order anyone wore their rings no matter how long I lived but from that day on, I was looking at the left fingers of almost any lady I came across. First to see if they were married or engaged and then to see where they wore their engagement rings. Let's just say the mental statistics I took showed that it is the norm in Nigeria for ladies to wear their engagement ring on the middle finger. I am not condemning it or saying it is a sign of lack of exposure, I am just saying it is a sign of lack of exposure. I am just presenting facts as I have seen them. In fact, I think it is good for us to have a unique ring culture. We don't have to copy everything from the western countries. Apart from the Yorubas who wear engagement rings at their traditional weddings, I can't think of any other ethnic group in Nigeria that wear rings for their traditional weddings (I stand to be corrected) so it is bad enough that we have copied the ring culture but we can modify it to suit us. However, the only reason I could think of for why Nigerian ladies wear their engagement rings on the middle finger is because they don't want to be mistaken for married women. This is due to fear and uncertainty. We do believe and we have heard stories that confirm our belief that anything can still go wrong and the engagement called off before the actual wedding day. If that happens and you wore your ring on your marriage finger, you may have ruined your chances. It didn't matter that you took off the ring altogether after the messy break up. our belief which helps promotes morality and decency is: You are not his wife until he takes you to the altar and replaces your engagement ring with a wedding ring. A more religious view, which is related to the one above is linked to the trinity. It goes like this: in the name if the Father (thumb) and of the Son (index/pointer finger) and of the Holy Spirit  (middle finger) and it remains there until the marriage 'amens' (seals) the union, then it is transferred to the fourth finger. Quite logical!

Fast forward to the wedding, although my mum and many other women I know wear their engagement ring under the wedding ring, I purposed to wear mine in the reverse order. Not just because of Tammy (real name withheld) who corrected me but because prior to my engagement, I noticed another colleague of mine wore her rings in a different order from what I was used to and when I asked hey why, she told me that she tried it the Nigerian conventional way when they went ring shopping but the seller who looked like he knew a lot about rings didn't only tell her it was wrong. He actually eased the rings off her fingers, reversed them and slid them back on. She was convinced. And so I was.

We had bought the complete ring set that includes an engagement ring. At the point of purchase, I didn't see the need but I was thankful we did later on as a close family member of mine lost my engagement ring on the wedding day and I had never been a fan of wearing the wedding band alone. That was too old school and masculine for my kind of person. The second ring confusion came a day before the wedding as I thought about the events of the following day. What was I to do with my engagement ring? Should I keep it on and have hubby slid the sparkly, new wedding band on it? Do I wear it on my right ring finger and transfer it back on the way to the hotel home or do I take it off altogether? I went with the last thought and handed it over to a male family member to pocket it. Unfortunately, that was the last I saw of the lovely rock my true love got me to make a promise of marriage to me. I had no choice but to wear the fake engagement ring which came with the wedding ring set. This also made me realise too that most Nigerian women and indeed most women all over the world do not wear their real engagement ring once they get married. The reasons are not far-fetched. First, it could have been lost or misplaced like mine. Second, it may not be compatible with the wedding band. That couldn't have possibly happened in my case because I went shopping wearing my engagement ring and I tried several rings and picked one that went well with my engagement ring. This does happen when the rings were bought in the absence of the bride-to-be or she was too excited to remember just little details. The third reason some women do not wear their real engagement real after marriage is if they never really liked the engagement ring but only accepted it out of love for the giver. Finally, some older women like my mother-in-law believe that the wedding ring should completely replace the engagement ring. She keeps saying to me lovingly "My daughter, you are married, you are married. You do not need this engagement ring." A lot of things can be done with the real engagement ring if the woman doesn't want to wear it. It can be kept in a treasure box and shown to daughters and granddaughters as evidence of a love that once was young, warm and passionate but now is old, grey and cold. I have also noticed  a trend in Nigeria where ladies use the real engagement ring as a pendant for their necklaces while they wear the fake one with the wedding band on the ring finger. It should be the other way round, if you ask me.

Hubby slid the wedding band on my finger and I topped it with the fake engagement ring on the way to the hotel as against the conventional order of wearing the engagement ring first and the wedding ring on top in Nigeria. I have worn them in the unconventional order since my wedding in spite of curious looks when other women notice my finger. It takes courage to do the unconventional. I do get tired of explaining to people who ask why I wear them in that order though. One day, I tried to wear them the conventional way just to get a feel of it but I couldn't keep them on  that way for too long. For one, it felt awkward because I wasn't used to it. Secondly, it just looked better to me with the dazzling stone on top. None of these conventions is wrong. I have simply looked into both and gone with the one that appealed to my emotional personality. The rationale behind the Nigerian convention is that of timing. We believe that you are engaged first before you are married and the rings should reflect that order. Good thinking!  Only one Nigerian woman gave me a different reason. She believed in having the engagement ring on top but hers was too big so she wore her fitted wedding band on top to trap it in and prevent it from falling. The other convention which is common in western countries particularly in the U.S is based on a number of superstitious beliefs. First is that it is okay to take off the engagement ring but back luck awaits the marriage or spouse of anyone who takes off her wedding ring. So on the wedding day, the engagement ring is taken off and moved to another finger of the left hand or to the right hand so that the groom can easily put the wedding ring on the ring finger. After the wedding, because it is bad luck to remove the wedding ring, put the engagement ring under and top it up with the wedding ring, they would just move the engagement ring from the right hand or the other finger on the left hand and place it on the wedding band. However, this wasn't the one which appealed to me. Another reason is the belief that the marriage is more important than the engagement so the wedding ring should come first before the engagement ring is placed on top. This one got me! Lastly, the ancient Egyptian belief of a vena amoris (vein of love) is the reason why we wear love rings (engagement or wedding) on the fourth finger (I finally said it) anyway even long after this belief has been proven wrong by anatomists and physiologists. The idea here is that the wedding ring which is more of a symbol of love than an engagement ring should be the one worn closest to your knuckles and hence closer to your heart. There you go! Three to one. I have taken my pick. Be entirely free to go in the opposite direction of me, that is if you are by some miracle still reading this 'dissertation.'