Sex is Ruining our World


I actually don’t mean the title, it’s ridiculous, and I am a hater.

I went to the database of the International Association of the Unlaid to find the list of individuals who are destined to depart from this cold, hard [lmao, what fuckery] world without ever experiencing intercourse with other individuals, and my name was first on the list. Brethren, believe you me, I was not surprised in the least.

Each time I imagine myself existing in that state of vulnerability that one has to be in to engage in the moment of action that is sex, the thought sends shivers up and down my spine. That won’t be me, God; that can’t possibly be me. Inherently, or perhaps it isn’t, I don’t know,  I can never find true pleasure in a state of vulnerability, and sex involves many things including the surrendering of pride and power. It is a non-violent act of violence. Don’t take the last sentence seriously; I don’t know what I’m on about.

A few years ago, when I used to travel to my mum’s rented residence at Okuku, the same town where my mum was a professor and the head of her department at the Osun State University, there was a perverted individual within the vicinity. He was the landlady’s son and I called him ‘Uncle Raphael, as per the culture. If someone is old enough to be your uncle, ‘uncle’ has to precede their name before it is uttered.

Whenever my mum wasn’t looking, he would look at me weirdly, suggestively, so I avoided him at all costs. I have never told my mum this, and I can certainly see how people who have gone through serious forms of molestation, especially of the sexual nature, keep quiet about it, even for the rest of their lives.

Whenever my mum gave me her clothes to wash, and we sometimes would travel with dirty clothes so I could wash them whenever she was away at her university, I would wash them indoors, in the bath, and although I knew she would give me a piece of her mind whenever she returned for doing so instead of doing the washing outside, I couldn’t exactly tell her why. I was trying to avoid Raphael. I stayed indoors until the afternoon or evening, until I could hear my mum’s car horn outside the gate; I am an indoor-loving person anyway.

Raphael was a completely different person whenever my mum was around. He was a bit cold towards me, almost mean. There was this one time that I slept off and rain fell, making the clothes that I had spread get super-wet all over again, and as my mum was scolding me for not paying attention to the rain, he was too. It was mind-blowing.

My mum spoke highly of him, and she would many times call him ‘Uncle
Raphael’ too, even though she is very much older than him. She would thank him for running errands for her and stuff- some of it had to do with the fact that she was the landlady’s son, I believe.

My whole family took a vacation of sorts to my mum’s residence at a time, and after I had made the meal [I am the first and only daughter of four children, my natal Saturn is in the 1st house, I am not even 30 yet but I have the maturity of a 55-year-old, and I have had to work quite hard till this day], I was told to go into the car to get something- I don’t remember what it was. I grabbed the torch, left the residence, and headed to the car.

There he was, right in front of his residence, as it was next to my mum’s, staring at me like a wild cat [no offence to cats, I love y’all], like he was about to devour me. He was calling me, and I think he may have hastened his steps as I ran to the car. He didn’t run after me, so instinctively, I knew I was going to be ambushed. I remember being very terrified to return to the residence. I got whatever it was and headed for the residence, and as I expected, he was lurking by a wall in the dark, waiting for me.

I kept telling him to leave me alone. The whole thing happened quickly; he carried me, and he kept trying to force a kiss on me. I kept trying to struggle free, but of course, he was stronger than me. I used to be short and slim. I’m still short, just not slim. I can remember how uncomfortable I felt that night; the whole thing was quite distressing.

Then he heard his mum’s voice. It happened not too far from his mother’s quarters and she must have heard me tell him to leave me alone. She was seated, and I can remember her calling his name, ‘Raphael!’. He seemed surprised that she had seen him since she would have been asleep at the time, I assume, and he quickly left me alone.

My family was to leave the town not too long after, and he asked me for a parting gift after he let me go. I gave him a can of Malta Guinness; it was either out of relief or confusion, I don’t know. There were only six cans in the house, and my family members were to have one each. When my mum asked if I had taken my share, I pretended that I had taken the drink. My father was around too, and I couldn’t tell either of them what had happened.

It bothered me for a long time; it bothers me to this day. I wish it didn’t, because nothing really happened, and a voice in my head keeps telling me that the experience I just narrated may be quite insulting to people who have been through more-serious forms of rough handling. The memory of being so vulnerable and unable to defend myself, unable to save myself from Raphael’s very-strong grip, is quite painful. I could have been somewhere between 11-15 years old; I don’t remember vividly.

I have a very strong phobia of being kissed, being held or hugged for longer than necessary, and definitely intercourse. I somewhat believe that my experience has nothing to do with those fears; it is who I am inherently, guarded, not just a late bloomer. I gave myself my first kiss with a mirror and that’s it; I don’t need anymore.

I have a feeling that there will be a change in the future, that perhaps, when I am in my 30s or 40s, I will meet someone, male or female, I don’t care, and when we both look into each other’s eyes, the rest will be history- I will want to be touched in that way. I just don’t see it happening, and I am, for some reason, quite determined to not let it happen, but we’ll see. Life always happens, and life has a very interesting sense of humour.

I mean the title, it’s not ridiculous, and I will tell you why I think so when I make a second part to this- Sex is Ruining our World II. 


On Spirituality: ‘Ishan Lo Pa Bruce Lee’


“Janine at 39, Mother of Twins” is a 2000 oil on canvas by Margaret Garcia.

My people can be quite “funny”.

Whenever you start to get extra passionate about something, Nigerians (that belong to a certain category) will tell you “gbe ishan sile”, “ishan lo pa Bruce Lee”, agidi lo pa Tupac”, which translates to “relax your muscles/nerves”, “muscles [flexing] killed Bruce Lee, stubbornness killed Tupac”. It’s not so amusing when you translate it to English, is it? #LostInTranslation

We all know that the aforementioned statements are incorrect. Bruce Lee didn’t die while flexing his muscles, and although Tupac was stubborn (sometimes, unnecessarily so), his stubbornness didn’t kill him per se; he was shot. Somehow, my people have connected who these people were to the causes of their deaths. I find these statements rude, by the way, extremely rude, but I’ll confess that I chuckle when I hear them. 

Lately, I have been very upset, almost angry, that my spiritual/psychic growth has been rather slow. I assist people intuitively through tarot/oracle card readings and all, but, I really am not where I want to be. I want to see things more vividly and feel things more distinctly, but, I’ve not been able to experience the strong, crystal-clear connections that I seek. 

I wasn’t here 2-6 years ago. Haha! Nope! I was struggling, dying, to put it lightly, and I didn’t know too much about my life path and purpose. I was depressed, and my weight gain was far too rapid, in my opinion, within those years. What I was forgetting, until it was brought to my attention via a reading that I did for myself (and a video that I found), was the importance of patience and taking things easy. I discovered that I was a nun or a priestess in my past life, a bit of a hermit/recluse, and if I really was a priestess (since it has been confirmed over and over again), my soul probably misses being able to connect more, spiritually. I terribly miss the heightened levels of intuition and the spiritual gifts that I probably used to have, and so I want them back. It must be the reason I was getting so upset about having to start from scratch, so to speak.

My life path number is 7, and seeking for more spiritual knowledge and connection is a part of who I am, but I mustn’t be so obsessed about it that I forget the importance of patience and living in the present. In that video, this one, Amanda was using the analogy of wanting a relationship so bad, so intensely, that you scare the other person off and end up ruining everything. Ouch! 

So these spiritual gifts and abilities are coming, more ideas and inspiration too, and there really is no need to rush it or get it all in a day. Things don’t work that way, and it’s not that I didn’t know that; I really don’t know what I was thinking.

To other lightworkers like me, teachers and healers, who desire a stronger connection to the spirit realm so deeply, it’s a process. There is no need to rush. As long as we stay connected and hopeful, and do whatever we can with what we already have, Spirit and our other spirit guides will take care of the rest, and make us stronger.

What If We Could Fly

If man could fly,
the earth would be uninhabitable.
People would be stupid enough
to attempt to kiss the sun
or get to Heaven,
and the birds would have been bullied a lot
if the first man was created with wings.
Oh, the chaos!

Slavery would have happened still.
People’s wings would have been cut off.
Someone would have sprayed something in the air
and rendered people’s wings useless
so they could be captured,
especially in an attempt to curb
people’s migration to certain territories.

The air would have been poisoned more
as a means of maintaining territory.

“Fly back to where you came from!”
“Get out of my way!”

Maybe God didn’t give us physical wings
because we are each other’s wings.
We just haven’t mastered the art and act
of helping one another
and flying together yet,
if we ever will.

Greedy, money-hungry, power-seeking people
don’t deserve wings,
for one.
Life would have been unbearable
if we could do more evil
with the aid of wings.



Think about it;
I really enjoyed doing so.

Our Master Who Art in Heaven


Painted by Babajide Olatunji

You believe that black is beautiful, and that there is nothing substandard about a dark-skinned person in comparison to anyone else, but when you close your eyes to pray to your Father in Heaven [especially in Jesus name] or your Mother in Heaven [what kind of Heaven is it if there is no Mother in it?], you don’t see a man who looks like this, or a woman who has similar-looking skin. 

You either see nothing, everything is just so vague and abstract to you, or you see an old, Arab man, or you see a white man, although the Bible specifically describes Jesus as someone who now looks like this. You picture the man who played the role of Jesus in “Passion of the Christ” too, that’s the Jesus you have stuck up there, your lord and saviour. Basically, you never see anyone, not even angels, that look like you, in your mind’s eye. 

However, when you picture the devil, or a demon, you picture someone dressed in black, who has a darker shade of skin, with ugly features, including horns and a tail. The devil, if you were asked to describe them, would be a being who likes to stay in the dark and is dark-skinned [subconsciously, you don’t see a light-skinned person except when you think of them as Lucifer, not Satan].

Do I need to go on? No. In summary, you are very stupid person, and I don’t mean it as an insult. It’s not a bad thing to be stupid. Remaining to be stupid, however, is the problem. It is very bad.