i hate procrastination
on progress, perfection and mango trees part 3.
progress > perfection
say it aloud.
write it down.
memorise it.
the photo above is a photo wami took of me a month before i launched ‘an evening with verse writer : the documentary’. our moodboards were whimsical, fairy-like and child-like. i love how restful i look and my goal is to continue working from a place of rest throughout the next few weeks ahead of my launch of my secret and exciting thing.
throughout the month of february, i wrote to you. i am so glad i did because i made this promise to myself. my friends are quite shocked at how online i’ve been which amuses me but also makes me glad.
this week is nearly launch week. i am preparing for my brussels presentation (i only just arrived yesterday) and i have to-do-lists that need to be ticked.
i refuse to make excuses. i refuse to procrastinate. i refuse to give into perfectionism. and so here, i am writing to you amidst the busyness.
i shared this mini video-diary (not calling it content) about making my poetry show an ‘evening with verse writer’ and the reception has been pleasant. if you’d like to speak with me about perfectionism, procrastination or your progress, book a 1:1 with me :) i mentioned that i’m opening more ‘story story session’ slots till march 13.
at long last, mango trees part 3. i hope you enjoy it :)
the truck you saw last month was for my husband; he has finally left my house, irenitemi said.
in all their years of friendship, joke had always felt irenitemi’s humid loneliness. today, as the fan’s blades rotated clockwise, she felt the cool breeze of relief, which whispered that irenitemi’s joy would return. still, she asked boldly, i can’t believe that’s what the truck was for – why did you let him go? at stella’s party, you said you would give your marriage another try.
joke had not finished her last word before irenitemi said, i am tired of trying, couldn’t try anymore. i have forgiven him, but my body keeps the score.
joke sat and listened to her friend sob as her head touched her knees. her posture reminded her of the girls at the salon whose response to the hairdresser’s i have to hold it, pele, it won’t pain you again, was like a churchgoer praying – a bowing first and then a passionate cry. as irenitemi’s cries grew louder, joke felt her friend’s pain. joke did not comfort her friend with touch or words because she remembered that even the girls in pain at the hairdressers always needed some time.
soon, her words came. love is long-suffering not suffering.
it was irenitemi who sat alone in their bedroom, on her knees, praying to God to restore her marriage and her husband’s sanity. once a year, he would appear at their children’s event, a prize-giving ceremony, to remind the public that he was head of the home. before the final photograph was taken, the mummies, daddies, and teachers congratulated her husband for his hard work. but the children knew it was their mum who provided and secured their future. sir, please come closer; we need you all in the frame. the photograph would have all of them looking all lovely in the same colour, but irenitemi secretly wished the photographer had not said come closer, so her husband’s head would be slightly cut off, because it was she, irenitemi, who was the head of home. none of the mummies, daddies, and teachers congratulated her. they too believed his lies.
it was irenitemi that had to beg the school principal to allow her children to complete their exams because her husband had spent the school fees money on the latest mercedes g-class whilst his children could not, for days, step into class. it was irenitemi who had to attend parents’ meetings, school plays, salon appointments, and visiting days because her husband always had something more important to do. i’m busy/i have to go to abuja for a meeting/chelsea is playing tonight; i can’t miss that game/there’s an old schoolboys’ association in ikoyi that the ’84 set is hosting, and i’m one of the organisers, so take the children to school; you’re their mother. my friend’s wives don’t complain; you always complain. on thanksgiving sunday, during testimony time, irenitemi could finally call the glory hers, but she gave all the glory to god because there was no other man you should trust. all men disappoint, irenitemi said to her children. their silence was the amen.
in all my years of marriage, my labour was never recognised, irenitemi slowly said to joke. for years, i have not been able to enjoy the fruits of my labour because all my hard-earned money is spent on the children.
she always said her children were her greatest gifts, joke thought, but as tears rolled down her cheeks, she wondered whether that too was a lie.
and that my husband; don’t be fooled, irenitemi hissed. he was parading all over lagos in the biggest car and designer belts when he still had debt as large as this home.
joke screamed in shock and let out a deep sigh of pity. only she knew that irenitemi provided and irenitemi cared and irenitemi wept and irenitemi was tired and irenitemi asked him to leave her house, and she felt proud to know this.
it was irenitemi’s call to courage that made joke respond with her truth. my husband is opening his legs to everyone in lagos, and i know this, but irenitemi, my marriage cannot fail. he can do all the rubbish he wants to do outside, but inside he is mine.
irenitemi feigned a shocked expression so that her friend did not think that her heart was as sour as unripe mangoes for concealing what she had known since stella’s birthday party. she knew joke’s husband was a liar and a cheat. this was the reason she told joke to buy gold; she was still his property.
joke always extended grace to her husband but never to herself. it was always one excuse or the other. she was married to a man who saw love as a power play. at their wedding, when asked what he loved about his wife, joke’s husband burst out laughing and said, oh, what is there not to love about her, and never completed his sentence. she knew he only loved that he could finally call someone fully his. that day, joke had laughed a little to fill the awkward silence, which even the band’s loud music could not swallow. as she exchanged a quick glance with her friend who sat at the high table, irenitemi’s tummy rumbled with fear. their lives had become like buchi emecheta’s nnu engo. how did they not see this coming? she thought, dodging the photographer’s bright flash.
joke bit her mango even more intensely and said, do you always wonder what we could have been?
joke, you’re saying what we could have been like we are 80. i am still going to be an actress. i am going to pay for acting courses soon, and soon, joke, my joy and glory will return. i missed so many birthday parties because all my friends would say, isn’t it irenitemi? she loves her children; you can’t catch her outside at this time.
joke adjusted the small pillow she was resting on and said, do you remember what stella shared with us before she left? irenitemi nodded. stella said we shouldn’t let our lives be shaped by what men do or don’t do for us. look at you, you own a successful business, and still, your useless husband has stolen your joy.
i remember that day. it feels impossible to catch a break in motherhood, and we can’t even admit we are tired. omo, my sister, body no be firewood, irenitemi said, her body rocking forward like the clock’s hands.
sis, just yesterday, chinaza scrolled through tiktok – that app with all the dances – and asked in her high-pitched voice, mummy, what is patriarchy? i didn’t even know how to explain what it was, but it’s what you are describing. it’s a system that is invested in women’s suffering.
the two women understood that they did not want a life of suffering and smiling, yet their lives were entangled with this patriarchy. joke was married to a man that didn’t like or love her. her fear of loneliness and what-will-people-say followed her to adulthood. as a marriage counsellor at the church, it would be both unfortunate and amusing if she left her husband.
is it our fault that we chose the wrong men? joke asked as she wiped her nose with her dress.
they failed us; we did not fail, irenitemi said with a sigh.
the fear of failure had crippled them since they were young, and now, they confronted a different kind of failure. why were their names erased as though they had no lineage? why did their children take the fathers’ names and states of origin? where was the money and joy marriage and motherhood had promised them?
while irenitemi drank some water, joke remembered three girls that danced at stella’s party. dressed in fuchsia dresses embroidered with small gold studs, the girls played a game of ring-a-roses. after a minute, one girl said, this game is making me dizzy; i am out. soon, the two children moved even faster as they danced to the rhythm of the drums from the band. can we take a break, one girl said. no, keep going, keep going, keep going, the other girl responded, pretending to enjoy the thrill of the game. the two girls continued playing because every girl cheered them. they both screamed and held their hands even tighter to avoid falling and failing, till one girl said, we can stop. no one’s watching again. the girls stopped to sit on the plastic chairs draped in the softest lilac fabric and poured more mango juice into their glasses to regain their strength. the children could stop, could catch a break, drink some juice and play another game. for irenitemi and joke, their life was always a never-ending game of ring-a-roses. when did they ever catch a break?
irenitemi moved towards her then said, we were as sweet as these mangoes before we met these men, before they sucked us dry. i know your husband treats you like a princess, but who taught you to trust them, joke? you cannot let him own you. what if he dies?
so this is why you wanted me to get the gold? joke asked.
for years, joke never spoke badly about her marriage because she enjoyed princess privileges, but even princesses, she thought, must start to feel lonely in their palaces. joke had nothing to call hers.
as joke reached for another mango slice, she said, i’ll inflate the children’s school fees and the grocery shopping and save the money so I can someday buy the gold.
it was in irenitemi’s house that the two women realised they were truly their own gold, their own lifeline, their mothers’ inheritance. buy that gold like every day of your life depends on every single carat, irenitemi said.
do you think i was deceived by him? joke asked as she crossed her shaky legs.
no, i think you just forgot to have a life beyond the one he told you he would offer, irenitemi responded.
will you ever ask him to come back? joke enquired.
irenitemi could feel her throat get drier. joke’s question left a sour taste on her tongue. yes, she loved him. he had been the man she had wanted him to be in the beginning, but he was not that man anymore – not for her. i want to taste and see the lord’s goodness, and besides, the matter is spiritual, she said with a smirk. i cannot let the man distract me or affect the children’s destinies. it is by their fruit you will recognise them, she added, grabbing a mango from the bag. and he has no good fruit, she said, peeling the skin with the knife.
irenitemi knew she wasn’t eve. she was deceived by adam, not the reverse. her creation story would be different.
what is aunty funke’s number? joke asked, bending to tighten the clasp on her gold-plated anklet.
stephen came to me with big dreams and plans. through coaching, we refined his vision and created momentum 🚀.
book a 1:1 with me to bring your project 2 life. spots close tomorrow ⏳
next week, i will write to you about my brussels lecture + many other wonderful things.
also, what did you think about mango trees?
have a lovely week,
This is such a great read. I, before this, had never thought of rich women buying gold jewelry as a buffer. I had always assumed it was a simple matter - a show of wealth, class and high society to say the least. I have reasons to think differently.