Yesterday's Pages

By A.H. Carim

Prelude
Though I was tagged a failure, everyone saw my little reactions as hysterical. The few times I responded to the callousness of people, I was being melodramatic, and when I didnt, I was being myself . . . the fool.
I would have expected to be the apple of my dads eye, considering he claimed he loved my mum so much, till he found out she was a cheat, but what was my crime in my mums unfaithfulness? I barely knew her.
The only crime I committed for being abused, trampled on, humiliated, almost abandoned, and so on in Oxford Dictionarys strongest negative terms was being my mothers child. I am a failure today because Mrs Funmi Jaxson brought me to life. While a lot of ladies wore designer lipsticks, compact powders, mascaras, amongst so many others as daily make-up, I was forced to permanently be teary-eyed while wearing my snotty nose. Well, I guess I got my own make-up for free. Even my sense of humour could not stop the emotions from flowing excessively while others laughed and I cried for hours, wondering how I missed the jokes. I guess when the joke is on you, its not so funny anyway. I couldnt help but wonder what made a lot of people smile and look content when they looked into the mirror. For me, I saw absolutely nothing.
The strongest people in life are those we stand tall despite the hurdles in their lives. Truth is, success doesnt only come with a price; it has determination glued to it; they are intertwined.
Failure isnt failing at what you do; its accepting the title failure, wallowing in it, and making it a comfort zone. Turns out that disbelieving in the power of our dreams and failing to pursue them with a passion is the worst form of failure.
Failures are often stepping stones to success. Then it becomes our choice to either learn from them and develop ourselves or make choices that will break us further. Imagine life as an adventure we have to stumble fearlessly into with more than a flicker of hope.
Most successful people today didnt make it easily. They fell, dusted themselves up, and tried again more than a couple of times. The trick is fixing your gaze on the prize and not the present circumstances. If you know where you are heading, failure wont set you back.
Life never promised anyone perfection. It only promised to give us a chance which will eventually allow us to make decisions that will reshape who we are negatively or positively . . . Miss Carim, 2013.
Let yesterday be a tool to help shape your today when preparing for tomorrow . . . Miss Carim, 2013.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Nov 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493101214

A.H. Carim

A.H Carim is the author of yesterday's pages. She's a lady with a great passion for inspiring people, raising funds for charity and encouraging others around her to be the best they can be. When she isn't writing, watching movies or listening to good music, the next place to find her is at the beach, shopping malls or kitchen learning and making new cuisines. She currently lives in Manchester.

Book preview

Prelude

Though I was tagged a failure, everyone saw my little reactions as hysterical. The few times I responded to the callousness of people, I was being melodramatic, and when I didn’t, I was being myself… ‘the fool’.

I would have expected to be the apple of my dad’s eye, considering he claimed he loved my mum so much, till he found out she was a cheat, but what was my crime in my mum’s unfaithfulness? I barely knew her.

The only crime I committed for being abused, trampled on, humiliated, almost abandoned, and so on in Oxford Dictionary’s strongest negative terms was being my mother’s child. I am a failure today because Mrs Funmi Jaxson brought me to life. While a lot of ladies wore designer lipsticks, compact powders, mascaras, amongst so many others as daily make-up, I was forced to permanently be teary-eyed while wearing my snotty nose. Well, I guess I got my own make-up for free. Even my sense of humour could not stop the emotions from flowing excessively while others laughed and I cried for hours, wondering how I missed the jokes. I guess when the joke is on you, it’s not so funny anyway. I couldn’t help but wonder what made a lot of people smile and look content when they looked into the mirror. For me, I saw absolutely nothing.

The strongest people in life are those we stand tall despite the hurdles in their lives. Truth is, success doesn’t only come with a price; it has determination glued to it; they are intertwined.

Failure isn’t failing at what you do; it’s accepting the title ‘failure’, wallowing in it, and making it a comfort zone. Turns out that disbelieving in the power of our dreams and failing to pursue them with a passion is the worst form of failure.

Failures are often stepping stones to success. Then it becomes our choice to either learn from them and develop ourselves or make choices that will break us further. Imagine life as an adventure we have to stumble fearlessly into with more than a flicker of hope.

Most successful people today didn’t make it easily. They fell, dusted themselves up, and tried again more than a couple of times. The trick is fixing your gaze on the prize and not the present circumstances. If you know where you are heading, failure wont set you back.

‘Life never promised anyone perfection. It only promised to give us a chance which will eventually allow us to make decisions that will reshape who we are negatively or positively…’ Miss Carim, 2013.

‘Let yesterday be a tool to help shape your today when preparing for tomorrow…’ Miss Carim, 2013.

Chapter 1

My favourite part of our house was my windowpane; it had a little room for me to sit and stare into the sky. I loved looking into the clear or cloudy skies, at the stars, moon, and everything the sky could accommodate.

I had learnt the meaning of depression at a very young age. I was often depressed and despondent for at least seventeen hours every day; the period I wasn’t, it only meant I was asleep. There was always tension in every moment of my life, a life I desperately wanted to change, but I was too weak and too dumb to do that. Each time my parents scolded me, which was almost all the time, I was often very upset and filled with anger. They always got on my nerves.

Complexities in life are often not far-fetched; sometimes those ‘little things’ we omit or include often makes our lives a living hell. Increased openness in the form of honesty just might save us all a lot of stress and make life a little comparable to paradise. Can you reshape yourself or others in the presence of misconceptions?

Every whiff of oxygen you inhale is a testimony over those that inhaled theirs a split second before you. Can storms of life truly become breezes of pleasure? Life for me has been sad; happy moments I can count on my fingers.

She had been scolding me for over five minutes for nothing, it seemed. I desperately wanted to yell back at her, but it felt like one of those awful dreams where you have no voice. All I did was break one of her favourite glass cups, and not intentionally; her son Daniel pushed me while playing with his sister and I tripped.

‘Why did you have it in your hand anyway? Why weren’t you holding a plastic cup?’ she asked again for the umpteenth time.

‘I am sorry,’ I said again for the twentieth of twenty-one times.

‘Of course you are, or maybe that’s all the English you can place a meaning to!’ Annette spat out and walked away. I was only twelve years old. I did not deserve such cruelty.

Annette was my stepmom, hence I did not feel so betrayed by her often harsh words to me or the way she humiliated me before her kids, our family friends, and even my classmates. What I could never understand was why my dad never cautioned her; sometimes, he even supported her and they both called me horrible names and described me with horrible sentences.

‘Was I an accessory ordered from a catalogue?’ I thought to myself several times. I know that feeling of placing an order, and when you get it, it is not half as good as you thought it would be, but the twist was why didn’t they return me to the shop? I just might be the perfect ‘product’ someone else wanted to buy. It was a popular belief amongst my family that I was ‘slow and a failure’.

Another incident was when I was barely ten and I had a mild chest pain that I now believe must have been because of chest burn.

‘My heart is hurting!’ I screamed with my left palm on the left side of my chest and running around. As usual, perhaps a law in my house that stated ‘scream at the idiot’, I was screamed at and asked to stop being silly. I often wondered why I was expected to act as an adult at that tender age. Low self-esteem is a very dangerous and destructive weapon, but not only was my self-esteem dead and long buried, I never perceived it. Growing up, I wondered why no one could unmask the scurrilous perception that was created of me, thanks to my mum.

School was never anything better. I was the dumbest in my class; that record I broke several times, and outrageously low grades meant nothing to me any more. God knows, I often tried to be better, well… maybe I tried. My thoughts were often frozen and my utterances benumbed. I had become an oblivious jester, as people always laughed before I even spoke; they were so certain I was not going to make any sense. As far as I was concerned, God and the world judged me based on my mum’s truculent attitude. I prayed for the day I would be too weak to indulge myself in self-pity or the day I would be gone very far away, where flowers could sing and butterflies could read me stories to bed just like I saw in cartoons.

The words of the closest people, who were supposed to love me most in life, struck my heart like a cane. More often than not, it brought tears to my eyes and left my fragile heart in a thousand and three pieces. I usually winced as they released those words from their lips, wondering if they couldn’t see the effects it had on me, or maybe they just weren’t bothered. My favourite grandma lived in Ikorodu. Well, I like to see it as the outskirts of Lagos, as it takes us forever to get to her place on visits, especially with the horrendous traffic. Truth is, I could not really say she was my favourite grandma; she seemed to be the only grandma I had, as I could hardly remember what my mum’s mum looked like. I had no idea if she was dead or alive. Her daughter’s ignominious behaviour kept her away from us all.

I often sat on the first row in class so I could hear the tutors loudly, but absorbing what was being taught was like asking me to swallow an elephant whole. Initially, it was like swallowing a jumbo-sized boiled egg without biting nor chewing it; in my words, it was achievable but difficult. Now? It’s outright impossible. I was being scorned every day and by almost everyone. No one saw my struggle to overcome my failure; they only saw the failure in me. I knew I was trying, though imperceptibly.

Going to school involved a cluster of disdainful people at the entrance and another cluster of people anxiously waiting for me to prove my idiocy at the exit. I literally felt choked every day at school. Sometimes, my dreams were haunted by the roaring laughter of my classmates, the disappointing words of my dad, and the malicious attitudes from other family members.

I turned fifteen a few months back, and all I got was ‘Happy Birthday’ from my dad at 8.45 p.m. It meant a lot. I couldn’t remember the last time he wished me a happy birthday. Almost all my life that I can remember, on my birthdays, I often ran into the kitchen to see if cakes were baked, scotch eggs, and samosas stuffed, tarts, biscuits, and drinks bought, but as usual, over all the years, my excitement was always walked over and dampened. Not even a miserable pot of rice and boring-looking chicken awaited me nor raw pastry or even an expired cake to deceive me that plans were made. I always opened the fridge, but the same everyday items stared right back at me every year.

My sister turned ten on Tuesday, and reservations were made for thirty-five people at a restaurant, but I was not invited, because Diamond said I embarrassed her at her last birthday party, which was just last year. Her friend’s mum was at the party. She had black hair and blue eyes, and it felt new to me. I had only seen that in movies, hence I walked up to her, asking silly questions, and all the kids giggled as they chorused, ‘They are called contact lenses… stupid!’

I guess I was too stupid to know that. How could they blame me for not being exposed? My parents were too ashamed to sit around me or take me out where I would be enlightened and more educated about the tiniest things.

I remembered vividly when one of her friends whispered, ‘Diamond, I thought you said she is fourteen. Why does she usually talk like a five-year-old?’ That statement haunted me for exactly one year. Truth is, when you don’t say things you think about, it hurts your tummy and brings an emptiness, so many times, I had no response to their inconsiderate utterances to me. Other times, I did, but I was often too petrified to let them out. They must have been ‘silly thoughts’, as my stepmom often described them. I could not make the simplest statements without thinking about it many times and replaying them repeatedly, and eventually, when I said them, my heart would beat so fast and it could be heard from a mile away.

It was another horrible day in class and my teacher was tutoring us. The more she explained the topics, the more I felt I understood them, but each time she asked a question, I gave a very silly response. My marks were always incredibly appalling. At age fifteen, failure was a part of me already. I was not born to succeed. I was just passing through life. I doubted it was ever going to pass through me.

I walked home every evening after extra classes thinking about myself. I was the laughing stock in my class. My classmates always waited for me to say something just to make their day. I did not like what I had become, neither could I explain why I was so slow to think and understand. I did a lot of things that left people shocked, with dropped jaws, when they realised that I had an atom of reasoning: like when I saw a young man’s pocket being picked, and like the idiot I was tagged, I ran after the pickpocket and said, ‘Why did you steal his money? Kindly take it back to him or I will scream.’ The young man and his friend, whom I concluded planned the whole scene, looked at each other. One pushed me really hard, while they both ran off. He pushed me towards an oncoming vehicle, and for over eight months since then, I was on life support after that incident. My parents hardly came to see me in the hospital and I didn’t know why. Maybe they thought I was stupid enough to attempt hugging a fast-moving vehicle while in motion, or maybe they had given up completely; I was no good after all. My childhood was very sad; my life is just a waste.

It was 7 February, and I remember vividly that a few of my classmates had presents the last year on the fourteenth for the St Valentine’s Day. I sat in front of my mirror and applied a little make-up; it was my first time. I had kept loads of magazines for this moment, and I had spent my savings buying make-up every now and then and putting them in my hand luggage under my bed. Dad had gone to work and my stepmom was out already. My siblings were somewhere, but they were the least of my worries.

I had the magazine opened right in front of me. It was supposed to be a ‘replica make-up session’. I was copying the make-up of a lady who was a famous actress and is a brand ambassador for a very good make-up line. I had carefully taken my time to buy the entire range of products, one after the other. After almost ninety minutes of the trial-and-error session, I was impressed with what I had come up with. I thought I looked ravishing. I was going to see a movie with one of my friends. It was going to be my first time at the Galleria, and I was told a lot of guys often came there. I stood in front of my mirror again, wearing a beautiful dress and my prettiest smile. ‘Well, maybe I would have a boyfriend today,’ I thought as I picked up my purse and stepped out. Just as I walked into the living room, what a great disappointment to see my stepmom!

‘Good afternoon, Ma,’ I greeted, trying to look away so she could not see my make-up.

‘Switch that bloody thing off!’ she replied, pointing at the music system.

‘OK, Ma,’ I responded as I walked towards it to carry out her orders, while trying to hide my face away from her.

‘Simi, what’s that rubbish on your face?’ she asked as she walked up to me and held my chin up.

‘Erm, erm…’ I murmured, and before I could brace up to say anything, she had slapped me, and I found myself on the couch.

‘How old are you? You have started stealing money to buy make-up. You look just like your mum, a prostitute!’ she spat out angrily. I had tears coming down my eyes, but I was too ashamed to wipe them off.

‘I didn’t steal the money, Ma. It’s my savings,’ I managed to say.

‘Shut up, you thief! So you have a boyfriend now. I guess you have finally gotten to understand that education isn’t your call in life, so you have chosen to start prostitution at an early age. Who wears such make-up? Or get pregnant out of wedlock and embarrass your family like your mum did?’ she added, still very upset.

‘I am so sorry, Ma,’ I replied, wiping off the tears on my face this time.

‘Sorry? Do you know what your overall average in school was the last time? It was 17 per cent. You should be studying or thinking of making yourself useful, you fool!’ she added. The doorbell rang and Grandma walked in.

‘Simisola, what’s happening here?’ she asked, walking towards me as she held my face up.

‘Ekaason, Ma,’ my stepmom greeted, kneeling down.

Grandma just nodded and asked, ‘Why is she crying with so much make-up on?’

‘Mummy, talk to your granddaughter. I don’t understand her again. Just last week, we were asked to withdraw her from her school due to a woeful performance. Today, look at her make-up. She’s going to visit her boyfriend. She steals my money to buy make-up… Can you imagine that?’ my stepmom said angrily and walked away.

‘Simisola,’ Grandma called out with disappointment in her voice.

I was too ashamed to look at her. She was one person who I felt bad disappointing, yet I disappointed her repeatedly. Grandma sounded so disappointed in me, though in a loving way. At the end of my discussion with her, I decided not to go out any more. She made me go up to my stepmom’s room to apologise. I knocked softly on her door twice before she asked me in.

‘I am so sorry, Ma. I promise to be a better girl,’ I said while kneeling, as advised by Grandma.

‘Simi, I don’t know why your silly acts get to me. I am not your mother and you don’t owe me anything. I just want the best for you. But if you want to end your life miserably like your mum did, well I can proudly say I did my best,’ she uttered rudely to me.

I knelt before her, wondering why she could not just believe in me for once. Truth be told, she had never raised her hands on me before. I must have really upset her, I thought. I just wanted her to hug me or something. Despite all she had put me through, I loved her and wanted her to love me like she loved her kids.

‘I promise, Mum. I will be a good girl,’ I added, hoping calling her ‘Mum’ would touch the sensitive and loving part of her.

‘Simisola, it is your life. Do you really think you will have a boyfriend in your mess? Guys like intelligent ladies, successful ladies, ladies with focus and determination, but not dropouts like you,’ she said, looking straight into my eyes.

‘I won’t drop out. I will strive to get better,’ I replied, still praying for soft words from her mouth.

‘Simi, I do not care if you drop out or not. It is your life… OK, but you apparently will never be a graduate, with your incessant failures at school. You have always been a failure. Maybe you should think about a trade and get trained for it.’

I wondered why she hated me so much and never spoke nice words to me.

‘I had a very busy day. Please leave my room and shut the door,’ she added as she lay on her bed.

I got off my knees and dusted them slowly while walking back towards the door.

‘Just do yourself and your dad a favour. Don’t end up like your mum did, a frustrated prostitute.’

I stood at the door and stared at her for a few seconds; her back was turned away from the door so she could not see me, and slowly, I shut her door and walked back to my room. That night, I wondered what she meant by getting pregnant at an early age and embarrassing my family like my mum did. I was the only child of my mum, I thought, and I was born after my mum got married. It only meant my mum had been pregnant back in the day, put her family in shame, then probably was forced to have an abortion or she had a stillbirth, as I had no brother nor sister from my mum. Though I was quite tempted to ask Grandma, I didn’t want to remind anyone about my mum’s shameful acts.

Chapter 2

Grandma is a good person. I have known that since the first time she held me. She is very nice, caring, understanding, practical, and down to earth. She quarrelled with Dad and his wife several times over their attitudes towards me. My best moments were the few weekends I spent at Grandma’s.

She was the one person that didn’t not deprive me of my childhood; she never expected me to act more mature than I did. Each time I got back from her place, I would stare into thin air for minutes, weighing the possibilities of moving in with her. My stepmom always loved the idea, but my dad never agreed and I could not understand why; he never cared about me, not even for a split second. Each time we dined together as a family, I could always feel a bee in my tummy; it was very uncomfortable. I feared doing anything, as they never saw anything good in me. I tried so hard to act perfectly normal, as my dad often called me ‘abnormal’. I usually stared into my plate, even when I was very hungry, for fear of doing something wrong once again. The maid was always very nice to me; she’d reserve some food in a small bowl and leave it under my bed because she knew I never had enough on the table. Growing up, I watched my siblings run around the house playing fun games, but I could never be a part of it. Each time I tried, their mum sent me to my room or they would withdraw and turn on the TV.

Each time Dad got back from work, my siblings sat on his lap, troubling him and laughing hysterically over everything he said or did. I usually hid behind the dining curtains, watching them and smiling to myself as a little child. I always wanted to be with them. I wanted to laugh with them, play with them, and if I dared to move closer to the living room, my stepmom would sit back and make snide comments that sounded so hurtful or she’d just send me to my room. Big deal; my mum