Blog

 AUTHOR = FUNMILAYO AKINOSI

  

Someone once told me, she’ll bet her eye-teeth if I cried on seeing Titanic.

It probably didn’t count for much for her astigmatic-myopic eyes, though I remember she had gum-trouble free teeth.

Her gambling habit might have been spurred by a little chat after we saw “Pay It Forward”, a movie where a little boy wonder gets killed not long before the credits roll. I remember the shock on her weepy face when I simply remarked that it was well written and that the poor angel’s death made about a perfect end.

The point is that I certainly don’t come across as the sensitive, goggled-eyed female. .. but I try to be as feminine as I can- maybe not the giggling part with the perfect OMG screech but at least, I wear make up, show off my luscious ( I hope!) legs and ogle Prison Break’s Wentworth Miller look-alikes with firm butts and Rhythm’s Wild Child’s wit.

Just when I though I had thawed somewhat, some psychologist wannabe who doubles as another friend (where do I find these guys?) says in what he probably assumes to his profound best: “You’ll scare many guys away”.

Quickly, my quick wit does the 911; I reply “not the ones whose opinion I respect”

While I’m sounding all calm and confident, I feel another dent in my almost-chiselled heart. I make another mental note in ink- Men don’t find independent women attractive- that is the most obvious lie after the snake did Eve. They think they do, but they don’t.

 

It’s amusing enough that my mom who four years ago used to warn me about the dangers of men has started growing worry-wrinkles unsmoothed by reassurances from her pastor that I won’t end up like them “career types”. There’s also the mischievous “so, who is he” question I have come to expect from nosy aunties and not-so- friendly friends.

At 24, I feel like I’m already fighting society’s expectations of mate-hood, and mine, to succeed. It’s enough that almost everyone expects me to “find one man to marry me”. Others warn me that it will be so much better to pick from what I have (meaning just about any male who smiles at my direction) rather than wait it out, otherwise I won’t again-find someone to marry me. Maybe some of them have good intentions, but ‘m sure Iraq was also made with such goodness of heart.

I am far from being left on the clichéd shelf and still have my fair share of drooling admirers (I forgot to mention- I have a better body than Beyonce). And no, it’s not commitment-phobia, bad karma or (horror of horrors) severe short attention span.  There are bigger troubles- me wanting more than the regular go to school, get married and work it from there. Somehow, I am no longer the perfect pre-20 show-off child for my Naija mother- “focussed, good grades, maybe a few prizes in school too”. My dearest mom who preached masters before marriage, now with the hindsight of strike-wasted years is hinting marriage and masters.

Maybe I really didn’t cry for Titanic (I knew DiCaprio was too cute to really die at least not in real life) but why should the self-confidence I have struggled to grow (I thought I had duck-lips as a kid) scare away the male specie? I had to turn “focussed” when I realised that survival required royal blueblood or old money, or finding the nearest “Man” to marry or go-getting. Unfortunately, Thierry Henry got married before meeting me and my blood’s still red- so I was left with the hard work part.

For a long time, I, along with my bra-burning females of the world chanted the “I really don’t need a man to make me happy”.

But, recently, with maturity (euphemism for watching the feeling you get after back-to-back soapy love stories and … age too) I realise I want a little bit more than that.

I have always wanted a family.

Maybe not always but almost always.

Quickly, I know I don’t want a marry-or-die psyche, yet, I respect my relationship with God, body and fairness to my unborn kid so I know I don’t want to be another successful single mother.

I want to be successful and all- UN first female Secretary General, save the world from another Rwanda and Cambodia. Or maybe somewhere else the world needs saving by my egoistic self.  

But I also want a family- as badly as I want to be Condi Rice, I want the husband and kids and the white picket fence; the drama that comes with wearing your heart on your sleeve and responsibilities that come with it. I want to love in that hard scary way.  I want to be someone’s mommy and someone’s wife. I want to worry about getting home early. I want to look at my single friends and tell them I wish I could be in their sand-free shoes for a day, but hurry straight home to my cute husband. I want to argue and have to make up because we share the same bed. I want the silly contented look pregnant women carry proudly. I want to use my try alternative dispute resolution over the “mommy, Bode made silly faces at me”s. I want the school-runs and bickering behind my seat. I want the husband… and family.

I also want to make my mark in the world. I’m not asking for the Nike on the moon, a “Funmilayo tread this path” swoosh will do just well. I don’t want to be all of a Mrs somebody and nothing of any other thing. I want to manage it all. 

I want to smile when I look at the piece of metal on my finger. Not because it’s there but because of who put it there. Thirty-five years done, I still want to hurry home and make him dinner because of the smile he has when sees me. I want the grey hair and conspiracy that comes with jobless post-retirement days. At 80, with most of my hair gone, I want to smile into his wrinkled face and be happy.

I know M’s not synonymous to utopia but I want the balance between reality and love.

I want it all. I want it together- love, family, career. 

I want happiness- whatever that is.

 

‘Funmilayo Akinosi