Thursday, 24 April 2014


Hello Everyone,

I'd love to say a big thank you to you all for making my birthday special. You're also special to me :)  I thank God for my life, and for giving me wonderful friends and family, God bless you all. I decided to share a lil' something I wrote today. Enjoy:

I still remember when I was four, the games I played with my doll
Until the neighbours pierced holes in its mouth and between its legs
Because they wanted it to be able to eat and pee, they said
I was promised a new doll, one which till today I have not received

I remember the time I gazed at the sun for a long time
Just because of a stupid game I played with my friend
And no matter what the doctors have said about my eyes
I am still convinced that was the cause of the trouble.

I remember just before I turned ten and went to board
It took just a term for me to learn words I had never heard
And see many girls of all characters, I tell you!
Some I cherished and some I hope I never hear or meet again

I remember the first time it came, dysentery I thought it was
Until my mother said I could no longer play with the boys
So instantly the video game I was a part of, I had to quit
Quoting to them what she said, that I could no longer play with them

I remember when my best friend was taken away
The pain that still burns through my heart and my soul
The friends that held me through the night and day
How grateful I truly am to you now and always

I remember when I wrote my very first piece
A song I sing till today but will never share
Amazing how a hobby slowly becomes a habit
And how blessed I am to share them with you all.

Have a lovely weekend and please share. xx
Twitter: vivio_gogo

Sunday, 20 April 2014



Thank you for visiting my blog and I wish you all a Happy Easter!! Enjoy :)

The ash on their foreheads reminding them of the dust they came from
The Hallelujah suddenly becoming scarce and sullen moods rising
Many making vows they hope to keep and full of ideas for abstinence
The congregation continuously increasing leaving no space unoccupied

The palms mark a beginning of a different royalty
Now they can sing louder yet aware of what is yet to be felt
The Holy week drawing in filling them with pensiveness
The homily ever preached so slowly and intense this time

Maundy Thursday, the feet of the chosen are washed
Then comes Good Friday, the passion according to His Beloved
They kiss the cross, the priest falls on his belly face down to the ground
These gestures of humility they learned from Him that they show

The nails piercing His hands, thorns of crown to draw his blood
His last words on the cross, tearing down the temple curtains
The sheer thoughts of his agony is relived even more
As blood and water gush from his sides, the one who witnessed testified

“It is finished”, the last we heard that He breathed
A sign over His head unknowingly indicating his status
A fresh place to keep the dead they laid him
But of course He did not stay because He belonged elsewhere

They did not understand the beginning but for those who believe
Death has been conquered and so the battle is finished
They spread the word gladly “Christ is risen!” throughout the world

To bring joy and hope to more, proclaiming “Hallelujah!”

Follow on twitter @vivio_gogo

Sunday, 13 April 2014


Hello Hi,

Today, I wrote like I imagined I would write in my diary and see what it would turn out to be. I normally do not keep diaries, mainly because I forget to buy them and even when someone gets me one, I forget to write in it. So enjoy:-

Today, I woke feeling tired and as usual, blaming myself for not going to bed earlier than I did last night. After a short prayer (in my mind, since I was going to pray more in church anyway), I started my sit-ups with the hope that one day, my belly might oblige to the hard-work I have been doing for about a week now and somehow start to look like those of the other ladies I saw at the hot-yoga place yesterday. I cleaned up afterwards, ready for the light cantaloupe breakfast and a drink of green tea which I had, before remembering that it was Palm Sunday, a great day of celebration, so I also helped myself to the cooked pasta I had in my fridge. I hurried out of my house to catch the bus to church, promising myself that I would not run because the last time I did, the bus driver still did not let me get in and drove away. I was at the bus stop on time; the bus came few minutes later, dropping me off at my intended stop.

As I climbed the steep hill that led to church from the stop, I shook my head feeling sorry for the people that lived in the neighbourhood and probably had to walk that height every day; just before it dawned on me that such people would be physically fit and healthy, and then I began to wish that I lived in the neighbourhood. I was about five minutes late to church; I sat down quickly at the back row not bothering to go up to join the choir. I had never seen the church so filled up and the only reason I could come up with was that somehow the Holy Week had reminded people that they were Christians and so, they decided to show up today. I had no palm leaf, so I turned to ask the lady beside me where I could get one from and she gave me the only one she was holding and asked me to keep it; it reminded of how kind the people here are (except for the bus driver some weeks ago).

The Mass was similar to almost every Palm Sunday Mass I had attended in my life; the Passion of Christ according to Matthew was read with more lectors to play the role of Pilate, Peter, the soldiers and the crucifiers (or crowd). I had always wondered why we read the Passion of Christ on Palm Sunday and today, I decided to find out from the priest. The only thing different in church today was that we did not have any Palm Sunday procession like we used to in Nigeria just before Mass, where some roads got blocked because the congregation would sing and dance on the streets, or like in Ghana where we walked around the church singing, or like in Sheffield where we walk almost quietly to the city centre with our palms in our hands after Mass. So after church, I stayed behind to question the priest. I asked him about the reading and he explained that the Passion reading was to set in the mood of Holy Week and so, even though we were celebrating the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem today, we should still be aware of the crucifixion and death, and not celebrate too much. I felt a pang of guilt over my generous breakfast; nonetheless I was happy to get the clarification. I also asked him why there was no church procession but he said that the parish did not have processions because it rained a lot in the city. That would have made perfect sense to me except that it was not raining today neither had it rained in about a week, so I did not understand why we still could not walk around the church.

As I was about to leave the church, I said hello to one of the Parish members. He was the first person I had met the first day I attended church here. He offered to drop me off even though I told him that my destination was only ten minutes walk away but he insisted and so I hopped into the car. He drove past where I was heading for because he thought I said I was going home, so I had to remind him that I was going to the office instead. Realising his mistake, he apologized and I got off the car, now having an extra 15 minutes to walk. I was not sad though because I knew he was only trying to helpful (plus it was a lesson for me to say no to free rides sometimes). As I walked to the office, I met a couple on the road who were holding “Stop Abortion” signboards. They started talking to me; they said they knew I was Catholic because of the palm in my hand. We talked for a short while about the interestingly different national, religious and health views concerning abortion, before I left them to continue my journey. I got into the building, went to greet my colleague and course mate because I knew she would be in her office; she was always there and she always had something edible for me. She gave me a sandwich today (yesterday, she got me a frappuccino J) before I went into my office to finish up my assignments and studied for my forthcoming exam.  

I got home this evening and I decided to write all of this down before going to bed. As I wrote, I imagined what other people’s diaries might look like for today; most likely different from mine or probably even similar, except that I did not add “Dear Diary” at the top. 

So this is what I did today, what about you? Until next week, have a blessed and Holy Week :D
(@vivio_gogo - twitter)

Sunday, 6 April 2014

Oh Nwa'm!!!

Hello Hi,
I hope you had a great weekend. You know when people say "What you don't know will not kill you"? Well, I believe that sometimes what one does not know can not only kill one but  also others around one. And so, my thoughts came up with this story. Enjoy:

Nobody knew her name; her grandmother called her “Nwa’m” (my child) and so everybody referred to her in that way, although no one else spoke to her. The rumour was that her mother had given birth five times before her, with all five children dying within a year after birth, and so they had not bothered to name this one since her family did not think she would stay anyway. Her mother had died a few minutes after giving birth to her, leaving Nwam alone with her father and no siblings. So when her dad remarried, she was sent to live with her maternal grandmother at three years old; Nwam called her ‘Mama’. Her father visited regularly at first and after a while the visits became less frequent, occurring only during Christmas and festive periods and for the past ten years, he had not come again. Nwam had asked Mama once why her father no longer visited but Mama only spat on the ground and muttered a curse in Igbo language without replying. Nwam did not understand exactly what Mama had said but she knew it had something to do with her stepmother, whom she had never met. After years of waiting and longing for her dad to appear somehow in Mama’s compound, Nwam finally came to realise that it would never happen and gave up hope.
Sixteen years had passed since she was born and Nwam had not yet gone as expected. It was a huge surprise to everyone in the village and not even Mama could hide it. Every evening when Nwam said goodnight to her, Mama would hug her so tight like it was the last time she would see her, and in the mornings when Nwam greeted her, Mama would look surprised and respond saying “I ga bele?” (You have not yet gone?), as if she had sent Nwam on her errand the night before. And even though it was now sixteen years, Mama still reacted exactly the same way every morning, like her expectations would never change.
Nwam was seen as different from the other village girls, mostly because of the mystery behind her name and family birth history. Nobody ever saw her outside her grandmother’s compound except on Sundays when she followed Mama to the Anglican Church. There was something about Nwam that could make even a newcomer to the village feel that she was special; it was not only because she was much taller than her age mates or because she was far advanced in sexual development compared to the other girls.  It was something about the way she walked, as light and gracious as a cat, yet avoiding eye contact as much as possible, and never smiling. Nwam was otherwise an attractive girl, with very long and curly, dark hair but she never spoke to anyone except Mama. The only time one heard her voice was when she sang, mostly in the early mornings whilst she swept the compound; her golden voice so beautiful such that even the birds would rather listen to her than sing themselves. Yet, somehow she had neither friends nor suitors.
Everyone had suspicions about her. Some said that she was an ogbanje (abiku- evil spirit) due to her recurrent siblings’ deaths in the past or even a mermaid because of the way she sang, but others were not convinced because her skin was unusually too dark for her to be either; even though it shone brighter than the girls’ with lighter complexion. Some thought she was her mother’s reincarnated spirit, as was the common belief when someone died during childbirth. However, she barely resembled her mother leaving some people yet again in disbelief. Whichever way, everyone had their speculations about her looks, her voice and her family; whispering stories to each other whenever she was seen in church or her name was mentioned. The feelings were almost mutual because Nwam was just as afraid of people just like they were of her and she desperately hoped to go somewhere one day, just like Mama expected her to, even though she did not know where yet.
It so happened that during one of Mama’s bestfriend’s (Daa Mgbeke) evening visits, Nwam overheard their conversation. Usually they whispered every time they spoke when she was around, just like the rest of the villagers but this evening, they thought Nwam was asleep and so they spoke aloud.   “Ada nwaanyi, what is she waiting for?” it was Daa Mgbeke speaking. “Maybe she needs help. You should give her the Ede leaf and that will take her straight to where she belongs; I have told you many times.” she continued. Mama whispered something that Nwam did not hear but it did not matter as Nwam finally understood where she was expected to go to. So the next morning, Nwam was found lying in the bush, as if she was sleeping, but with some of the Ede leaves in her hands.
It was no surprise that the entire village attended Nwam’s funeral; all of them waiting to see if something mysterious would happen that day. Rain poured down from the clouds in the morning, with the sun coming out in the afternoon and a rainbow appearing in the sky that evening. For many, the transient weather change was the confirmation they needed to believe that Nwam was indeed ‘special’.  What they had failed to realise was that Nwam was no different from any of the girls in the village; but how could they have known when many things had never been told? Just as Nwam’s mother had never told Nwam’s father that the doctor had warned her not to get pregnant again due to medical complications during her last childbirth, and so because she did not want to be called barren, she had died whilst giving birth to Nwam, leaving her motherless; just as Nwam’s father had never told Mama that Nwam had the genotype AS unlike his other earlier children who had died from sickle cell disease crisis, and so Mama had thought that Nwam would go like the rest; just as Mama had never told Nwam that her real name given by her father was Nneka, and so Nwam felt like she had no identity and grew up thinking that she was not even wanted in this world. Finally, just as no one told the villagers including Daa Mgbeke any of these truths concerning Nwam, including that Nwam looked like her father and was just as tall as him; that Nwam sang beautifully just like her mother used to and that her hair was just as long and curly as her paternal grandmother’s, when she was alive.
As a result Nwam had died inside, long before she was found dead in the bush that morning and it was with great sorrow that Mama exclaimed “Oh Nwa’m! Ga ofuma! (Oh my child, go well!)”

 I hope you enjoyed it and if you like it, please share and leave your comments behind. You can also click on the Google icon to recommend and follow me on twitter for more updates @vivio_gogo. Have a lovely week. xx