I will marry again

The aisle is not new to me
For I have marked my prints on it

The vows I know by heart

For I said them to my bride so sweet

Her eyes were pretty 

I could not resist

Her dress was fine

I like the style

Admiration was her regular drink

For her glamour stood out in a ring

Then we marked our prints on the aisle

We united in heart and body

Two seasons across the sky

Soul Sister, my lady has changed

No more do I see the curves in her skirt

For those curves are hid in baggy skirts

I run away from her warmth at night

For what comes from her hairnet could put out my light

Why the wrapper on the chest?

Why the oily face that won’t be powdered?

Soul Sister, she says she need not impress anyone any more

For she is married already

I won’t stick to a shabby wife

My eyes can’t continue to suffer this pain

The pain of a shabby wife

Now I see a new beauty rising somewhere in my office

She dress up well and I like her so

I’ll walk down the aisle again for her sake

I will stand again to take my vows

But my vows will be different, Soul Sister

I will make a vow to stick to her if she takes care of herself

Much so in marriage

What do I do, Soul Sister?

Should I walk the aisle again or stay with the one with no class or style?


Divorce me now! 

A message for soul sister. I need your response, friends.

This is my new song

This is my mantra

And I will keep repeating it until I get what I want.

I refuse to be married again.

I want my freedom from his deceit.

Soul Sister, he deceived me. I cannot continue this marriage of deceit. I have every right to leave.

Dear husband was a course mate back in the university. We were just friends.

DH was not in the class of guys I dated. He knew his bound and never overstepped it.

I even sampled his opinion on my guys. DH always gave sound opinions, and I liked him for it.

When he jokingly said he knew he couldn’t have me because of his financial status, I concurred.

Believe me, Soul Sister, I didn’t mean it.

Truly, I got good and expensive gifts from my guys. DH tutored me instead.

Then I met DH sometime back.

He could pass for a rock star. Where was the geek who I was comfortable befriending back then?

DH was a new man.

We connected to each other like a chain to a dog’s neck.

Our love was easy: two friends getting it right.

In a blink, our prints marked the aisle.

We got on the path of forever.

The glimmer and shimmer of her wedding was the talk of town.

But I discovered too soon we had more doom than bloom.

Where was the splendour he showed me while we courted?

Why was it difficult to get money for what we need?

Why did he wake up to his laptop instead of dressing up to the big consultant firm he told me about?

Where was the jeep that picked me often after work?

Why had the trips to top restaurants stopped?

My questions wouldn’t stopped, and DH confessed.

Nothing was as it seemed.

The glimmer was just a mirage; nothing was real.

Hey, DH deceived me.

But he wouldn’t see it as deceit. He said it was love.

Love for me all these years.

Love he couldn’t afford until he used his head.

Now, he had that love.

Soul Sister, I want out of this marriage.

DH married me with lies. I refuse to believe in his love.

What do you think?

My Roman god

Share this with that teenager you love.

The first time I met him, butterflies flew in my tommy. My innocent eyes twinkled with all pleasure. Oh, this new neighbour of ours looks just like a Roman god, I thought in my childish heart. His strong, angular face was so handsome. I kept smiling at him.

He flashed strong white teeth at me, and I was completely lost.

The mirror became my companion after that. My room became my runway. I posed this way and that, just to choose the right look for my Roman god.

Compliments rolled off him like raindrops on a rainy day. I couldn’t get enough of his praises.

Mama noticed. She saw my swaying hips when I walked. She saw the light in my eyes when he got back from work.

Mama cautioned me. “Finish your secondary school, dear child.”

My ears were deaf to her. I had the opportunity to be cherished and nurtured by my Roman god. I couldn’t give it up for anything. It didn’t matter to me that I was in my final class in secondary school.

My heart was lost to my Roman god. When he requested for my purity, I consented.

His request came with promises of marriage, a better life with all my heart desired. A life away from Mama’s watchful eyes, away from Papa’s belt for every wrong, and away from siblings trying to prove themselves to the world. I chose the world with my Roman god.

All too soon, I became sick in the morning. Mama gave me drugs with great suspicion in her eyes.

When my sickness in the morning continued for days, I had to stand before the doctor to listen to the consequence of the request I granted my Roman god.

The atmosphere became charged, and fireworks exploded in the house.

My cheek became a drum set as Papa landed slap after slap on it.

Hot tears found their way down my cheeks. My mouth trembled as I told them who was behind my sickness in the morning.

My Roman god stood before my family, head bent in shame and told the truth.

My things were arranged in a Ghana-must-go bag, and I was sent away with my Roman god.

The compliments stopped coming. The smiles refused to form. The face of my Roman god could rival the solidity of Olumo rock.

The beast became a Prince for Beauty, but my own Prince became a Beast.

I became the reason for every mistake. I became a good spot where anger could be unleashed.

Believe me, Soul Sister, his anger was unleashed regularly, and my little body took it all in pain and regret.

Along came our little one, and my Roman god softened like baby lotion. It remembered so until SHE came around.

She was the new employee in his office. He was drawn to her beauty and intelligence like bee to honey.

He sang her praises to my sad ears. He pointed her qualities that I could never have to my frustrated face.

Was I educated? Oh no.

Was I intelligent? Oh no.

Was I smart? The answer you know.

Was I experienced? Ah, Soul Sister, no.

What was my contribution to the family expenses? Zilch!

I swallowed the bitter taste of truth down my closed throat like Yoyo Bitters.

Seasons changed, and my life changed.

My Roman god packed my things into the same Ghana-must-go bag and sent me back to my father.

Papa would not accept me. He told me to go to my husband.

My Roman god told Papa he never asked for my hand in marriage. Nothing was legal between us.

Oh, what shame!

Papa spat on me and called me names that only a useless daughter like me deserved.

Seasons have changed again, Soul Sister, and baby is growing. My life is just taking shape, but I just heard my Roman god is getting married to the woman of his dreams.

My fingers are on my lips in regret as I write. The tears in my eyes are telling the tale of my shame. I stirred my love when it was not time.

Dear Soul Sister, what should I do? Do I have the right to stop the wedding? What would be my lot now?





Baby Mama

I am at a crossroad

And I know not which way to go

I have waited long for this

And it is finally here

But the cost of this gift is too high for me to pay

For I know the Lord

The Lord will frown upon the high cost of this gift

How then do I do it?

Should I let go and start over again?

Start again! The mere thought scares me

At what age, Soul Sister, will I start again?

My flower isn’t blooming so much

While the brightness was flickering,

He saw me and declared his affection

Yes, affection towards the one who taught she would never have a man of her own.

The going was good, and the good became blissful

Then came the proposal.

Oh, Soul Sister, it’s a ring!

I sang my yes like the cuckoo bird.

But his condition dampened my elated spirit.

Give me a baby first he told me with a straight face

A baby? I left the ring hanging in my finger in shock.

My confusion was communicated to him through my look

For he said, smiling, let a baby grow in your womb for me

Then I’ll walk you down the aisle as a proud husband and father.

The Lord’s words on defiling the bed flew into my head.

I shook my head in disagreement

It’s our tradition, he informed me

My mother will never accept you without a positive result. His voice was sad.

But we belong to the Lord; Christians we are, I tried to reason with him

His eyes left mine. Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s so says the good book.

Appease Christianity and tradition, even the Lord understands, he said.

My objections fired at him like AK47

His eyes darkened like the clouds in an African thunderstorm

That is my stand, his voice thundered. I can’t compromise.

The burden of loneliness came upon me like a thick blanket.

I want to be married

I want my own man

So I promised to think and pray about it.

But, Soul Sister, what do I pray about?

What do I speak in the Lord’s ears?

What answer should I expect?





A Sister’s Act

Welcome to series 2 in my dear soul sister series. Happy reading! 

I am a broken man, for I am haunted by my message.
Why is it difficult to practice what you preach with ease?
Why is it easy to dole out the right words to others, but difficult to take them yourself?
I feel this way with the message of forgiveness.
Yes, I must forgive others their trespasses, so my heavenly father can also forgive me.
True, I must forgive seventy times seven times a day.
But truth be told, no one has offended me that much in a day.
Still, I can’t find it in me to accept this message and forgive Sister Joyce.
Sister Joyce, God-fearing (so I thought), all smiles and humble, was a perfect disciple in our youth fellowship.
Never did I imagine the evil behind her smiles.
Never did I imagine her appreciation of God’s grace in my life after each service to be more than that.
Never did I imagine the innocent smiles I returned were fanning a fire I couldn’t control.
How could I have known, Soul Sister, that Sister Joyce had a lot of plans for me? (Oh, not plans of good I tell you.)
When she showed up in my house that rainy day a year ago, with tears in her eyes, I gladly took her in to comfort her.
Her fiancé had just broken up with her after meeting with the church’s marriage committee.
Her eyes were swollen from crying, and my heart went out to her.
I counselled and prayed with her.
She made a simple request: “Can I stay here tonight? I’ll leave very early in the morning. It’s already late.”
Oh true, it was late and rainy.
Her sad eyes tugged at my heart.
How do I send her out with such heavy heart into the rain, all alone?
My response: “It’s alright. You can stay here tonight. Take the bedroom. I’ll be right in the living room.”
Her eyes beamed with smiles of appreciation, and my heart swelled with joy that I had done well for a sister.
Soul Sister, I curse that day even as I pen this down.
When she wandered into the living room sometime after midnight in a flimsy night gown I never knew she had in her bag, I became an ordinary man.
Youth pastor you say. Leave that, this was beyond me.
She was too scared to sleep alone, so she said.
I was too tempted to say no to a damsel in distress.
The die was cast, and the deed was done.
My tears ran down like a fountain.
Sister Joyce told me to be a man. It was a secret never to be revealed.
So when I was summoned by the marriage committee months later, I thought it was to finalize my marriage plans with my fiancée.
Soul Sister, the secret was out! Sister Joyce told it all to the committee.
My wedding was put on hold.
My fiancée could not bear the pain and went her way.
I was disciplined publicly in church.
All lips told the story of my fall. Eyes looked at me in condemnation. Hands pointed at me in judgement.
Sister Joyce was the victim, deceived by the youth pastor. He took advantage of her emotional state. Thank God she was bold enough to expose him, so the tongues wagged in church. They never bothered that the story was twisted, or I had something to say too. What would a fornicating youth pastor say? He didn’t even had the mind to confess to his wrong deeds. He must have been into it for long.
I left it all, Soul Sister.
I left to a life of shame and deep regret, but I had to search for God again.
My search has been painful, but I’m pulling through gradually.
Then Sister Joyce showed up in my house this morning. (Deja vu.)
She wanted to apologize for what she did. She couldn’t resist me, and so she had planned it all. She wanted me to accept her after what happened between us, but I went with another sister. She had been bitter, but God liberated her in a programme and she cried for forgiveness. Now, she wanted to do right by me.
I looked at her with so much hatred. If looks could kill, mine would have killed her this morning.
I pushed her out of my house.
She knelt at the door, crying. I told her I would think about it.
But really, Soul Sister, how do I forgive her? Should I even forgive her?

Expect another life issue next week Tuesday. Share with friends! 

Little Foxes

Thanks for checking out this special write-up. Do well to drop your comments and share with friends.


I declared war in my home; war I say. No more will I take what my man is dishing out to me. Why should I yield?

Calm down, I hear them say. But my heart kept raging with anger.

I looked my man in the eyes with all my pain. I removed my head gear and tied it around my waist.

All must be settled today.

I felt a gentle hand on my boiling skin. “Share your problem with us.” Uncle said.

Yes, I must tell what my man has done to me, Soul Sister.

Listen to the story of an angry wife.

I felt the joy of a woman married to a man of her dreams. The sparkle in my eyes radiated like the brightness of the sun. I married my man, Soul Sister.

The hope of a bright future for us brought smiles to my face. Nothing could ever go wrong with us.

Our hearts were joined in perfect love.

The responsibilities of a married woman did not bother me. It was for me and my man.

My first meal was egusi soup, garnished with beef, cow skin and roasted cat fish. I rolled my sleeves and pounded the eba just like my grandmother taught me.

I smiled with satisfaction at the finished work. I was ready to get into my man’s heart.

I served the food with great love and joy. My man looked at me with eyes filled with appreciation. He salivated as I uncovered our first meal as man and wife.

He took his first morsel and rolled it into a ball with his fingers. He kept smiling.

I wanted his compliment that was bound to follow his first swallow. After all, I had mastered the art of cooking over the years.

The smile froze on his face as he rolled the morsel in his mouth. His eyes bulged out in curiosity. He dipped his fingers in the plate of soup and placed it on the tip of the tongue.

He closed his eyes as he tasted the soup again.

When he opened his eyes again, I saw condemnation in them.

“What is wrong, Honey?” I asked, alarmed.

My man pushed the plate of soup away from him. “What seasoning did you use for the soup?” He asked in a chilled tone.

I looked at him in confusion. Seasoning? What was he talking about? He waited for my answer and I gave it.

“I used maggi.” I answered.

His eyes blazed with hot anger. He pushed away from the table. “Never use maggi to prepare my meal again. Always use knorr.” He barked at me and left the dining without eating the food.

Oh, the anger that filled me. After all my efforts? He couldn’t even caution me gently. I would not let this go, I resolved in my heart.

While he prepared for work the next day, I made breakfast: bread, egg sauce and tea. And you know what, Soul Sister, I used maggi.

Hahaha, my man must learn to appreciate me, appreciate my efforts.

He gave me a smile as he took his seat at the head of the table. I smiled too. I didn’t wait for him this time. I dived into my food.

I hid a smile when he spewed out the egg sauce. He shot daggers at me with his eyes.

“Did you use maggi again?”

I shrugged in response and continued with my food.

“What exactly is your problem? I can’t stand maggi. Please don’t use it again. Use Knorr.” He enunciated.

I lifted innocent eyes to him. “Why?” I asked.

“My mother never used maggi. It was always knorr, and we liked it. I can tell the taste of knorr in any meal.”

His explanation angered me the more. “Well, my mother never used knorr. I don’t like it. You can change now because I’ll keep using maggi.”

He glared at me. “Don’t be difficult. Just indulge me on this.”

I turned to him then. “You must indulge me too. I went to the bathroom this morning and found out you still press the toothpaste from the middle when I told you to always press it from the end.” I fired back at him.

My man threw his hands up in frustration. “What does it matter if I press the toothpaste from the middle or the end?”

“What does it matter if I use maggi or knorr?”I countered.

We stared down each other. The battle line was drawn: maggi or knorr, middle of the toothpaste or the end.

Soul Sister, I stuck to maggi, and he stuck to pressing the toothpaste from the middle.

He wouldn’t eat my food, and I wouldn’t use his toothpaste.

And then, he brought in a cook, without informing me or seeking my permission, to prepare his meals in our house.

The worst part, she brought her own ingredients, and I saw packets of knorr. My man threw out my maggi.

I would not take this. Oh no, my man must pay for this.

He listened to my ranting like the family members we invited to hear us out. He got up gently.

“It’s obvious this is not working. Let’s give each other a break.” He told me, his arms folded across his chest.

People around gasped in shock. My own gasp was louder.

“What?” I exclaimed I disbelief, like my ears were failing me.

“Let’s give each other a break and think if we should really continue.” He repeated in a bland tone.

Well, Soul Sister, I lost my cool. I looked him straight in the eyes and said with all pride. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Hmm… It’s now two months since our break. My man has not come back, and I feel so terrible. How did we go from lovey dovey to fighting ninjas?

Did I go too far? Did we go too far?

Advise me, Soul Sister, what should I do?

The next issue on Dear Soul Sister will be on the blog next week Tuesday. Don’t miss it! (If Jesus tarries.)

Photo Credit: Google image

Design: Temitope Idowu