Posted on by thelastbornsjournal

Navigating the Streets of ‘Prejudice’

Sometime last year, I found myself in a room full of individuals from across different races and nationalities; it was my first day on a new job. While we waited for the facilitator to begin the training session, I went on an unsolicited journey of profiling my colleagues. I did a quick scan of the faces and name tags of everyone present and based on books I had read, movies I had seen and stories I had heard, the allocation to countries began. For the lady whose hair was super long and spoke a certain way, I immediately tagged her as Indian. The other lady with certain distinct facial and bodily features could only be Chinese, as far as I was concerned. 

Until I got a chance to interact with these ladies during our break, my shallow deductions would have been my conclusion on the matter. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the one whom I thought was Indian was actually from Bangladesh and the one to whom the country China was designated was not. What a miss and a mess at the same time, all sourced from faulty parameters. The truth is, until my conversations with J.Kay that evening, I barely knew anything about Bangladesh. The implication of this was that because Bangladesh did not exist as a tangible reality in my frame of reference, I placed her within the context of what already existed and this meant that she could ‘only be’ Indian in my world. 

What this meant invariably was that with my extremely limited knowledge of world geography and distinct racial properties I had cramped up a room full of distinct humans into an uncomfortably small room in my mind. To this extent, there is a certain sense in which we could go through life, holding fiercely unto certain paradigms as truth and never knowing that it’s probably just a drop in a whole ocean of endless dimensions and possibilities until certain events or circumstances like this one come to challenge us and expose our knowledge gaps. Of course, after our conversation at lunch that day, I went on to do an extensive research about Asia and Asians and gobbled up as much information as I could.

This trap of unconscious bias is exactly where I found myself during my time as a  youth corper in Northern Nigeria, many years ago. The National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) Scheme can simply be described as the beginning of a ‘rite-of-passage’ that officially welcomes fresh graduates into the Nigerian labour market.  After experiencing a slight delay that prevented my classmates and I from participating in the mandatory scheme immediately after graduation, we all couldn’t wait to see what state we had been posted to for service, when the time eventually came. I remember how we all gathered excitedly around the notice board at DSA (Dean of Students’ Affairs), eager to know what shape the next phase of our lives would take. Shrieks of laughter and excitement came from different quarters as my classmates found their names on the board and it matched their expectations. 

My eyes stayed glued to the board, and I repeatedly used my hands to trace my name to the state highlighted in front of it, just to ensure that I was seeing well. All of a sudden, my knowledge of Nigerian States and Capital failed me, as I wondered what the “GM ” I was seeing against my name meant. What is ‘Gombe’ and why is it sitting so confidently and comfortably in front of my name? I frantically hoped that it was a mistake of sorts; being posted to serve in a state in North-Eastern Nigeria, was the last and the least thing I expected. I cried when I was all by myself that night as reality dawned on me and I asked God why I had been posted so far away from home. It honestly didn’t seem fair to me at all that most other people got choice postings, except me.

The burden only began to lighten up when I discovered that there was an airport in Gombe state and I would not have to travel by road  for about 22 hours+ from Lagos. This little detail proved to me again how mindful God is of me and my outlook began to change. D-day came, and I boarded my flight from Lagos to Abuja from where I caught a connecting flight to Gombe State. As we got off the plane, I caught a wisp of the dry and slightly dusty air which had a harmattan feel to it; this was my first time setting my foot in the North eastern part of Nigeria and I loved it already. 

A couple of us on the flight that had identified ourselves as corpers rallied up as we claimed our luggage; our next task was to find our way from the airport to the orientation camp. As soon as we stepped out of the arrival lounge, it would seem like we had some invisible badges that identified us as corpers and visitors to the land; the people we met were unusually kind and warm to us. They greeted us with such enthusiasm, answered all our questions with extreme patience and went out of their way to make sure that we were comfortable. They got a cab for all four of us, paid for it and quickly sent us on our way to the orientation camp which was about a two and a half hours drive away from the airport.

As we made the trip to the orientation camp, I pondered on the warm reception we as strangers had received from the ‘hosts’. The contradiction between my subconscious expectations and my experience made me question every other thing I had always assumed or believed about the people and the land itself. Nothing I had ever heard or known prepared me for the kindness I had encountered, firsthand. I realised then that I really ‘knew’ nothing about life in the North except for second-hand information fraught with hasty generalisations and diverse prejudices  that I had mostly acquired informally. I learnt quite quickly that what society and social studies as a subject in school taught me about Nigeria is not all that there is to it and knew that I had a lot of unlearning and relearning to do, if I would make the most of the year as a youth corper.

While reflecting on these two experiences which are over a decade apart, the common denominator I drew between both is the presence of a measure of implicit bias (subconscious feelings, attitudes, prejudices or stereotypes – oftentimes negative – developed due to prior influences & imprints) that I held about people, groups or things. These things are sometimes so subtle that we don’t often realise how we are being influenced by it and how it drives us to the wrong conclusions. This discovery is leading me to make a conscious resolve to always deal objectively with people first through the lenses of our shared humanity before anything else. 

My new favourite thing these days is questioning the origins of my first impressions and self-educating myself so that I can see the beauty in the totality of what different people and cultures bring to the table. The recognition that all humans are made in the image of God is a great starting point for all interactions.

Posted on by thelastbornsjournal

Memoirs from Toronto (2)

Our first task that Sunday morning was getting IdaraAbasi to welcome Pastor Nathaniel Bassey with flowers, upon his arrival as one of the guest ministers at The Outpouring, Canada. She delivered excitedly and excellently on the job; till date, she has not quite gotten over the experience. She keeps asking, “Mum, did I really give flowers to the real Nathaniel Bassey in real life?” When I respond in the affirmative, she goes like, “Wow!”, and I get it. She finds it hard to believe that a person that hitherto existed only on her TV screen was now in fact a reality that she had met, hugged and exchanged light banter with. These little things here and there are the building blocks that create unforgettable memories and reference points for her as a growing child.

The Outpouring Canada meeting itself happened in the evening and it was such a joy to be in a beautiful atmosphere of worship; attending with my dear sister and friend, Anwuli, further heightened my entire experience. Thinking about it now, I don’t know how I would have coped without her, considering the dimensions of ‘premium drama’ that the children served me that evening. She brought the calm and the charm required to hold IdaraAbasi and ‘Keima down when they started to make a fuss, a few minutes after we settled into our seats. They scrambled for cookies, squabbled over who should sit next to mummy and squealed loudly for no real reason at all. In the midst of everything else going on in the room, I was forced to be a mum and attend to them patiently. Somewhere along the line, they both fell asleep and this was the ‘visa’ I needed to fully press into the meeting in the way my Spirit yearned.

Beyond the actual event that we travelled for, there was a  need to engrave the trip and reinforce the experience in the children’s minds with activities that they would love, enjoy and never forget. To this end, Monday was designated ‘fun-day’. Since we had one more day to play around before travelling back home, I decided to take the children and my niece, Boluwatife, to the Canadian National Exhibition (CNE) in Toronto. We woke up bright and early, had breakfast and headed out to the train station; we met up with Ibiwunmi and her family at the Union station and caught the connecting train to the Exhibition GO Station.

As we arrived at the venue and began to take everything in, we knew we had made a brilliant decision. So many games, rides and activities, all up in bright and breathtakingly beautiful colours and it was a chore to decide where to start from. First things first, we had to find the ticket booth so we could buy our tickets and get in the groove immediately; I had already spotted a ride that seemed like the perfect way to start our adventure laden day.

Tickets in hand, we headed out as a group to get on our first ride for the day, the Sky Ride. If I were told to describe the ride, I would call it a safe, toned-down version of a zipline. The concept of the ride was basically rows of chairs suspended midair on a taut rope that would glide slowly across a predefined circumference of an oval stretch and give a decent aerial view of the entire fair and its immediate environs. “A smooth, and chilled type of ride”, I thought, until I got on it with my 3-year old son, ‘Keima.

As I write this, I still don’t know what disarmed my sensitivities so much that I thought it a good idea to go on this particular ride, with young children. While I got on the ride with ‘Keima, Idara went on the ride with my 17 yr old niece, Boluwatife.  The first thing I noticed as we got on board was that beyond the safety lap bars, there were no seatbelts in place. Before I got a chance to complain to the attendant or even jump off, the ride had lifted off the ground and ‘Keima was there, dangling loosely in his seat. Prayers went up immediately in my heart as I got the sense that I had entered ‘one chance’.

In fairness to him, he didn’t panic; he actually loved the ride. He was thrilled to be up in the air, “far above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky” perhaps. He began to laugh and point things out excitedly, I was glad and quite relieved as I engaged with him. However, in a short while, his excitement became unguided and began to tip over. His gesticulations and movements became more spirited as he tried to lean over to see more and reach for things that were totally out of reach. I thought it was all fun and games initially and I tried to talk him out of it, but he was not having it; he wanted to explore the world as he deemed best. I explained carefully and gently to him why he needed to be calm, but the more I spoke to him and pleaded with him to stay safe for us, the more agitated he got. 

Panic set in at my end as he pushed and threw his hands and feet up in the air. He wanted to break free from me and breaking free would mean falling from a height of ‘God knows how many feet’ to hard, concrete ground. I imagined the worst at that point and my heart screamed “God forbid!” The more I begged him to calm down, the more bent he seemed on proving to me through his actions that foolishness is bound in the heart of a child. At this point, I began to scream for help….. I started by shouting out to my friend who was in the seat ahead of us. I said, “Ibiwunmi, ‘Keima is trying to jump out.” She couldn’t hear me the first time, but she certainly heard the panic in  my voice. When she eventually figured out what I said, she pleaded with me to do my absolute best to keep him calm. 

I moved from screaming to Ibiwunmi to just being that helpless mother who would stop at nothing to save her child. I started shouting wildly to any and everyone that could hear me “HELP! PLEASE HELP! STOP THE RIDE! MY SON IS TRYING TO JUMP OUT! HEEEEELLLLLLPPP!”. Nobody heard me, and even if they did, they didn’t act like they did. I was in distress and everything was still going on normally. People were laughing all around me, engrossed in their own world; selfies were being taken, reels were being created and memories were still being documented. I was all alone in my pain, trying to manage a toddler’s full blown tantrum, mid-air, while watching others eat ice-cream, have fun and enjoy summer vibes.

I was genuinely confused and I thought all kinds of thoughts. I knew that if Keima jumped out, I instinctively would too. Would we survive it? I wondered to myself if that is how people’s lives end on short notice. I wondered about my daughter, who was sitting just behind us, and my husband whom we left back in the hotel room. How would the story be told? How would the news be broken? Why would tragedy be our reward for travelling all the way to attend a revival meeting? The moment I thought about The Outpouring Canada, my perspective shifted and I began to switch gears internally.

I remembered a testimony shared at The Outpouring the previous day about a young boy that had fallen off a storey building a while back and was supernaturally restored. As I recollected the details, I told God that I didn’t come all the way to Toronto to replicate that experience with ‘Keima and so I wasn’t interested in him falling or jumping out of the ride in the first place. I knew at this point that if God did not step in and help, we were gone….like gone. This was  when I consciously invited God into the experience with me through prayer. 

As I prayed, the panic subsided a bit and I was able to think clearly and take action. I don’t know how I comported myself well enough to move Keima successfully from my left hand side where he was initially seated to my right hand side, then I propped his side with my backpack which I had on the seat.  After that, I pressed my full weight on him against the corner of the ride to hem him in as I continued to pray. Initially, he tried hard to kick and break free from the discomfort of the confinement, then after a while, he relaxed and a sort of calm came upon him. A child that had been throwing tantrums suddenly became cooperative, and I just continued praying. 

Eventually, the ride ended, and we got off…..ALIVE! As far as I am concerned, that ride must have lasted a little over 10,000 minutes. As soon as we alighted, I burst into uncontrollable tears; of gratitude, joy and relief, of thanksgiving for deliverance from death and calamity, of a fresh appreciation for the Omnipresent God and so many other things that words cannot describe. I also woke up to a fresh realisation of the depths of love that a mother has for her child which is often concealed in the nuances of daily living and revealed in distinct experiences that show our hearts to us. 

Naturally, this ride altered the entire course of the outing as I was too shaken to get on any other ride or fun activity that day. I sat down quietly with ‘Keima in a corner while others continued to explore; I was content with just holding my ‘miracle’ tight in my hands as thanksgiving continued to flow from my heart, through my lips to God above.

As I reflected on the experience, I realised that oftentimes in our journey through life, we get to some spaces and situations where nobody but God can see us, hear us , reach us, understand us or help us, regardless of how much they love us or how noble their intentions towards us are. Based on this, I knew that the time and energy that I expended screaming out for help to people who could do absolutely nothing about my situation should have been directed at God who is our ever present help at all times. 

That day, I concluded therefore that it is best practice and a fail-proof life strategy to build a culture that actively seeks and looks to God first for answers, in any and every situation that we find ourselves in. This is the second big lesson that I learnt on this particular trip to Toronto which I would never forget.

Posted on by thelastbornsjournal · 1 Comment

Memoirs From Toronto (1)

‘Summer was beautiful’ would be me putting it mildly and probably understating the richness of my experience in its entirety. Just being situated in the context of family was the brightness the landscape of my life needed, as it offered me the opportunity to reassess and appreciate the gift of the very people I am blessed with and surrounded by. We littered the timelines of our holidays with barbecues, camping activities, countless sleepovers, outings and other fun stuff. To cap the season up, I made a trip with my immediate family to Toronto and two very distinct experiences I had on this trip brought with it 2 huge lessons I would never forget in a hurry. 

Kamba had traveled ahead of us to attend to a few things and so I left home that Saturday with the children and my niece; for the sake of my niece who was visiting Toronto for the first time, I had made arrangements to explore downtown Toronto a bit before heading to Oshawa.  The plan was simple; my long-time sister-friend, Ibiwunmi was to pick us up at the airport upon arrival, take us off to her house to unwind and have breakfast and then we would head out for sight-seeing while the children stayed back at home to have a good time. After we all had our heart’s fill of play and fun, we would head out to Oshawa, where we would be camping for the entire 4-day duration of the trip. 

We arrived at the airport that morning in good time for all the check-in formalities required. The reason for choosing an early morning flight was very clear; we wanted to have ample time to explore and play. While we waited in the lounge to board the Aircraft, an announcement made by the airline’s passenger assistance personnel interrupted my thoughts. They needed some people to give up their seats on the 5.30 a.m flight and join a later one that would leave for Toronto by 4.30 pm that same day. They went further to offer a huge incentive as compensation for people who were willing to give up their seats. I heard this and my head did a quick calculation of the amount of money which could potentially be in my account if I responded to the call. I did a quick mental scan of the actual cost price of the tickets and saw that it was a ‘profitable exchange’. 

All the hard things had been done already; our bags had been checked in, boarding passes for the 4.30 pm would be issued to us immediately and all we needed to do was go home,rest a bit and come back later to catch the later flight to Toronto. ‘Easy-peasy’ , I thought and so I stood up and walked to the counter, I spoke with the attendant, and confidently declared my willingness to give up our seats and join the 4.30 pm flight. She responded in that ever-sweet manner, “Oh! I am sorry, we needed only 3 people and we already have that number. Thanks for offering.”

My goodness! What just happened? I walked back to my seat slowly, hoping nobody else heard or noticed the conversation that just ensued. Well, a small part of me felt slightly embarrassed by the awkwardness of everything that happened, but the bigger part of me was shocked. I tried to make sense of my feelings and determine exactly how I felt, but I could not.

Before I walked up to have the conversation with the lady at the counter, I thought I knew myself. I thought I knew the things I could do or not do. I thought I understood my motivations and was largely self-aware, but apparently, blind-spots do exist. My heart lay bare before me and I saw who I could be, given certain conditions. How else would I explain the speed with which it all happened – A quick and sweat-less monetary reward in exchange for weeks of careful planning, anticipation and sacrifice, all at the instance of a 45-second announcement; the trade-in was way too cheap and fast.

If you examine it through the eyes of being strategic, having business acumen or an exceptional ability to seize and maximize opportunities, what I did would seem very brilliant. But when weighed against the backdrop of running every decision, big or small by God, I scored low. I certainly did not check or even think deeply. Money called, Funmi answered. I didn’t even stop to think about the people waiting for me on the other side of my flight, and the implication of my actions on all the plans we had made. What else would I throw all else away in exchange for? Quite frankly, if anybody had painted that scenario and described my actions as how I would potentially react, I would have argued my head off. “That can never be me” I would have blurted out confidently.

What I found a bit worrisome was also the fact that if I did not experience a blatant rejection at the counter, I probably would not have reflected on my decision making process and observed the loopholes and shortcomings therein. I thank God for the mercy that prevented the transaction from going through, but also wondered how many other times I had acted on my own impulses. The experience showed me that how we arrive at a destination is as important as the destination itself and there is a need to carefully re-evaluate the yardsticks for decision making on every front. My first lesson from this particular trip gave me a strong resolve to consciously acknowledge God when making all my decisions and not lean on my own understanding.

Eventually, we boarded our 5.30 a.m flight to Toronto and landed in good time. We had the best time with family and friends and left for Oshawa later that evening; everybody was exhausted from the day’s activities, but grateful nonetheless for the experience.

Posted on by thelastbornsjournal · 2 Comments

“Take a Walk with Me.”

For me, the next best thing to being physically present at the Lagos edition of UpperRoom on Friday, was being an undistracted and fully immersed virtual attendee. Having sorted out all ‘stakeholders’ at home and resolved all possible interruptions and hitches, I settled in my favourite corner of my bedroom with my laptop and arrived on YouTube, long before the livestream began. The plan was simple, I was going to have an “Upper Room & Chill” kinda morning and just enjoy my life in His presence. I’m thankful to God for the beautiful architecture of this current season of my life that gives me room to accommodate these things that make my Spirit sing for joy and truly cause my soul to prosper.

The worship meeting started and my entire experience from start to finish was an answered prayer; I responded with reckless abandon, caring only for the precious exchange between my maker and I. The atmosphere was electric, fully charged with the finest worship, prayers and spontaneous interjections of exhortations and word expositions; all carefully interwoven and skillfully delivered with the aim of redirecting the gaze of everyone to the Sovereign God.

As the meeting was rounding off, we moved into a session of testimonies; this is the part when people like me typically forget our manners and just lose every form of decorum. Personally, I find that testimonies inspire me with the ability to trust God for any and everything, so I always listen with rapt attention. You will hear testimonies and faith stories like this ehn, your dreadlocks (or wig, as the case may be) will scatter involuntarily. Minister Dunsin doesn’t even help matters with the way he layers each faith report with an apt song of adulation to God. Omo, if you still had your shoes on or Ruby woo lipstick in place all along, this is the point where you will “scatter” as you erupt in shouts of praise or just dance undignified before the maker. 

After listening to diverse testimonies of restoration, deliverance and healings, A lady who was on crutches came to testify about how God had helped and kept her so far, since she survived an accident about 7 months prior to that time. Something about her story just marked my heart in a very different way. She started by saying how she hesitated to give her testimony, because she felt the perfect time to do so would be when she is fully recovered and has dropped her crutches. God corrected her on this and encouraged her to publicly declare His goodness to her since the accident.

I listened to her story intently and was moved as she spoke. I loved her courage, I loved her faith, I loved her joy, I loved her convictions – she certainly knew that she would drop her crutches some day. As she spoke, the empathetic side of me came alive and I got somewhat distracted by thoughts of the possibility of the excruciating pain she was going through as she stood on stage to share her testimony. I thought so much about her ‘discomfort’ that I desperately wanted her to round off so she could get back to her seat and rest her legs. 

Clearly, we were not on the same frequency on this pain-matter because she even got to a point in relaying her testimony when she dropped the crutches and lay on the floor to physically demonstrate a dimension of healing that she had received. When she got off the floor, a part of me unconsciously waited for her to be handed her crutches back, so she could head back to her seat and rest her aching legs. This didn’t happen. Instead, Minister Dunsin Oyekan asked that the congregation stretch forth their hands towards her and pray for her. After prayers,  he looked at her, offered her his hands and said to her ‘Take a walk with me’. Honestly, my heart almost fell out. “Sir, she has been on her feet long enough, please let her go and rest, abeg.” I thought to myself.

They began to walk hand in hand from one end of the stage to the other, singing and praying as they journeyed. With each step they took, my heart skipped a beat. She didn’t fall, she didn’t break down; slowly and surely, with one foot in front of the other, she made her way across the stage. Ordinarily, she would have been tired after taking a few steps, but here she was, pushing beyond her limits and just gliding in strength. I believe that with each step she took without her crutches, she was publicly affirming her faith in God and the endless possibilities that exist in Him.

In that moment, I realised that my empathy for her had pushed me into a framework of survival and magnification of her pain that didn’t make it possible for me to take sides with God to insist on her portion of complete healing and wholeness in Him. Gosh! I felt ‘caught and exposed’. Like, wait a minute, Funmz! You believe that God can make her drop her crutches forever, but you just don’t think it can be NOW? Wow!

What I experienced as a result of listening to and watching the testimony unfold was a mental miracle; God showing me limiting mindsets and postures that I hold unconsciously that are unhealthy. I received an invitation into larger spaces in God where all things are possible and my mind can accommodate God-sized possibilities, so that I don’t stand in my own way.  The line is drawn and I am reclaiming the territories of my mind where unbelief and small-stinky thinking had taken up residence. 

Layering further on that, Minister Dunsin’s invitation to the lady seemed like an echo of God’s desires for us in 2024 and beyond; to “Take a walk with Him”. God is inviting us to release our crutches – whatever systems we have built or relied on to get by – and really just take His hands and walk with Him. He wants us to come with the pain, come with the limp, come with the questions, come with the brokenness, the emptiness, the fatigue, the confusion, the betrayals, the disappointments.

Come with the anger, come with the struggles, come with the little foxes, come with the addictions. Come in whatever shape or colour. Come with the tears, come with the achievements , come with the bleak economic outlook. Come with the health scare, the negative reports, the lumps, the drama. Come as an accomplished professional, a mature single, a discouraged graduate, a ministry gift, a budding entrepreneur, a tired mum, a struggling student, an aspiring change agent. Don’t overthink it, just come on in.

Come with a firm resolve to put your crutches away and never pick them up again once you lock your hands in His. This possibility exists, and can be our reality if we truly believe; to appear before Him and still insist on leaving with the crutches we came with is a direct result of an absolute ignorance of who He is or a gross undermining of the truth we claim to know about Him.

Come, fully persuaded that HE IS, and that He is a Rewarder of those who diligently seek Him. Come into the security of a love story that transcends the foundations of the world and runs into an ageless eternity.

Leave all the excuses and just come on in. May 2024 be the year we say YES to the Lord, on every front. Amen!

Posted on by thelastbornsjournal · 4 Comments

A Dash of Colours

It wasn’t hard to send IdaraAbasi off to bed on Monday night, as we had been counting down for days now to her kindergarten graduation; we had picked out her outfit weeks before and had gone over her recitals and presentations together. Tuesday morning finally came and we could barely hold back our joy; Idara went off to school excitedly in her beautiful ball dress and we joined her as a family at the start of the ceremony.

What a delight to see the other precious little humans with whom my daughter had shared learnings, laughter and memories in the classroom. They sang their hearts out with accompanying actions, as they showcased what they had learnt in the school year. Listening to their teacher speak about all of them and generally provide updates about their progress provoked my tear glands; my heart truly blessed her and the entire team that worked together to make learning such a beautiful experience for them.

I particularly loved the fact that all the kindergartners wore tee-shirts that bore the inscription “Class of 2035” which is the year they would finish from high school. “So perfect”, I thought. It forced me to think about IdaraAbasi in the ‘not-so-distant’ future and was the friendly reminder I needed that “whatever I wanted to see IdaraAbasi become in 2035 and beyond, the work starts now”.

We moved on very quickly to the distribution of certificates, taking of pictures and general celebrations. It was a joy to meet Idara’s best friend, Elena, whom she always spoke about at home. Two beautiful, innocent 5 year olds; bound by pure hearts and undiluted love. I met Elena’s mum as well, we exchanged contact details just so we could plan play dates for both of them during the summer holidays.

Everything went beautifully well and the celebration left me in a state of gratitude to God for the journey thus far and a renewed confidence in his ability to guide us through the days ahead. As we made the drive back home, I began to reflect on the activities of the day. It was all bright, beautiful and joyful but there was this huge level of discomfort I was feeling which I just couldn’t dismiss; I went through all of the events till I recognised it.

The design of the CERTIFICATE! That was it. It was done in an array of colours that I had come to recognise and associate with a certain movement; “Kindergarten”, which was printed boldly on top of the certificate was outlined in the colours of the rainbow, but in reverse fashion. I fought hard to unsee what I was seeing, and unthink my thoughts; In fact, I went on google to confirm the ‘colours of the rainbow” and held the certificate against it to verify. In order to clarify my thoughts further, I asked Kamba “ The design of this certificate, is it rainbow themed, abi is it my eyes?” Trust Kamba, he replied in the affirmative, without mincing words.

The moment I established what it was, I felt a mix of emotions and an agitation in my Spirit at the effrontery, the audacity and the subtlety of their methods. I felt violated; like my grounds had been trespassed on. A part of you is probably thinking, “Funmi, it’s not that deep.  The rainbow is a child-friendly theme, and you are just making a fuss over a certificate.” It’s okay, I hear you.

Ordinarily I would love to just drink water and mind my own business, but I feel compelled to let you know that the forces that are fighting for a “share of mind” in your child’s life are not sleeping. Truth is, there is a movement that is working hard to impose their ideologies on your children, through subliminal messaging, with or without your consent. It’s a race for acceptability and top of mind awareness in your innocent and unsuspecting child. 

As adults, we already have the tools for making our choices based on our values, backgrounds, personal experiences, faith, aspirations etc and can essentially differentiate between good/evil and choose accordingly. Children on the other hand are ‘tabula rasa”, having no preconceived ideas, predetermined goals or innate ideas; they are essentially described as a blank slate, meaning that they become what we feed them or inscribe on their hearts.

Being a student of literature and a lover of language, I understand the concept and power of themes and I’m fascinated by the study of  semantics. Whenever I interact with a piece of art, in whatever form, I am constantly searching for its underlying theme i.e. the unifying idea or the core of the message being passed across. Also, in examining the concept of meaning as relates to words and symbols generally, I often drill beyond the literal and visible meaning to the indirect/hidden/implied meanings. 

Against the backdrop of the aforementioned, I wondered why the creative team behind the design of my daughter’s certificate chose those colours out of all the colours in the world. Being a marketing communications practitioner, I know that every element in a communication plan is undermined by a strategy that is designed to elicit a certain response or produce a result over a predefined period of time. There is always a goal in view and when these marketing campaigns are being pieced together, every single element (including fonts, colours, copy etc) is carefully selected and combined to drive home the point. 

Children are currently being targeted, exploited and victimised through subliminal messaging hidden in pictures, imagery, songs, books and other media that they consume. They are presenting the concept of the rainbow in ways that children would love and accept and essentially be drawn to. All of these things exist below the threshold of sensation or consciousness and are capable of affecting one’s mind, emotions and behaviour without being aware of it.

The crux of this write-up is simply to encourage all of us to wake up and do the work of aggressively immersing our children in the values and principles that we hold dear. Firstly because it is our God-given responsibility as gate-keepers and secondly because if you think you are too busy, the world is not; it is actively keeping vigil and strategising for the absolute destruction of the next generation in simple,creative ways that you would barely notice.

Instead of saying to yourself, “Funmi, you probably are overthinking this thing”, why not go back and review some of the books, movies, tv shows, games, social media, etc that your children have access to and see for yourself? I assure you unequivocally that you will find themes like violence, nudity, man’s inhumanity to man, the weakening of the family structure (particularly the father figure) etc intricately woven into beautiful storylines and delivered in bright and engaging content to your children. I recently discovered that this educational show that I really love and had endorsed for my children that teaches them to count and spell has all other numbers in solid colours while the number 7 is arrayed in the colours of the rainbow. Imagine! I assure you that these things are not mere coincidence, E get why!

Scrutinise everything around you objectively, and ensure that the things that your child is exposed to are things you approve of, which align with your values and your faith. There’s no room to be passive in today’s world; tend your farmland, so that it does not become a wasteland. 

Fight for a Share of Voice in your child’s life, it’s worth whatever it takes to get it. May we be greatly helped, in this journey of raising the next generation.

Posted on by thelastbornsjournal · 2 Comments

On exploring new Super-powers.

Some weeks ago, I got back home to very warm hugs and joyful banter from IdaraAbasi and Keima. We caught up on the day’s happenings, and after a few minutes, Idara blurted out quite randomly, from the blues,  “Mummy, it’s not fair that you always get to paint your nails, and I don’t. It’s just not fair Mum, it’s not fair.” Apparently, she had just noticed that I got a manicure done.

Even though the outburst caught me unawares, I knew that she was not joking and honestly, I didn’t quite know how to respond. The “African mum” in me wanted to clap my hands together with accompanying head movements in that “you have guts” style, but of course, the kind hearted side of me prevailed; I exercised restraint and chose the path of love and not war. 

I went ahead to gently explain to her that there are some things that she may like and really want now, but cannot get or fully explore as a lifestyle until she is older. I encouraged her to exercise patience, everything good will come. This piece of advice came from one of the truest parts of my heart because as an adult now, I have seen many of the things I aspired for as a child come within my reach. 

As an individual, taking care of my nails is one habit that grew on me from when I was about 16 yrs old, thanks to my childhood friend, Abimbola, who believed that wearing chipped nail polish was an indication of self-neglect and hence always changed her nail polish every weekend. In so many ways, she demonstrated the importance of personal grooming and left me with learnings that would go with me through my adult life.

In my quiet reflections after the incident, I acknowledged that as an observant, kind and thoughtful girl, Idara had grown to see, love and admire my “well-manicured” nails. Through this, I saw the power of modelling demonstrated. Modelling  is a major way through which behaviour is learned and shaped; it is a kind of learning in which direct instruction is not required, as a person observes the behaviour of another and then imitates it (or aspires towards it). 

When it comes to raising children, it is very true that what we ‘do’ is often a billion times more powerful than what we ‘say’. They are a sponge, capable of absorbing any and everything, whether good or bad.  If we make a conscious effort to do and be the very things that we constantly talk to them about or desire for them to be, we are likely to see the changes which we desire.

Just imagine the fact that our children can observe something about us, admire it, love it so much and then want it badly. Wow! This is an absolute super-power which must be explored to the fullest advantage. It’s not a call to pretentious living or drama, but an invitation to authenticity and an alignment with our values, desires and goals. It’s about closing the gap between who we profess that we are and who we really are. It’s a call to a renewed consciousness that our lives are speaking a language, clearly discernible to our children and indeed, everyone in our lives.

Personally, I am on a journey of exploring the power of modelling to provoke holy desires and build Kingdom ethos in my children. In fully recognising, accepting and loving my “office” as a mother, I am maximising all the assets and resources at my disposal to create new paradigms for these precious gifts I have been called to train and nurture. 

What would you like to see in your children? Who would you like them to be? Can you ‘be’ it? Or can you begin to try to ‘be’ it? Can they learn love, kindness, patience, empathy, resilience, godliness, resourcefulness, etc from you? Abi it’s just “mundane aspirations” like nail polish and slay queen vibes that you are emitting? Okay oh! I’ve heard you. I will “kuku” drink water and “face my front”.

Posted on by thelastbornsjournal · 1 Comment

The Journey from ‘Point A-B’

Sometime recently, I was in Ibadan for a very important event. My initial travel plan was to get on the Lagos-Ibadan evening train by 4.30pm the day before, attend the event and return by train to Lagos on Thursday evening. Travelling on wednesday would mean leaving Lagos on ‘Keima’s birthday which would contravene an unspoken rule we have about being physically present on the children’s birthdays, as much as possible. The next best arrangement was that Kamba would drop me off in Ibadan very early on Thursday morning and then continue his work-related trip; this seemed perfect.

Then life happened and Kamba would not be able to make the trip anymore. I had two options if my trip was to still be a reality; to either get on the morning train to Ibadan on thursday or get a cab from the park. The challenge with getting on the morning train was that I had an important virtual meeting scheduled for 10.30a.m; the train would arrive Ibadan at 10.40a.m and the scuffle of disembarking the train would disrupt my 30minutes meeting. Getting in a cab to Ibadan on the other hand seemed all too scary, considering the fact that I had not done inter-state travel via public transport in a very long time; too many horror stories that touch, and I just wasn’t mentally prepared. 

I went to bed that night, fully assured that my trip to Ibadan was cancelled. There was no way I could convince myself to ‘wear cloth and enter express’ in public transport, and since the train timing would clash with my meeting, it was a no-brainer. My decision seemed like a fair, justifiable decision that anyone would understand, and so I went ahead to have a happy night rest, with a few drops of ‘beef’ for Kambz, for distorting my plans.

To my utmost surprise, I woke up on the optimistic, “I-can-do-all-things” side of my bed on Thursday morning. I asked myself how a slight challenge like mode of transportation could make me cancel a long-standing commitment, just like that. I jumped off the bed, took a bath, grabbed my travel bag and headed straight to the bus park. The priority for me was getting into a cab early enough so I could arrive in Ibadan by about 9.00a.m and settle down for my meeting.

When I got to the park, I was the last person required for the Toyota Sienna to move; everything seemed to be on track, yaaaaay! I paid my fare and the journey commenced. Minutes in, my fears and hesitations bubbled up to the surface. This one that everyone was already seated in the cab before I arrived, what if they were a gang and I had just entered ‘one chance’? Omo!!! I quelled this thought quickly with a reminder that the Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer, therefore ‘nothing do me’. Nonetheless, I took a cursory glance around to study my co-passengers; there was a youth corper, 2 young farmers (I could tell from their farm gist), 1 market woman and two other young men. All correct!

Soon after I conducted this ‘head-count/profiling exercise’, I settled into the trip and got lost in the beauty of the greenery and cool breeze blowing lightly on my face; nostalgia set in, beautiful memories of several trips on this route as an undergraduate. As though to jolt me out of my daydreams, the car began to jerk; mild spasms gave way to heavy vibrations and after what seemed like a lifetime, the car let off a very loud sound, struggled immensely and finally came to a stop.

A passenger’s repeated screams of ‘Eje-Jesu’, ushered the rest of us hurriedly out of the car as we tried to make sense of what had just happened. Yes, we were glad we hadn’t ended up in an accident, but this is Nigeria; we were quite concerned that we were stuck in the middle of nowhere, with a broken down vehicle and we just had to move. 

Apparently, my worst nightmare had just played out and here I was, standing by the roadside trying to flag down any vehicle that would be gracious enough to move me away from where I was. I eventually got on a rickety bus to complete my journey, but before the bus stopped to pick us, 2 men on a motorbike had circled endlessly and aimlessly around us severally, as though profiling us for an attack; this was indeed spooky. 

The rest of my journey was spent in honest, quiet meditation and solemn prayers in my heart. Amidst the traffic, I got into Ibadan at 10a.m, flew a bike from Iwo Road to Bodija, got cosy with my laptop and had my meeting by 10.35a.m. Afterwards, I moved on to the main reason for the trip, laughed out loud, danced some, ate some fine Chinese cuisine and took pictures. 

My return trip to Lagos that evening was via the train and it was SMOOTH. When compared with my “Cab-bus-bike” ride in the morning, I knew that I had hit gold and discovered a National treasure.The convenience! The calm! The comfort! To be honest, the train ride renewed my hope in Nigeria; I was so proud of the fact that something seemed to be working so well. I soaked in every single bit of the journey and almost didn’t want the trip to end. 

By the time we got to my stop in Lagos, I knew that I would get on the train again and again. I took up the unpaid role of an Evangelist, broadcasting the extreme goodness and reliability of the Nigerian railway system. I called Kamba up as I made my way home and told him we would have to take the children on the train ride to Abeokuta and Ibadan. I also called my ‘Efostic’ up and told her to put a trip to Ibadan on our to-do list when next she is in town, because ‘Babez, you just have to experience this’.

Then came the news of the attack on the Abuja-kaduna train and I was distraught and torn for so many reasons. I shuddered at the thought that ‘I could have been on that train’.  I wondered if there was any like me who had ditched the countless troubles of road travel (kidnap, ritual killings, robbery, traffic) to experience the comfort  and ‘security’ of being on the train. I can’t imagine what those moments of explosions and sporadic gunshots could have been like for the passengers; the first time travellers, the veteran train users, the curious tourists, the adventurous youngsters, the innocent children, students, professionals, business Men, job seekers, the young, the old. Anybody! Everybody!

Ordinarily, the journey from point A to point B should be as easy as deciding to go on the trip,  getting into the car, bus, train, plane, boat or whatever and arriving there safely. But in today’s world, even extremely essential travel has to be steeped in heavy doses of Psalm 91, immersed end to end in the precious Blood of Jesus and then handed wholly into the hands of the Almighty God. That’s all the security we have, particularly Nigerians living in Nigeria.

Posted on by thelastbornsjournal · 6 Comments

Ludo, Life & a few thoughts

On that particular day, we had a family outing to the beach, and to be honest it wasn’t quite the ideal beach day; it was a very rainy, wet, windy type of day. The children didn’t make it seem like we picked the wrong day to go to the beach though; being children, they dug right in as soon as we got there. The feel of the rain on their bare skin thrilled them; it would seem like being at the beach on a rainy day was a prayer answered for them. As soon as we got into the cabana, they got out the toy shovels, buckets and what not and began to play with sand and build castles. The sheer joy and contentment of being ‘free to play’ was priceless; they clearly didn’t share the sentiment of “this rain has ruined our plans”.

We adults on the other hand could not release ourselves to the freedom to live in the moment without being plagued with worry and regret. We wondered why we picked that day of all days to be at the beach. We wondered why we did not check the weather forecast for the day before heading out of the house. We wondered why we didn’t deck the children up in warm clothing before heading out. We wondered why the food we ordered for the children was taking forever, when the children were visibly hungry. We wondered so much, it was impossible for us to ‘look away’ and just have fun.

Before we headed out that particular morning, we had grand plans. 3 of us, women, had come together to celebrate our husbands on Fathers’ day with our families. We had bought gifts for our men, brought different board games along and just generally planned to ‘relax and be taken kiarof’. “This rain is our undoing”, we thought, and that’s how our time on the beach slipped by.

‘Keima’s naptime came by at some point and I had no clue how to put him to sleep. I worried my head off, as I could see how he was fighting sleep off, just because he wanted to join the other children to play in/with the sand. My worry did nothing productive; a long walk by the calm waters, snuggled on his father’s shoulder did the magic. In a short while, Kamba brought back a sleeping baby to me, I laid a blanket on a beanbag, and I watched my baby sleep with absolutely no worries at all in the world.

Somewhere between when ‘Keima fell asleep and when our food arrived, Kamba and I found the courage to fight for the kind of day we had envisioned when we left home that morning. We decided to go for joy, even if it literally meant ‘dancing in the rain’. I said, “Kambz, come and sit down, let me quickly beat you at a game of ludo”. He responded laughingly, “Iwo, you are trying to mess around with a grandmaster, I will show you today.”

We both laughed, and the game started. At the first roll of a dice, I got 6-3; the game started on a high for me. Kamba on the other hand waited quite a bit before he came out of his ‘house’; about 3 of my ‘seeds’ were already out and moving before any of his came out. Trust me to taunt him with my progress; I teased his life out and he took it all in stride. In a short while, he got the “6” he needed and his “seed” came out. Being a skilled player/strategist, he started chopping my “seeds” anyhow in no time. The 1st time was fine, the second time, it pained me but I didn’t show it too much…..you see that 3rd one ehn? It entered my bone marrow. That ‘seed’ was almost ‘home’, and then Kamba cut it in its prime. It got to me, especially with the annoying soundtrack of Kamba’s taunting, evil laugh that trailed each win. I said to him, “Kambz, I am done with this game”, and I meant it. His attacks on the ludo board got to me personally, I couldn’t go on anymore and I legit called it quits. Based on the game so far, I concluded that he was the winner and I wanted to walk away without getting to the finish line. 

He encouraged me to continue the game, which I did, albeit reluctantly. Minutes in, the tide changed; I chopped some of his ‘seeds’, got some of my ‘seeds’ ‘home’ successfully and generally ended up being the winner for the day. You can’t imagine the extreme joy I felt at winning; that priceless “stand-up-for-the-champion” moment. At that point, it no longer mattered how the game started, what was most important was how it ended. Guess who was most thankful for not giving up? Funmz of course. I broadcast my victory with glee, and generally made a show of how I beat him hands down at the game. 

As though to mark my outstanding victory, our food finally arrived; I gobbled up my meal very quickly, the hunger was real. Just before lunch was over, a friend retorted “I am not quite a fan of ludo, there is no skill in it; it’s more a game of chance, where your fate is determined by a roll of dice ”. I laughed at the thought jokingly and responded, saying,” there might be no skill in it in that sense, but there are life lessons in it; I learned today not to give up so easily, especially in the beginning.“ 

A while later, I reconsidered what Bisi had said and thought to myself, “while a lot is determined by the roll of dice, a lot more is determined by what is done with what is rolled out.” To win at Ludo is to decide to play what you have strategically and to remain patient, dogged and optimistic, even in the face of defeat.

This year 2022, regardless of the blessings or twists that life may bring, we choose to ‘stay jiggy’ and keep our Spirits up, knowing that all things work out perfectly for our good. Just as in my unlikely win in that day’s ludo game, may we uncover many wins in 2022. 

Happy New Year!

Posted on by thelastbornsjournal · 6 Comments

The Morning After (Reflections)

As is typical with birthday celebrations, the phone calls and messages didn’t stop rolling in for me till I went to bed. I remember a particular conversation with one of my dear friends earlier that day; she asked as almost everyone else did, “how is your day going?”. I responded quite spiritedly, “I’m having a PERFECT Birthday”. She thought my response was exaggerated, especially because she knew that I was taking that phone call from the comfort of my bedroom and not some ‘exotic’, fun-dripping location.

Over the years, I have observed that I spend a whole 365 days excitedly looking forward to 1 day – “the BIRTHDAY”. When the day comes, I am thankful and overjoyed; I start out feeling like a superstar – the phone calls, social media posts/messages, a ‘shout out’ here and maybe ‘a surprise saxophone-blowing’ ceremony there. (By the way, that loud ‘saxophone thing’ has never happened to me, I could disappear if it did. Dear Kambz, please be guided…lol).

Anyways, in a short while, after hearing like 5 billion different versions of the ‘Happy Birthday Song” punctuated with heavyweight prayers and excited laughter, I’m inundated by the demands of the day and I just want to hide. Next thing I know, I close my eyes and then boom, day is over and it’s the morning after.

You see that dull ache that comes when “the phones stop ringing” and you are just rummaging through the crumby leftovers of the ‘love-overdose’ from the day before; those reverberations from the posts, mentions, comments, messages, status updates etc that keep you reliving the birthday moments, that’s exactly where the issue lies for me. 

I prefer to stay in that sweet intersection between a “birthday” that isn’t overwhelming and a “morning after” that isn’t a sharp descent from ‘high to low’.  This is why, right in the midst of the huge currents of genuine love, appreciation and attention that flow to me on my birthday, I stand my ground and ‘shine my eyes’ so that I am not swept off balance; for if the birthday must be wholly enjoyed by me, then it must be PACED, moving gracefully to the quiet, joyful rhythms of the ‘stereo’ of my heart only.

My birthday this year is the closest I have ever come in my adult years to that ‘sweet spot’ and that’s why I call it perfect. It left a strong fragrance on my soul, which I am convinced will linger forever. The day started with IdaraAbasi waking me up excitedly in the morning and dragging me to the living room to see the birthday cake she chose and “bought” me. From then on, it progressed beautifully, untouched by the pressures of ‘unspoken social parameters’ (basic & premium versions) of how birthdays are/should be celebrated these days.

I fell asleep that night with a smile on my face and woke up with joy; mostly grateful to God for the gift of life and for my family and friends whose unique, love-soaked fingerprints remain imprinted all over the landscape of my life.

Posted on by thelastbornsjournal · 1 Comment

This is 34

I remember this particular day back when I was maybe 4 or 5 years old, we were all gathered in a particular bedroom at home; the whole family. There was a lot of laughter, jokes and joy in the air; my siblings were jisting and my parents were excited, it just was a perfect ‘happy family’ moment.

Someone started singing, another person started drumming and then I got up and started to dance. The four-year old Funmz danced with reckless abandon, serving ‘hot moves’ and ‘dance steps’ anyhow and my siblings and parents cheered me on. I was happy, they were happy, the whole room was charged; I was a star at that moment and I totally loved it.

I danced for a while longer, some sleek Shina Peter moves (I think) and kept the entire family entertained, until suddenly, I made a wrong move, tripped and fell. Gosh! Everything literally came crashing down on me. It wasn’t so much the pain from the actual  fall that got me; it was the shame from having such an experience on a ‘global stage’, in the full glare of the ‘public’. It didn’t matter to me that this public was my own nuclear family, and that the stage was just a bed in the room. The embarrassment I felt on that particular day cannot adequately be captured in words.

My siblings rallied round, tried to comfort me and help me get past the incident so I could continue dancing, but I just couldn’t. As far as I remember, that was the day dance died. I didn’t stand up to continue dancing, and from then on, I could hardly get myself to dance in public anymore. The fear of falling over, the fear of awkward movements, the fear of whatever else could possibly go wrong has held me back.  Something deep down tells me that if only I tried again, I would find out just how much of a great dancer I am or can be. But no, I have not permitted myself to. My dance has remained precious and private; done only either in the comfort of my room or in the recesses of my mind. 

Today, as I clock 34, my birthday gift to myself is this post that you are reading.  I absolutely love WRITING, but over the years I have kept my writings hidden away, either in my journal or on my drive. I resolved within myself not to let what happened to my dance happen to my gift of writing. No more writing and hiding just because I think it’s not perfect enough for public consumption.

It has taken me so long to realise that it’s not always about perfection, sometimes, all that is required is ‘Yes, I am ready’.  This is 34, and I commit to dusting off my journals and sharing stories with the world with my full chest.

Happy Birthday Funmz, this is not the perfect “first public post” you planned, but this obedience is perfectly timed.