My head in Your laps; Your power in my hair

“And I will cut off the judge from its midst, and slay all its princes with him” Amos 2: 3

I love the way you weave my hair

God’s power therein from you I hid so well

I loved the way you looked at me

Your piercing eyes searing red hot through my skin

Yet the source of my might you couldn’t see

With your cold gaze you held my stare

You’re the only one who’d even dare

As sure as I’m the son of Adam

You’re a daughter of Eve

Though I’m not quite sure

Our mother’d trade her prized virtue

To satisfy her personal greed

But it’s not your fault

I was the one in need

Being with you

Allowed my ego and vanity to feed

I willingly walked into your arms

Turned my back on His face

Took for granted my Master’s holy grace

My father’d warned me but I didn’t care

My mother would weep in shame and despair

And now my tribe and Israel, weighed down with fear

Their ceaseless warnings, I refused to head or hear

But you my lady are just so fair

You I wooed against His wisdom

Choosing to defy His divine convention

The whole nation raged, there was great contention

We wined and dined under the canopy of the starry Palestinian night

Inseparable lovers we couldn’t be parted

Love notes and love totems

Shared joys and sorrows

Lovers’ quarrels and the hope of tomorrow

We broke up and stormed

We made up and made love

How then was I to see,

the deception that soon would engulf me?

How was I to know you’d use me, ridicule me,

enslave me, family and country?

I had asked for your hand in marriage

(though my folks did try to discourage)

You said I’d have to pay the dowry

I’d do anything for you to agree

But the cost I should have dodged or parried

This was not the currency we’d agreed!

Your asking price I couldn’t believe

- The one thing on earth I was not allowed to give

“Darling” you said “if you love me true

tell me the secret of your godly strength.”

You prevailed on me,

Nagged and wailed to me

Your pain I no longer could bear to see

Like a hovering vulture

 you persisted in patience

by now my soul

 was weary with your insistence

I reasoned that this was destiny

Since you and I were meant to be.

Eventually I yielded

 to the charms she wielded

and after all the childish pranks I played

by a Philistine mob I was soon waylaid

as the Book rightly says, my head was shorn

my super-strength gone

trapped and downtrodden, and treated with scorn.

Now the result of my folly’s plain for all to see

But the real shame’s that it doesn’t just affect me

And now the fate of my people’s in jeopardy.

In shackles, in chains but my heart’s broken

And all this you did for less than a token

Now I must return to the One whose refuge is sure

The One who’s holy, righteous, just and pure.

Lord I know I’ve fallen from your grace

My strength I do not ask You to replace

Restore to me Your fellowship I pray

Let me know You for one more day

Have mercy on me let me see Your face.

That night He came to me in my cell

That dreary place where I was forced to dwell

One like a son of man, clad in a robe as white as snow

a golden sash around his chest

His head and hair as white as snow

His eyes were blazing bright like fire

He was awesome and grand! I lay prostrate before Him

I’d never known fear but in truth I was frightened

His hand on my head, He gently reassured me

“Be at peace my son, it is your Lord, it is me.”

And with that I was calm, my soul enlightened.

“A broken and contrite spirit is what I seek,

Humility you’ve learnt, your powers no longer at their peak.

Forgiveness is in my power to give,

Dear son, My hand of fellowship receive.”

“To avenge your sight,

 I will restore your might

Now judge this nation

For its transgression.”

I love the way You lead me Lord,

Your hand on my head anointing me

Your mercy transforming the old man that was me

Divine power washing away every blot of my sin.

I love the way You comfort me

Your anointing flows through every sinew of my skin

I’m your battle ax - Prepared for war,

Blessed be the Lord my God

Who teacheth my hands to fight,

and my fingers to make war.

They drag me out

To mock and to jest at

This is their day to worship the idol Dagon

Their kings and princes laugh with derision

Unknown to them I’ll yet fulfil my life’s mission.

My hands take hold of those two wide columns

Now I’ve got God’s enemies all in one place

It’s time to redeem Israel’s disgrace

It’s time to make my way home to see my Lord and Master’s face.

“So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.” Judges 16:30

IamMaverick

13-12-2008

Driving Mr. Seni

I must confess my first misadventure behind the wheel of a car was an absolute and traumatising disaster. The explosive impact that ended that episode probably drew the attention of people from two streets away. We still lived on Isaac John Street in Ikeja, although these days my former front lawn serves as a fast food restaurant in the now commercialised part of the Government Reserve Area. This was in my first year or so of University and I had seen my older brother and countless friends manoeuvre the cars in confident fashion; so why couldn’t I?

VW's Santana

We never hid the keys to our cars, so off I went to grab the keys to my Mum’s VW Santana (the name given to that iteration of the Passat). I sat inside the car (in defiance of that still small voice telling me plaintively, “no”), I released the handbrake, and cool as ice I turned the ignition on. The rest was mayhem. I can’t recollect now if the car was parked and left in reverse gear or if that was my doing (I suspect it was the latter, but I may be an unreliable witness), what I do recall was the car taking off backwards in full fury, I kept stamping on what I thought was the brake but the car refused to listen as it was hell bent on making me suffer while it made its way across the drive way, over the hedge and would have crashed into the wall, but for the fruit tree that stood its ground.

Strike One!

I rear ended my Mum’s car (not for the last time). My brother Abayomi, and Kosh (Tunji Kosefobamu), and just about everyone else who was there that night came running out to see what was going on. Yomi was pretty supportive; I was pretty shaken as I thought of the repercussions when my Father found out what had happened. Apart from the fear, there was also the bitterness towards the car that had refused to respond to my futile attempts to step on the brakes.

I remember this very long and soul searing talk from my mum the next day. I really did feel bad and sorry for what I had done. Poor woman, I have given her a few near misses…

But it didn’t end there. Sometime later, Yomi and I went to one of the early morning Church services at Arch Bishop Vining Memorial Church (AVMC) a five minute drive away from home. We were leaving the Church a bit earlier than normal so that I could have a rematch with the Santana. He encouraged me to pull out of our driving spot and take the car home. Short drive, no pressure right? Wrong!

I did pull the car out very hesitantly and as I tried to right the steering and adjust my speed, I wound up denting the side of a Mercedes Benz on the other side of the extremely narrow side street (I know you’re rolling your eyes but it really was a small street). Once again the car had gotten the best of me and we now had the added burden of having to listen to the owner’s rant and fix her Mercedes as well.

Strike Two!

Peugeot's 504: learned to drive in one. Owned one too

So I had to go to driving school at some point (hated it!). I insisted on driving in the Peugeot 504 and not the minute, claustrophobia-inducing cage match called the Beetle. The driving instructor was Ghanaian and had a penchant for telling me to cut my hand (like seriously?), and he was in the worse habit of smacking your hand if you over steered. Fortunately I had my hands on the wheel or else I would have punched his lights out. When I told him as much and in no uncertain terms, he began to compose himself a lot better, even though he still wanted me to cut my hands. If I’d taken him seriously I wonder what I’d have driven with, my feet perhaps?

Well anyway, time heals all wounds and I was ready to get back in the saddle again, or at least allow myself to get talked into another act of foolishness. This time around we had dropped Yomi off in Wemabod Estate at his girlfriend’s house and Kosh had urged me to give the Santana a spin. After all it was inside the Estate, no room for disaster, what could possible go wrong? So I did, but I must admit that by now it was pretty evident that car had a thing for me. She was bucking like a wild bronco and as I struggled to control her while barrelling down the street towards the Estate gate, I guess I raised so much dust (figuratively) that a police officer who lived on the street looked out from his balcony and having seen more than enough, he shouted to the guards at the Estate gate to stop the car and prevent us from driving out.

My Nemesis!

So the car came to a screeching halt, and the cop ran down to where we were. Apparently there was a toy gun left behind the seat rest at the back of the car which had caught his eye, so in his mind we were either robbers or dangerous felons who needed to be apprehended. They took us to the Police Post within the Estate gate and detained me behind the counter. Kosh had to go get his mom who came to bail me out, but the interminable wait in between felt like a lifetime. Prison cannot be cool.

Strike 3!

It was now becoming apparent that this was one stallion I wasn’t going to break. I was now convinced that the car’s plan was either to send me to an early grave or to KiriKiri, neither of which was an interesting prospect. So with my tail between my legs, properly traumatised and feeling harassed (by a car!) I stopped every attempt at driving for the next few years. If anyone ever asked, I said it was because I didn’t have my own car. But the truth was more like driving scared me.

It was quite frustrating to see younger people learn to drive and take to cars like fish to water. At some stage you start asking yourself if there’s something wrong with you. But I liked to walk and gained a reputation for “slapping”, so life goes on. Besides, I had Jiro (Iceman to my Maverick), Mudi, Dipo, BJ, Olayinka (gone but never forgotten), Kemdibe, Goziem and Ekong and the countless drivers that served my folks, I got by just fine.

Then on October 1^st 2003, my uncle Bimbola gifted me with a car and I had to face my fears once again. I vaguely remembered what to do behind the steering wheel, but the passage of time and a failure to get over the driving fear, stood me in bad stead. I toiled on. I wondered why all cares didn’t come with automatic gears but I kept at it. But I reluctantly kept at it, sometimes there would be a driver and sometimes there wouldn’t, it was a luxury I couldn’t afford. But one day I was driving the automatic gear but still struggled with the “stick” shift, until I had a Eureka moment, and it all suddenly became clear and I realised what the problem had been all along.

After that driving became a release and not a burden. I would drive to work, drive to Ijebu, to Benin and back. I found my mojo and my pride was restored. I was the man again. Although, I never did get the best of that bloody Santana; wherever cars go to die, if they go to heaven, that bloody grey evil car is probably somewhere looking down and still revving its engine sadistically at me, taunting me and saying “you can’t tame me!”

On the balance scorecard, its Santana 3 – Olaseni nil. 

But as I reflect and I think about the heap of scrap it has probably become and the pleasure I get from having driven the Honda Civic (a jet), the MG 550, the Land Rover Defender (my dream car) and every other modern piece of vehicular machinery I’ve been fortunate enough to drive, all I can say in return is, “look who’s laughing now!”

                                                                                     IamMaverick

                                                                                         08August2015

The 20 year gap: views on friendship

Today (I started writing this piece midway through 2014) I was in conversation with one of my closest friends from the past 20 odd years. Over the course of our conversation, as has lately become topical, we strayed to the impending milestone of our rapidly approaching 40^th birthdays. That was when he made the remark that at the time only mildly struck me. He'd said at the time that for one of the events we were planning he would only welcome people from the core group of friends we've known for at least 20 years. In his mind (I'm assuming) those of us who've been close over that passage of time have surely become true lifelong comrades in arms.

At the time I mildly agreed with him, even though I must say I didn't give it too much thought. However this evening as I make my way home from the office (a bit later than my missus would like) I find myself scrolling through pictures on Instagram and one in particular reminds me of its author, my bosom buddy from boarding school. This dude was my partner in art in High School. We were both gifted illustrators inspired by the comic art form promoted by DC and Marvel Comics. By the time we were in the first year of our Senior Secondary School, we had created a pantheon of super heroes (and villains) to rival anything Stan Lee’s legendary mind could conceive.             

But back to my journey home…

I find myself musing over his odd choice of hobby and visual (maybe even musical) interests. I recall he'd said he was going to be in Nigeria a few weeks back, and his posts on Instagram confirmed as much. I suddenly find myself wondering (again) how come he never reached out like I'd asked him to. Surely he must have had access to a phone (seeing as NITEL's stranglehold on the telecommunications monopoly has long since been broken), and even in the absence of a phone there is the same Internet which he used to share those pictures on Instagram.

So my dear friend, I can't but wonder, what gives? Have the years since 1989 meant an irretrievable loss of our once unparalleled companionship and the camaraderie we once shared? Would I be correct to conclude that while we may be friendly to one another, we can no longer truly regard each other as close friends?

This experience called for some introspection, and I’ve had to question myself about my attitudes towards friendship, what it means to me, and reflecting on some observations I’ve made since my time as an undergraduate of the University of Lagos.

At some stage in primary school I became a loner, and while I got along with a few classmates in boarding school, the reality is, there are very few of those people I graduated Secondary School with that I can truly claim to be my friends (in the true sense of the word). Many of us may have been friendly with each other, but that owed more to our common passage through a certain place at a certain time, than because of any sentimental attachment. I doubt I could count more than five I wanted to keep in touch with after 1990; and in truth we didn’t – I only remained actively in touch with one or two. For the rest of my classmates, we didn’t catch up every so often, we didn’t call or write, and we didn’t run into each other, whether by choice or by chance, your guess is as good as mine.

As the years went by, my convictions were only re-affirmed; beyond secondary school it felt like we had nothing in common. Being classmates merely made us regular acquaintances. On the two occasions when I brought myself to attend the class re-union, there were a few laughs and a few smiles, but I felt like an impostor; I was a stranger among these guys. They had probably learnt to cultivate each other or consciously did all those years; needless to say, I had not. In hindsight, I recognise that my friend (he of the artistic inclination) was probably like me and couldn’t be bothered to reach out. In fairness some people just wanted to leave that whole experience behind them.

The saying goes, “we may not always be able to choose our family; but thank God we can choose our friends”.

As an undergraduate I’d say I found for maybe the first time, people I was prepared to be myself with and open up to (including She who would become my Partner in life). As a Freshman I already knew Seun (courtesy of Top Tutors) it was he who housed me through that year (when I was resident on campus) and through him I met Dayo and Dipo. Mudi entered the fray a few weeks into our first semester and the circle grew. Jiro’s car became our official carriage, when he wasn’t away dodging bullets and grenades in Ekpoma. Babajimi was a Freshman Law Student (as were Seun and I) and by our second year I was living in his flat. This brought Deinma and Yinka into the picture. The Rogues gallery doesn’t by any means end there…

Year one of Uni-Lag was like a fusion of steroids, music, dance, mayhem and cacophony. We were young, we were brash, we thought we were the hippest kids in the school, and we definitely thought we’d live forever. We fooled around and weren’t ashamed to make fools of ourselves and did this privately and publicly (in the Quadrangle under the Senate Building) very, very often. I still remember some of the slangs we created, defined and that crazy hand/leg shake that ended in a backward lunge, chai!

We were sometimes loud, sometimes noisy, sometimes in trouble, and sometimes having what we thought to be fun. Eventually we discovered where the school library was and what it was for (studying apparently! Who’d have guessed), and we learnt to support and be there for each other. We graduated, we got jobs, we got married, we became parents, and we’re getting fat (except for BJ), grey and older (except for that sell-out who lives near my house and likes to do silly things like Insanity).

I find myself the odd one out when I hear conversations about High School reunions, and how people are connecting with their old buddies. I can’t relate. For those who can and who do (including you Mister Abayomi!!!), nice one; it’s just something that doesn’t resonate with me. I was fortunate to forge my friendships with a group of precocious young Turks most of whom were born in the year of the Tiger. Like me they were finding themselves, had a worldview that mirrored mine, and were willing to embark on the same journey of discovery that we all seemed to have signed up for. They have inspired me, taught me, challenged me, emboldened me, and counselled me. We have gone from boys to young men, and are still growing together.

             

I’m thankful for the experience so far and remain grateful for their friendship. They have let me be me and because of them I can publicly come out in the open and say…

I am Batman.

                     

                                                                                                                                                /IamMaverick

                            06Aug2015

Strength of a Woman: In praise of my modern Amazons (Vol. III)

(This is the final entry in a 3 part series begun on Monday)

...Kemdibe, my better half (that says all really, and I do mean the better part). When Kemdibe, moved to New York in December 1996 to continue her Medical Studies, she had to get stuck in and got actively involved in running a household, managing her finances, and paying her way through a degree education. She learnt to make sacrifices and rather than be a burden became an asset to everyone she was involved with.

When she moved back to Nigeria ten years later, with a barely two year old son in tow, she focused her energies on raising our son, while managing her time and commitments. She would travel to the States every 6 months or so and utilise her time away working, providing much needed Nursing care in difficult and challenging fields like Intensive Care and Substance Abuse. I remember barely weeks after our daughter was born, she was back on her feet and in her scrubs, heading out to catch the bus to work, to meet her patients with a smile and with the iron will that has seen her succeed at everything she does.

Like my mother, she typifies the expression “a hands-on” person. Soon after we returned to Lagos after our daughter’s birth, she got her hands busy, taking her inspiration from something she had seen from her time in the States. In late 2008/early 2009 Simply Fruity^TM was born from her desire to address a niche that was going largely unserved and from her passion to promote wellness and healthy lifestyle choices. Her business has grown incrementally from an idea in her head to bouquets and trees in people’s homes and at their events, to the opening of our first Simply Fruity^TM Shop last September. Never one to rest on her laurels, she’s already trained her sights on the location for our next few shop fronts, on expanding our market reach and growing the brand.
                     

                                 Opening the Simply Fruity store                             With her human replica

With her discovery of Life Coaching and after getting certified as a Health Coach, she is pushing her agenda to see people live more fruitful and fulfilling lives and is soon to be crowned Africa’s foremost Health & Wellness Evangelist. A separate but aligned industry looms and she has developed the skills, and has the tools to engage it and provide the service a nation so badly needs but is yet largely ignorant of. She singlehandedly refurbished our apartment, taking sole ownership of the Project Manager role and three years later she would do the same at the bidding of our Landlord for our neighbour’s apartment. Her mom says she should consider a career in interior decoration.

OluwaToyosi is mini-mummy in every sense, but she’s also got a healthy dose of her grandmothers as source material. A flair for fashion, a confirmed diva and a budding athlete at her core, the world is her oyster and there is no doubt that she will achieve whatever she sets her mind to. I keep reminding her that there is no "can’t" and she and my son know that our family mantra as believers is, “I can do all things through Christ”. I remember she was barely two years old when a string of beads she was playing with fell apart and suddenly we saw her stringing the beads back with meticulous and painstaking precision. Since then my daughter continues to astound me with her sense for the creative like her mother and grandmother.

 

                            My little Diva (in red)                                              Miss style-me-famous

She’s always trying to design a new dress for her dolls, never satisfied with what they come with out of the box. Her keenness to experiment with their hairstyles has seen many a Barbie doll get the chop and quite a few experience a facelift beyond what they might have bargained for! But there’s no denying that she has an eye for beauty. She loves to read and can be found after night prayers and goodnight kisses still reading a novel or asking for stories to fire her active imagination.

                            

                                     Audrey Hepburn 2015                             Jemima’s creations

She started writing and illustrating her own book and has so far completed “Mita and the Dragon Mouse” a short fantasy book that only a child’s imagination could conceive. I don’t know if there is a sequel in store but I do know that she’s already working on many more stories.

She loves art and loves to jump and dance, when she’s not walking on her tippy toes, she’s doing cartwheels on my bed or in the family living room. So this summer she has enrolled in a Creative Arts Camp where she will be able to express better some of her abilities and desires, and hopefully will receive some additional guidance as she grows to develop her God-given talents. She is no doubt the female Michelangelo.

For the record I also have two fantastic sisters (the Athlete and the Communicator) who are the embodiment of intelligence, wit, graft, dedication, diligence and strength of character. As I watch them evolve, I take pride in seeing them become the women they were made to be and making their mark in the world. I feel blessed to be their brother. I can only imagine how my Father feels about his princesses.

                

                               Omobola, the Athlete                                  Temidayo, the Communicator

These are 4 generations of strong women who can hold their own in any group in any conversation, in any field with any man. When will we recognise the strength of our women and start to give them the credit, honour and responsibility that is their due? We often make light or cultural reference to women’s innate ability to multi-task and speak of it as though it were a useless skill that bears no place on a respectable resume. I’m certain that if this came more naturally to men, we would wear it on our sleeves with pride like the Congressional Medal of honour. But I realise just how amazing women are from my direct experiences with them.

When my wife used to frequent the States more often and leave me in charge of the house, there were certain things that never went done even though we both agreed at the time of her leaving that they were priorities. I could certainly blame my inability to get them done on the fact that my job was too demanding and I had no time. But a few months ago she travelled for a month and I decided to take some time off work in order to be at home with the kids who were on vacation for most of the Easter period. All through her four week long absence, I could barely keep track of our two children, run the house, manage Simply Fruity^TM, as well as meet up with the many other commitments and engagements I was supposed to. This was largely in spite of the fact that there are two drivers and a Nanny to make my task easier.

By the time my wife got back, school had just resumed, so reviewing homework (which I dread) was now part of the equation. It’s a wonder that there was any house for her to come back to! To be honest I was actually relieved to be going back to work, which is a cakewalk compared to the task of trying to replicate my wife. I sincerely wonder how she does it. And to think that she’s also the fitness guru and has just signed up for a dance class!

I was raised by and have benefitted from the help and support of strong, proud women and I know there are countless others like them out there either getting the job done without taking any credit, or waiting for a helping hand, a word of recognition or just the right timed support and encouragement to carry on being the best they can be. I’d like to encourage everyone to spot a talent, lift them up whenever you can and help them to bloom, to blossom and to fly. You can either be a part of their success story or a sad footnote on their path to global conquest and world domination; which will you choose?

I already made my decision and I chose wisely. Now it’s your turn.

                                                                                                                                        IamMaverick           

                                                                                                                                                                                      © 27072015

Strength of a Woman: In praise of my modern Amazons (Vol. II)

(2nd part in a 3 part series: continued from yesterday's post)

Theresa Ifeanyi (or Teresa Ifeanyi Catherine as she now prefers), has always been a great mother (In my biased mind, she, Kemdibe, and mama Rose vie for that role). She always managed to make me feel special even in the midst of all our disagreements. She taught me love and compassion, faithfulness, and the grace to channel my emotions. She taught me how to trust and have faith in God and was the one who helped me learn how to read. She taught my siblings and I how to find our way around the kitchen and the sense to remember people’s birthdays, appreciate them with a card, how to choose and wrap a gift, and to enjoy the celebration of Christmas in all its glory.

From a rustic background in Asaba, she went to school in Ogun State, completing her secondary school at Our Lady of Apostles, Ijebu Ode, just a stone’s throw away from her future husband’s father’s house (small world, eh?). She excelled in Languages and taught Secondary School students in Lagos. She took on a role in the Army Signals Corp, Apapa (I remember soldiers delivering flower pots to my house in Festac in the early 80s) and gave up on the opportunity to work in the organised private sector when she joined Nigeria Airways.

Serving with the National Carrier, she moved from movement control to bilateral Air Services and soon crafted a reputation for being a hard as nails negotiator, diligently serving several Chief Executives of Nigeria’s premier airline. Her knack for languages and keen business sense set her apart as the airline’s principal negotiator as she continued to rack up the air miles and traverse the globe in a bid to see the flag of Nigeria hoisted ever higher.

But she was always an industrious woman, in the early 80s we lived in Festac Town, as the government of the day imposed austerity measures and restrictions on certain items in its mis-guided response to the looming recession, a ban on certain items created a new regime of essential commodities. One of the primary victims of this ban was bread, as the Federal Government had decreed that one of its vital ingredients (I struggle to remember which) could no longer be imported. In order to ensure we weren’t denied our staple, my mother swung into action and started baking her own loaves at home using an alternative. I remember my brothers and I moaning about the taste of this bread, but in time the quality of her product improved and we were relieved from a potential crisis.

     

                     Mama                                                 With the Alpha himself

I remember her making chin-chin in commercial quantities which she would then bag and package and I would take to one of the retail outlets she had negotiated with in 5^th Avenue for sale to end-users. She was always willing to try something new and different. When she was at Nigeria airways, she would use her travel allowance (the so-called estacode) to buy items in demand for sale back home, whether it was jewellery, clothes or whatever the market required. When we moved out from GRA in Ikeja, she soon set up her rental business running it out of a rented complex before, time, chance (and a heavy dose of her cousin’s wise counsel) so her fashion her own office from the ample space within her premises.

She’s grown her business and customer base, moving it from a standard char and table rental company to a full blown events management firm. She has mentored several young people, many going on to succeed in their own right, while her own sense of enterprise waxes even stronger. She’s participated in network marketing exploits and continues to identify and explore opportunities to diversify her streams of income. She joined the Lions in the 2000s eventually rising to become Chapter President (or is it Charter?), championing a string of causes including education for the under-privileged and health initiatives for the poor and needy. And even at the height of swapping hotels, planes and airports, she was still able to successfully play the roles of wife, mother and caregiver to her husband and 5 children, in particular to three troublesome, robust, demanding, adventurous, stressful and trying boys, and one wily, cunning and infinitely clever and manipulative boy genius.

                             

                                                            The picture that started it all!

                      4 generations of Amazons! Kemdibe, OluwaToyosi, Great Grany and Mama Rose

Her sense of adventure is mirrored by Mama Rose, my mother-in-law, a queen, a diva and a peach. She is expressive, full of life, and full of heart. She is an unrepentant giver for which many have sought to abuse her generosity and take her for granted. She took the bold step to move to New York in a pursuit to further enhance herself and believes you can never stop improving yourself and getting better. She is a bastion of medical knowledge and a first rate caregiver. She sees business opportunities where others see only challenges and has successfully sold cars, sold jewellery, electronics and clothes.

She has an eye for a good bargain and drives herself harder than anyone could logically demand. She seems to grow younger by the year and is a source of great companionship and counsel to her friends, family and neighbours. Her local church has come to depend on her as the go-to person when they need to get things done, and her enthusiasm for service means she will drag every and anyone close to her into her web of service to get the tasks done. She is a great source of inspiration for me and for...

(Look out for the closing part of this post tomorrow)