All posts filed under: A Bit of Pretty

Beauty, celebrated, in any medium.

The Silent Driver

Mr Femi was a simple man, with a simple job. Every morning at 6am, he washed first the cars, then himself. After that, he had breakfast- fried yam and egg, washed down with hot milo- if Cook Oye was in a good mood. At 8am, he put on his tie and sat in the car. Between 8.15 and 8.20, Madam and the children emerged from the big house and after a careful drive through Ikoyi’s leafy streets, he pulled into the parking lot of St Joseph’s Primary School by no later than 8.45. At 9.30am, Madam returned to the car and Mr Femi drove Madam to the gym. After that, his time was his own until 3pm. Usually he would return home for lunch – garri and soup- but once a week, usually on Thursdays, he would drive to the local NNPC filling station and fill up the tank. At 3pm, he would pick Madam up from her friend’s house and they would be back outside the school gates at 3.30pm. Madam would gather the …

Spring Lectures, Sunday Runs and Shiraz

Is there a greater turn-off than arrogance? I know you’ll want to say ‘unhappy hygiene habits’ or ‘rampant racism’ and possibly, probably, you’re right about that. But for me, I would rather be immolated than be forced to hang around the cocky, arrogant so-and-sos for whom Shakespeare’s ‘all the world’s a stage’ is an invitation to make the rest of us unwilling observers of their ‘Me Me Me’ shows. So, when I was invited to the Oxford and Cambridge Club of Nigeria’s Spring Lecture, I was a little dubious. We Nigerians at the best of times are a cocky bunch, and I worried that a group of Nigerians who had repatriated after being educated at the two best universities in the world would result in a lot of Me Me Me. This deserves its own paragraph: I was very very wrong. The Spring Lecture was a day of lovely people and the sort of conversation I live for-  about the things that truly matter, rather than the things that one can buy. I met a …

The Friday Fun: 12 December 2015

Memories are terribly fragile things, so vulnerable to nuance and circumstance, perspective and context. Perhaps that first kiss, the one that you hold up against the light as the Gold Standard of kisses was, to your kissing partner, no more than meh. Perhaps that awful first day at school, that still has you waking up in cold sweats, the one where you forgot your own name and spilled ketchup all over your crisp white shirt, exists in no-one’s mind but your own. Perhaps all we do, and will ever do, will only  be one side of a story that no one will remember to tell. Perhaps. But so what. Go out there and try anyway. Kiss that boy, or girl, anyway. Introduce yourself to that stranger, anyway. Dance to that song, anyway. Because even if it’s all a glorious waste of time, even if it’s all ashes in the wind, even if certainty is nothing more than a fancy word, I’d rather having fun trying that give up in despair. It’s the weekend, rose petals, …

During rainstorms

Crying in a bed that isn’t yours is like leaving your grief in the arms of a complete stranger. The sheets do not recognize your smell or the tightness of your grip and the pillows mistake your tears for dripping sweat. They have not yet learned the pace of your brokenness or that the conveyor belt of your heart is worn Your sighs sound restful at first Your shakes start out gentle and then grow into something that feels like a volcano at the brink of an eruption. Your sobs are fighting this war pushing back against your will to stay silent, rebelling. You are rubbing your chest in a soft circular motion the same way your mother rubbed your back through every rainstorm when you were young You are running out of air Holding your head like your neck is on its knees Whispering words that sound a lot like begging Like you want to survive this but you aren’t sure Like you might make it through but not for long Like you have given so much, for …

WordArt: In This Story

We’re rushing into cabs, laughing with all the air that our pathetic lungs can muster and we’re falling into each other and kissing each other’s noses and we’re lying on white bed sheets when the first clear pictures of Pluto are released and you turn to me and say “You’re the most beautiful planet I’ve ever seen.”

The Friday Fun: 29 Aug 2015

The Friday Fun is coming to you a bit late and light this week, dear ones, as our team are having aggressively good holidays in these last few days of summer. Allow us to drop our apologies into your hearts like perfectly formed ice cubes into a delicious cocktail.  Besides, (not to make excuses) the Friday Fun is a feeling, a movement, a soul-condition, applicable in truth to any day of the week. Life should be a collection of #FridayFuns, a bouquet of joyful sips, a canvas liberally speckled with splatters of satisfaction.  The weekend is happening right now, chuckle bunnies; here are a literally a couple things to  help you continue to enjoy it… 1. This  genius little Venn diagram, to help you figure out how best to spend your entire life, not just your weekend.     2. These great excerpts from Neil Gaiman’s The Sleeper and The Spindle, a quick delight of a book that you should absolutely buy, read, and re read.               This week’s featured image is one my …

Housekeeping

Hi guys, I’m not a great writer. Most of the time, I’m not even certain that I’m any good. I make far too many typos, and I always seem to read things out there that put my own humble scribblings to shame. My first blog was also woefully inconsistent and, more often than not, struck the wrong note with the very people I was hoping to connect with. All of this is to illustrate how imperfect and undeserving I am of all the support and kindness I get from all of you. Thank you for sticking with me, despite my long absences. Thank you for the emails and messages prompting me to get back into blogging. Thank you for embracing this new site with such warmth and enthusiasm, for sharing it with your friends. Thank you, most of all, for being a such an excellent bunch of people. The new miafarradaily.com is meant to be more magazine than personal blog. We’re still new, but I hope we’ve started to build a ‘feel’ and a ‘community’ …

On Death, Traffic and Dreaming: An Essay

We weren’t particularly close. In fact, we’d never even met in person but I knew him well enough to mourn his loss when I heard the news. Cancer, they said. As much I wanted to, I could not cry. Somehow I could not rationalise the tears. In truth it’s illogical for any of us to think this life goes on forever. Why then does death make us so sad? All lives across time have and will continue to come to an end; this is our commonality, the great equaliser. There is no difference between a dead great man and a dead rabid dog. It is fair to almost feel personal insult by this logic. It seems cruel that after all is said and done, this dark finality is all we have to look forward to.  What, then, is the purpose of all our triumphs and trials? Such a morbid and obscure topic, death, but one I continued to contemplate it as I drove. **In traffic, as in life, the search for greener pastures is often …