Igreja de Sao Rogue

These pictures were taken inside the magnificent Igreja de Sao Rogue (St Roch Church) in Lisbon. It is a 16th  century building made in the tradition of the Jesuits. It has a rich intricate splendour which gives a sense of overawing majesty.

 

 

 

It has a chapel said to be the world’s most expensive chapel and dedicated to St John the Baptist.

 

 

 

It was built with precious ornaments and materials like the amethyst, ivory, alabaster,gold,silver,bronze, carrera marble, purple and green porphyry etc.

I find the detailing that went into the interior of the monument overwhelming.

Talk about dedication and commitment to one’s belief!

People Will Talk.

People will talk.

Whether you do or you do not.

They will talk,

If you work very hard.

‘My goodness,’ they will say. ‘He works too hard.
He must have little else to do with his life!’

They will also talk, if you don’t.

‘I have never seen anybody as lazy as he, always loafing around. What a waste of space!’

If you enjoy your own company,
and like to remain indoors…

‘He must be queer.’

Or

‘Something bad is definitely going on, otherwise why is his door always locked?’

And if you are the busy, never at home type?

‘She spends so much time outside, what is she running away from at home?

Or

‘When does he get to spend quality time with his family if he is never at home?’

If you are studious.

‘She’s always studying, what a boring person!’

If you are not…

‘No wonder she’s such a loser, what an unserious fellow.’

If you are friendly.

‘Why is she so friendly?
She must be promiscuous.’

If you are not.

‘What a snob and very rude too.’

If you like to mind your business.

‘What an uncaring and insensitive person!’

If you don’t?

‘Why can’t she mind her own business?
She’s such a gossip!’

If you buy yourself a present.

‘What a spendthrift! With all the poverty in Africa…’

If you do not.

‘What a cheapskate, he can’t even get himself a decent pair of shoes.’

My point?

People will talk.
Whether you do or you do not.

Papa Efe & Sons 3

Rukevwe returned to the room and sat gingerly on the opposite sofa from her husband and Alero.
Any onlooker would think Alero the mother and Rukevwe an erring and naughty child caught misbehaving.

Alero coughed,long and noisily. When she was done she removed her large parachute shaped headscarf and balanced it on the seat beside her.

‘How-‘ she started,

‘Sister,’ interrupted Ehis. ‘You no go eat fest? (first)

‘No be hungry carry me come Ehis,’ she retorted, looking at him like he had just done a cartwheel naked. ‘No waste my time. I go chop when I ready.’

Rukevwe looked from Alero to her husband and back at Alero.
She could not understand how any woman would be so controlling that even men like her husband would be reduced to stuttering around her.

‘Rukevwe,’ Alero said turning to her. ‘How many years you and Ehis don marry now?’

‘Four,’ Rukevwe answered, turning her head away in exasperation.

She knew that Alero knew quite well that they’d been married 7 years, after all her own daughter Ese who had been 16 at the time had gone into labour during their wedding reception and had her baby that same night.
It had been a real drama, one which Rukevwe was very happy about.

Alero had been so busy poking her nose in her relationship with Ehis that she had not noticed that her own daughter, who was living under her own roof had been pregnant all along.

‘Why only you one siddon dey laugh?’ Barked Alero.
‘Abi you don shack.’

‘I no shack anything,’ she replied.

She didn’t realise she’d been smiling. The thought of Alero rolling on the floor and crying at the news that her daughter was in fact not having a life threatening condition as she’d suspected but rather that she was having labour pains had brought on the mirth.

Ehis sat fidgeting with his hands.

Something wasn’t right.
He was behaving strangely.
These days he was rather unsure, distracted even.
And a touch more considerate. Why, he’d even swept the bedroom floor yesterday after Efe tripped over a plate of rice.
Ehis.. sweep? Hmmm.

Rukevwe was jolted out of her thoughts by something Alero was saying.

‘Since una marry, na only gehs (girls) you dey born. And you know say na only Ehis our mama born.’

How was that her problem? thought Rukevwe, frowning.

Alero made it sound like an accusation.
Which was better, she reasoned, for her to be childless in 7 years of marriage or for her to have her three lovely daughters?

‘Because of dat na im make Ehis wan marry again.’

‘Ehhhhhhhh,’ shrieked Rukevwe, jumping to her feet.

‘WETIN YOU JUST TALK?’

What’s Your Point Of View?

People have different opinions on different things.
They can also have different opinions on the same thing.
This should be a good thing because life is colourful and more interesting with differing view points, otherwise it would be so boring if say everybody thought football the only sport worth watching or that meals should be cooked in a certain way.

Opinion is also formed based on understanding which may be flawed.
For example if there’s an accident, the narration of events by the driver whose car was hit would be different from that of the driver who hit his car.
Even onlookers will have differing levels of opinion on how the accident took place with the person standing on the right side of the cars narrating the incident differently based on the angle he saw it, from the person on the left.

Emotions also play a huge role. They colour the ability of the observer to make an objective assessment or process his or her opinion properly.
That is why if you say the same thing to two people, the one who likes or admires you may not take offence. Even if you meant offence he or she may make excuses for you and refuse to be offended.
But the other person who has reasons not to like you (or doesn’t but thinks he/she does) will take offence whether you meant to cause it or not.
That is also why many a times when a decision is taken at a moment of emotional instability such as in anger, fear or sorrow, such decision will appear unwise to an observer who is not under the same emotional influence. That way we see differing points of view come into play with both sides judging themselves and their actions as being the right one.

But the one I consider the most dangerous in the various opinion forming processes is when people are quick to interpret things negatively and/or destructively. This is because not only can it be a source of health challenge, psychological and otherwise (to the person concerned) but it can also influence and affect other people around negatively.

I will use an experience of mine for an example.

Sometime ago I had cause to work with someone, somewhere in Europe.
He was an excellent conversationist and a great companion when on calls.

One morning he came in to work looking really upset.
He flung his stethoscope on the table, slumped into a chair and just sat staring furiously at the message board that was opposite our consultation table.
I had to ask him what was wrong because he was acting out of character.
Normally he came in with a big smile and immediately began to tell whoever cared to listen about his train ride that morning.

The reason why he was upset was because someone had commended him on his excellent command of the English language.
That was all.
He later told me that regardless of the fact that he had a certain skin shade, he was born and bred in the same country as the person who had ‘patronised’ him and was therefore not ‘different’.

‘Why did he feel the need to commend me on my spoken English?’ He asked, clearly aggrieved. ‘Would he comment on his cousin’s or another person’s of the same race as he?’

I could appreciate his point of view, he probably felt the other man was being segregatist.
But what he wasn’t sure about was if the man was really being so or if he was just honestly complimenting him. I asked if he had considered that.

One thing I should have asked but which I did not think to was if he would feel patronised if it was his family member who made the statement.

The matter was soon forgotten in the busyness of the day but it made me think.

A number of people have also commended me on my spoken English in the past. People of same race as well as people with skin shades very different from mine but I had always taken it as just an observation on their part or at most a compliment.
However I began to think after that situation with the young man that perhaps I should have taken offence on those occasions.
Maybe they had meant offence I thought, but I had been too ‘thick’ to realise it at the time.

Some months later I had an encounter with a new neighbour.
I was on my way out and met her working in her garden.
We stood and chatted for a while.

‘Your English is really good,’ she says at some point.

Immediately she said that I froze.

Do I take offence or not? I thought.

After a brief moment of consideration I decide that life would be easier if I went back to accepting ‘your English is really good’ as a compliment and not as a patronising remark calculated to cause offence.

And so I smiled broadly, my dentition in magnificent display, and told her that all my education had been in English.

So, your English, reading is very good…

What’s your point of view?
🙂

REVERIE

Emmy went into the treatment room to get an extra cannula for the paediatric registrar.
She was a nursing assistant at the Royal Children Hospital.

She looked out of the window and saw that the strange woman was there again.
She had started showing up in front of the hospital about a month ago.
She would come at exactly 10am and leave on the dot of 4.
And she had been seen by different people in different parts of the hospital.
The night nurse saw her at the east wing of the hospital, by the Child’s Services Unit.
Yesterday she had been seen behind the children’s games room and asked to leave when some toddlers began to cry and cling to their mothers at the sight of her.
No one knew who she was or why she sat on the concrete block at the hospital entrance everyday.
She didn’t have a bowl in front of her to suggest that she was a beggar neither did it really strike one that she was one even though she was usually dressed in faded and poorly fitting clothes.
Perhaps she was a relative of a patient on admission, thought Emmy. That was very possible.
Susan, the student nurse who was their ward fashion consultant had told them that the faded jacket the woman wore on Monday was a Hobbs and caused quite a few quid.

Emmy pulled herself out of her reverie, she picked up two blue cannulas and hurried out to the side ward where the doctor was trying to put a cannula in little Tim’s hand.
He had come in some minutes ago with dehydration from vomiting and diarrhoea.

The woman settled herself in front of the children’s outpatient clinic.
The entrance was decorated with children’s pictures and paintings and had quite a number of people loitering.
She preferred to sit in front of the ward because of the high number of people going about.
That way no one took special notice of her.
She would have liked to settle in her favourite place behind the children’s ward today but she did not like the way that nurse had stared at her.
She tried really hard to avoid attention.
She could not have anything ruin her plan especially as it was so close to materializing.
So far she had managed to go unrecognised for almost a month.
Except for that near miss the very first day she started coming to the hospital.
A child and his mother had strolled by, they looked like they had come to visit someone at the hospital.
The woman had stared at her for long as she walked pass.
Then when she got to her car instead of getting in, she walked back to where she was seated after helping her child with his seat belt.

‘Excuse me,’ she had said, her blue eyes intense with concentration.
‘Do I know you? You look familiar.’

The strange woman shook her head quickly looking away as she did so and lowered her veil to cover her eyes and brow.
She had made a mistake about her brows.
They were too well-shaped, someone who was down on her luck like she wanted people to think of her, would not have the extra change or be concerned about getting her brows neatly threaded.

She did not turn to look until she heard the woman walk back to her car and finally drive off.
Since then she made sure to avoid the main entrance of the hospital so as not to run into her again, she also started wearing large sunglasses that covered most of her face.
Even the clothes she now wore were the oldest and cheapest she could find at the thrift store four blocks from her home.

From her daily vigils at the hospital she had come to know his routine.
She knew what time he came to work and when he left.
She even knew where he went for lunch and who he had lunch with most times.
But her break had come just this morning.

As he was getting out of his car his phone rang and he had leaned on his car and begun a conversation with someone. She wasn’t sure who that was but she thought it was with a lawyer.

She was able to hear only his side of the conversation but that had been enough.
It was what she had been after, what had made her take one month off work and sit in old clothes in front of the freaking children’s hospital where he worked.
Immediately he was done with his call he disappeared into the hospital, she also decided to take her leave.
She reckoned that thirty minutes would be enough to carry out her mission and walked down the 400 metres to her rented Mini Cooper and got behind the wheels.
It would take only 15 minutes to get to his house from the hospital, she had that  timed last week.

And another 15 minutes to retrieve the documents and make the necessary amendments.
She would have to be careful this time so as not to be seen by his nosy neighbours.
Ever since he got a restraining order against her she had been very careful going about her plans.
She would go in through the back door, she still had a copy of all his keys. That was something he knew nothing about.
She hoped to succeed this time.
She knew him too well to know that he would not go over a document that he had already signed.

About six months later it was all over the news that the director of Royal Children Hospital had been found guilty of inflating figures in the cost for rebuilding the children neuro-surgical unit.
He was subsequently jailed for 14 months. His lawyers cried foul. Many of his colleagues and staff were ready to swear that he had never given them any cause to suspect duplicity in him but then the facts were there in the various documents.

It was his handwriting and his signatures on them, none of them could deny that.

A day after the new director took over Emmy stood at the same place looking out of the treatment room that October afternoon.
She was minding 5 year old asthmatic Ashley who was on a nebulizer.
Her attack had calmed down enough for her to fall asleep and Emmy was glad of the few minutes of respite that gave her.
As she stood looking into the back entrance in drove a gleaming white Range Rover.
Emmy looked on in curiosity.
Just then, the front door of the car opened and out stepped Karla.
Karla was a glamorous Lithuanian model and the ex-wife of the former director who was now in jail. Their’s had been an acrimonious divorce that had been all over the papers.
As she stepped out she turned directly towards her and locked her eyes with Emmy’s, and then to Emmy’s surprise winked, turned back again, got into her car and drove immediately away.
It was strange, thought Emmy, how the model reminded her of the strange woman who used to camp in front of the hospital but who had since disappeared into thin air.
It couldn’t be could it?
No, surely not.

Diary Of A Single Mum 2

I saw Mary Louis today.

She was not happy that all I’d written in two weeks is just two pages.
She left me sitting in her office for almost an hour to gather my thoughts together before we began our session.
I spent the time crying and she didn’t seem pleased with that as well.
I had to apologise when she returned. What I really should have done was scream at her.

My mother thinks she would not have minded, after all she is always telling me to create an outlet for my feelings.

‘Express yourself’ she says, just like the words in that CD in Lou’s car.

I haven’t been able to write.
It is not because I do not want to, even though that may be a part of it.
I really haven’t written much because I’ve been ill.
Since the last session, I’ve been down with what looks like the flu.
I’ve spent my days and nights in bed except when I have to use the bathroom or get a cup of coffee. Or when my mother comes around and makes me sit with her.
I haven’t been sleeping either, at least not much.
I just lie in bed.

Liz has been in almost everyday.
She is such a sweetheart. To think that I never even gave her the time of day.

She brought me some lasagna on Thursday night after my mother complained to her that I hadn’t been eating.
I thanked her for her kindness and ate a forkful just to please her, then threw it in the bin immediately she and mother were out the door.

I can’t stand Lasagna, well not anymore. It is Lou’s favourite.

Mary Louis wants me to write more about my husband (well, ex) but I don’t want to do that for now.

I didn’t tell her that I saw him recently.
I should have, but it would have been very difficult continuing our session if I did.

He and Lou came to the house. That was the day after my last session.

I was sitting in the upstairs bedroom sorting out the children’s clothes to send to them at their grandma’s where they are staying at present.
I knew he was coming when I heard the horn of his Tuareg.
His is a very familiar sound.
Will likes to give his car horn two impatient taps that if you do not listen carefully you would think it was one long horn.

Peeping from the window I saw them drive onto the pavement and park by old Mrs Mathew’s conservatory.
Will looked tanned, like he had just been on a holiday in a sunny place. And she, she looked like Lou.
She was smartly turned out as usual in clothes that defined her hour-glass figure, her hair newly dyed and cut with not a strand out of place.

They rang the doorbell.
Over and over they did but I did not respond.
I couldn’t have, looking and feeling like I did.
After a while they walked back to Will’s car hand in hand and drove off but not after dropping a package for me through the cat flap.

My hands shook as I retrieved the package.
It was bulky and looked officious.

It contained divorce papers.
Will and Lou had brought me divorce papers.
It stated in one of the papers that he wanted a divorce on grounds of incompatibility, and marriage breakdown.

My whole body shook violently as I read it, I didn’t know when my knees gave way under me and I collapsed on the doorstep, the package slipping out of my grasp and pages of paper scattering everywhere.

I was immediately sick, on the divorce papers, and on the doormat with a happy face that Will’s mum gave us for Christmas.
I have been sick since then, Mary Louis.
That is why I couldn’t write.

I Don’t Know How She Does It.

The above is the title of a book by Allison Pearson.
I came across it some years back while browsing through some books in a bookstore.
I remember picking the book off the shelf just for the sake of the title.

What kind of book is this?
Who names their book with such long sentences?
These were the thoughts that ran through my mind as I pulled the book out of its hideaway where it stood nestled between two big books.
It turned out it was a pink medium-sized book.
I flipped through it to find out what it was about and decided afterwards that I had to read it.

The book is about a woman who tries to balance her work as a very busy professional with her family life.
It talks about the main character (Kate Reddy) who struggles with meeting schedules at the office and at the same time worry/prepare meals for her family, attend school events and still be a loving partner to her husband.

I found the book interesting, funny, as well as poignant.
It kind of struck a chord with me as it will any woman who has to juggle with a career and family.
It suggests moments of guilt when unable to make a school play or spend time with the children.
It reminds one of the occasional sinking feeling that one gets over a spouse. Feelings that he or she deserves better attention than they are getting.
And not forgetting the paralysing tiredness that takes over the mind and body and that can only be alleviated by sleep.
And yet, it is the family movie night, or the baby’s birthday the next morning, or even the couple’s anniversary and more effort than usual is expected and therefore demanded.

‘I Don’t Know How She Does It’ is an interesting read.
It shows the daily struggles in the life of a woman, the juggling, the victory, the loses.
Though the author used a high-flying and successful woman as her main character, I want to think that even women who do not have such careers or who do not work at all still face the kind of challenges portrayed in the book.I hear the book was made into a movie.
I am yet to see it.

Papa Efe & Sons

PART TWO

Ehis cleared his throat again.

‘Rukevwe,’ he said, plucking at his goatee.
‘You sabi say this year make am 40 years now when my mama born me.’

Ehis and Rukevwe preferred to speak pidgin English to each other.

‘Yes now,’ she replied. ‘I know say you don dey old, you no see as your bia bia don almost white finish?’

‘And,’ he continued, ignoring her taunt.
‘This year make am sis (six) years when we marry-‘

‘Talk wetin you wan talk Papa Efe,’ she said cutting him off.
She was an impatient woman and small talk annoyed her.
He knew that about her and that made it harder for him to say what he had to.

‘Ok,’ he replied but still he said nothing. He could see his wife had begun to move her right leg rhythmically. It was her way of asking one to hurry up.

Ehis needed to buy himself more time.
He got up and went to bolt the mosquito net that was attached to the door.
They had it installed the previous week because Efe had suffered her third case of malaria in just two months.
The chemist doctor had advised it but the carpenter, Jossy had not done a good job as there was still a gap between the door frame and that of the net.
Mosquitoes were still making their way in and Rukevwe had resumed flitting the room with insecticide.

He came back presently to reclaim the seat he just vacated.

‘Na me be the only boy wey my mama born, Rukevwe.
She suffer because of that no be for small.’

Rukevwe stopped mid step, she was on her way back to her sewing because it was obvious he just wanted to waste her time. But something about him was beginning to worry her.
She walked back to him and placed her right palm on his forehead to feel his temperature.
‘Ehis, your body dey hot?’ She asked as she did so.

‘No.’ He said brushing her hand off.
‘Why you dey ass?’ (ask)

‘E be like you don cash (catch) Efe malaria oh. This one wey you dey talk like this. I don dey fear o.’

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.
Ehis sighed in relief.

‘Na who be that? Who dey come person house for night?’ Shouted Rukevwe. She went to peer into the dark passageway through the small sitting room window.
She could make out a form, that of a huge person.

‘Open the door for am,’ said Ehis. ‘Na Alero.’
She did not know he had come to stand behind her.

‘How you take know say na her?’ She asked him.

He was spared from answering by a loud bang on the door.

‘Shuo, make una open the door jo,’ shouted the visitor.
‘Abi una don sleep?’

It was Alero indeed.

Rukevwe’s heart sank.
Alero was the oldest of Ehis sisters and the very last person she wanted to see.

She went reluctantly to open the door.

She wasn’t even done turning the key when Alero barged in hissing like a rattlesnake whose tail had just been caught in a trap.

‘For why una no open door since wey I dey knock?
Abi una no hear?
Dis na my brother house, anybody wey no want make I come my brother house na dat person go comot oh.’
She stormed into the room with her bag and flung it on the sofa.
Then took her seat beside her brother. The scowl on her face would put an angry chimpanzee to shame.

‘Sister, welcome o. How road?’ asked Ehis beaming widely.
Suddenly he was looking more comfortable than he had been all evening.

‘The road dey as e dey,’ she replied after a pause, then permitted herself a little smile that she aimed only at her brother. ‘You don tell am?’

Rukevwe stood by the door watching the exchange between her husband and his sister.
She had resigned her fate.
It really was unfortunate that Alero chose to visit them today of all days, when she had work to do.

The worse was that she and Alero never got along at all.
Rukevwe thought her the most obnoxious of all Ehis’s sisters.
She had tried when she was newly married to befriend her but all she got were snubs, disregard and frank hostility.
She had stopped trying since, and made sure to avoid her as much as she could.

They had started off on the wrong footing tonight because her welcome greetings had already been ignored by Alero.
She knew the pattern. She was just going to be ignored the whole night.

‘Welcome sister,’ she said, a fake smile plastered across her face.
‘Make I go bring food.’

Alero did not answer, which did not surprise her.
She glanced at her husband.
He was pretending not to notice. She thought he was too afraid of his big sister to do anything anyway and so turned away to go get the food.

‘Where you dey go?’ barked Alero. Her voice was a booming baritone,a man’s voice, a manly man’s.
Rukevwe often said to her friends and family that Alero’s husband who was hard of hearing must have developed his ailment from years of hearing his wife bicker and nag.

‘Come siddon,’ Alero boomed.
‘Na because of you I enter road come this night so.
If my brother dey fear you, Me, Alero Oghenetega nee Akpokighe, I no dey fear anybody.

Diary Of A Single Mum

Mary Louis is my counselor.

We had a session today.

She asked me to write every single thought that I have about my marriage and how it broke down.

Writing is not my thing and I told her so. The last time I kept a diary was when I was fourteen years old and even then the diary was lost by the month of May Or thereabout.

I am going to make the effort  though as I wish to be whole again.

I met Mary Louis last month. The first thing I noticed about her when I stepped into her office was her name. It was written in dark red wood and was on her table facing the door. That almost put paid to my plans to receive counselling if not for Liz who would not let me cancel.

Liz is my neighbour and friend who accompanied me that first day. She ran after me as I stumbled out of the room in tears, ready to return home than sit with a therapist called Lou.

‘It’s just a name, Anne,’ she had said grabbing my arm and shaking it a little.

‘It’s just part of her surname. Just because she has Lou in her surname does not mean she will turn out to be another Lou Farrell.’

Lou Farrell used to be my best friend, until she took my husband away from me.

In the end I agreed to begin therapy with Mary Louis.

I asked where she wanted me to start writing from but she answered that I should start any where I was comfortable.

‘Let it flow, Anne. Just let it flow,’ she said.

I do not understand what she means by letting it flow. What is ‘it’? And how does ‘it’ flow?

Mary Louis says to think of a river or stream and how it flows.

I have seen a couple of flowing streams in my life and they are beautiful, pure and uplifting which totally contradicts my feelings right now. There is nothing beautiful about what I feel and how I feel. Rather than let it flow, I’d prefer to bottle up all my feelings. Feelings of betrayal, of humiliation, of loss and of bewilderment. Feelings of hatred, revenge and murder, of confusion, fear and pain.

I would take the bottle somewhere very far away like the middle of the ocean and throw it away where I never have to see it or find it again.

And so here I am, writing. Trying to make a form of order to my thought processes, a flow like a river, a stagnating sluggishly flowing river.

I feel so angry now as I write.

I am angry that I am the one who needs to receive therapy.

Why should it be me? It wasn’t me who left the marriage and betrayed the trust.

It wasn’t me who took my best friend’s husband and caused him to walk out on his wife and kids.

It wasn’t me who threw away thirteen years and made it of no consequence.

To be continued…