Who should wear the Diamond Ring?

diamond Ring

Our lives are full of countless distractions which interfere with opportunities for good family time. It is challenging to find meaningful, trans-generational experiences that bring family and friends together to create wonderful memories.

Bengina and I spent three nights with some of our friends at Lebombo Lodge, and in this beautiful environment we shared the most perfect times together. We did special things apart from the more obvious routine of game drives in open vehicles. Most memorable was a walk at dawn that started along the top of a ridge that extends from the edges of the Lebombo mountain range, from there a clamber down the rocks to the N’wanetsi River  bank and then under the canopy of the riverine forest beside the river. With the early morning sun rising over the trees and under the expert direction of our accompanying guide and tracker, we saw signs of the nocturnal activities of the night before. The track of a civet, the hop marks of a grey tree frog, fresh elephant dung and the distinctive shuffle tracks of hippos.

We had the excitement of seeing two uncommon species of bird and listened to many different bird calls in the fresh morning air. Our walk took us past caves in the cliffs along the river where white-rumped swifts were returning from their annual intra-African migration and we watched them swoop in and out the caves as they check out and lay claim to last year’s nests.

 While we were watching the swifts we realized that there was a constant hissing noise in the background and further investigation revealed a pit filled with the most colorful but venomous vipers we had ever seen. Emilia felt panic begin like a cluster of spark plugs in her abdomen. Emilia Spice was ophidiophobic; she had a morbid fear for snakes. Tension grew in her face and limbs, in her bid to take flight wriggling her fingers in disgust; her 23 carat white gold solitaire engagement ring fell from into the pit.  Clipper her fiancé was devastated; he didn’t know which to go for; his 15,000 dollar or his beloved Emilia.  Suddenly Colette – a lady who had joined our morning hike because she missed her trip a day before jumped into pit.

Everyone went quiet and took steps backwards unconsciously. She landed in between more than a dozen snakes. She was still for a few seconds evaluating the state of the snakes. Then she slowly eases away from them, making no sudden movements. She tiptoed in between the slithering vipers to get to pick up the ring. Suddenly, she mistakenly alerted three vipers gliding on their bellies over parched soil and stones. One of the snakes drew its head and body back in an S curve. It seemed ready to strike. There was another snake stretched out to her side; its gaze was fixed on Colette, a dark tongue flitting into the air every few seconds, tasting the fear, the cologne, and the sweat. In those heads the size of a hand like thin fangs, they were ready to inject a fatal amount of venom deep into her muscles. Emilia found her escape route through a couple of other vipers slinking away from the intruding scent towards a dry twig. She hurriedly climbed up a boulder and pushed upward gaining a foot hold on the sandy pit wall; she pitched forward and tumbling over her back. She gave the ring back to the Emilia; Clipper was stunned – first by her bravery then by her beauty even though she was covered in dust.

“Thank you so much” Clipper said warmly with a smile.” That was a brave thing you did down there.”

 We applauded, celebrating the hero.  We were glad everyone was safe. It was a terrifying scene to watch.

We were  quiet as we walked pass the natural spring nearby where fresh water bubbles directly from the earth flows down to create a life sustaining pool in the otherwise dry river bed. It was a beautiful sight but we were already exhausted from the life show Colette had put up.

Hours later, while we were having dinner under the stars I sat numb in an array of thoughts. I breathed the fresh air, torn between my loyalty and my desire to tell the truth.  Emila has been cheating on Clipper with Paul – my colleague at the fire station for over three years now. She even recently got an abortion for him. All these years I was hoping Clipper would see the signs but he was just too blinded by his love for Emila; his first love.

I stared at the diamond ring seated upon Emilia’s finger, welded to a strangling band of the purest gold. “Should that ring belong to Emila? She has done nothing to deserve it. Colette risked her life to get the ring; I guess she would make a better owner,” I thought – maybe not as a band of love but as spoils for a warlord. I wrapped my arms around Bengina in a moment and I let my head rest upon her chest. I wished to clear my head and not terminate the cheer in the air.   


Messy Massage: The Thai Experience

Messy massage

I am going to tell this story because my husband Ugokwe Uzoma has told this same story ten times over. It has become a story to tell to lighten up any room. And he’d bite the edge of a smile to start the story; in a vain attempt to keep his creeping grin at bay. The intention behind his perking lips isn’t something that could easily be ensured. But today it’s my story to tell.

We were in Bangkok for a holiday trip after several persuasions from me that we needed to take some time off the family business. It was a humid afternoon, so we decided to treat ourselves to a satisfying lunch. After walking around some of the street markets, we decided to go for a traditional Thai massage. I was ready to take solace from the stresses of modern life in an exciting and powerful mind/body healing experience. The massage parlor was an open concept; consisting of two huge communal halls, one side for males and the other for females, with a walkway in the middle. There were no rooms or curtains, and the massages were performed on mats.

We changed into the garments provided by the spa – loose cotton tops and baggy drawstring pants. My husband was very uncomfortable with the idea of another man touching my body but he was ok with the lady therapist for himself. A five minutes argument began and again I was able to convince my husband that it wasn’t a big deal. I was not taking my garment off because it was a Thai massage.

“Unlike most massage modalities that utilize massage oils and require you to disrobe and climb under a sheet on a massage table, Thai massage is performed while you are fully clothed, usually on a padded mat on the floor.” I explained.

“Are you sure? Isn’t it same as the ones we see in movies?” he asked.

“Relax, dim oma (my dearest husband) Even if… there are strict protocols for draping during massages. I began to praise him with some fancy Igbo titles to help me win this war and it worked. At the sound of “Odu’m” (my lion) he agreed with a little smile

“Please don’t fail to alert me when….” I cut him short.

“Nothing out of the ordinary would happen – my love,” I reaffirmed him.

The therapist noticed we were arguing and offered him a space by my side. I was so glad he did. Our massage began simultaneously. We were beginning to enjoy the relaxing atmosphere in the room —soft spa music was playing in the background, a trickling waterfall perched in the corner, and the sweet smells of lemongrass and jasmine wafted in the air. My husband laid still enjoying his incredibly relaxing rub down of his neck and shoulders while I was battling something different.

He became fully alert when his masseuse stretched and bent his knees and arms at awkward angles. She grabbed his hands from behind and positions her knee behind his back; sketching his muscles to relieve tension and enhance flexibility instead of the relaxing gliding and kneading motions he was expecting.

 “Chi mu! (Good God)” He exclaimed in disbelief.

Halfway through my own massage, I felt a huge fart coming. I held it in for what felt like forever, until my entire body stiffened up and I felt as if I was turning blue. My therapist, thinking that my stiffness meant that I needed more loosening up, proceeded to stretch my body with renewed zest, basically forcing all the air out. Against my will, I let rip the loudest fart which echoed in the open halls, every other person on the other side heard it loud and clear.

There was a stunned silence for five seconds then everyone burst out laughing in surprise (and disgust, I’m sure). My husband who was beside me screamed with laughter and announced that the fart came from me. After we left Thai my husband replayed the scenario constantly about eating Thai food and going for Thai massage; it became the climax of our travel experience.


Emotional Trauma Has No Gender

It’s been said that women are physically private and emotionally naked. In other words, they have no problem talking about their emotions, but feel quickly violated if someone gets too close to them physically. Men, on the other hand, are emotionally private and physically naked. They have no problem taking showers together in a locker room, or roughing each other up in the halls. But when it comes to talking about their emotions, that’s when they feel intruded. However, men feel emotional pain just as women do. Ignoring it only cements the bitterness and confusion caused by it. I’ve found that if I am ever going to get passed the pain and live with passion and purpose, I must talk with someone about my emotional pain. So I have chosen to share my pain in the open.

My name is Kolawole Babalola Gibson. I married my tall, dark and slender wife few weeks after I turned twenty nine. She has straight black hair and sparkling brown eyes. She brought the song “Brown Skin Girl” to mind. We have been married for over three years. My wife’s name is Moyosore and she’s the love of my life. We are blessed with twin babies; a boy and a girl. We are the perfect family anyone would ask for. We lived in a condo in the heart of Lagos.

On Friday April 19th, there I was staring at my laptop screen sifting through dozens of emails I had put off until the end of business day – if there is such a thing. My wife had just called if I was going to be late again. The twins were driving her nuts continually questioning, “When is daddy coming home?” At least they still cared enough to ask. Right after my wife called by best friend Adams text messaged me to see if I could make the games tonight as they were a couple of players short. Staring down at my belly I knew my body needed a little fun and required body exercise.

I rounded up quickly and in on hour I was in the company of my friends ready to tackle ourselves in engaging soccer. I didn’t make the first eleven but I was glad to sit on the bench and watch from the sidelines and maybe play a few minutes. Before the match, my friends and I got together watching some popular videos on social media. We would swap phones to show off our funny video archives. Apparently, I was still with Adams’ phone. I decided to take my mind off the game for a moment to re-watch one of the funny videos. I clicked on the wrong video. It was the goriest video I had ever seen; my best friend ejaculating over my naked four year old daughter. A lot began to go through my head but the most dominant thought was to kill my friend. The notion moved from an actual thought to action months after.

I have accepted the name “murderer” a name I have once reserved for psychopaths. If the killing was done for means of survival no-one thought less of you. There are those who took life and crumpled under the weight of guilt, even if they’d no choice. There are some who kill when necessary and never lose a wink of sleep over it, that’s pretty much where I sit. There are others who have made it a whole new hobby, look at them the wrong way and they attacked with lethal force. That last group is the only ones to be considered murderers. No, I disagree and I know you do too. The term applies to me as much as it does to all kinds of killer; man wolf or a bear. Killing in self-defense is just a given. Killing for resources is a grey area, I killed Adams Okulaja Simpson, I don’t regret it, don’t judge me, and who are you to judge?