I just made a major discovery about the importance of the family and the role each person should plays in the life of the another person. I realized that for any relationship to be effective, standing and functional, persons involved must understand the meaning of the concept of a “partner” and “partnership”, “partnership cooperation”, the importance of “boundary recognition”, “boundary appreciation”, and “boundary accommodation”.
You know, according to Littlejohn (1999), as a system, a family embodies qualities such as wholeness and interdependence, hierarchy, change and adaptability, and interchange with the environment, (Yerby et al., 1995) with particular emphasis on the relationship between family members. So we would see that for any relationship to thrive, people must understand that the other person’s option and opinion are relevant even if not strongly familiar.
Recognizing the stand of a partner is the first way to earning the trust of the partner. Consequently, we could begin to talk about reaching an amicable compromise through dialogue and conflict management among other techniques; realizing restrictions such as the social, personal or public proxemics; and space acceptance. In other words, for a relationship to evolve positively, no one member of the relational process should be rigid to a fault even when there is need to stand on the alert, hold a ground, and never bend a factual opinion or tradition.
Hence, I’d end by saying, boundaries are as important as the energy we put into a emotional, behavioral, professional and or even a spiritual process. This is because boundary from a systems perspective, refers to the explicit and implicit rules guiding, and regulating relationship interaction among people, family, and loved ones (Minuchin, 1974). So keep the boundaries tight, flexible though, but tight enough to keep the relationship tighter.
M̶̲̅α̲̅nγ̲̣̣̥ a people carry Various believes, notions, perceptions and claims around about W̶̲̥̅̊ђA̶̲̥̅t †ђξ ideal love should look like. †ђξy subject their reasoning to †ђξ revelation of passion which Ȋ̝̊̅§ also subjected to a time spent, and cage †ђξ truth in †ђξ ideals of knowing by celebrating mockery. W̶̲̥̅̊ђA̶̲̥̅t Ȋ̝̊̅§ more baffling actually, Ȋ̝̊̅§ ♓☺w gallant and rich our pride gets when that which we once adored and nursed. responsibly gradually fades away until we have it no more and ♓☺w restless and carefree we become when something or someone really cares about us, sometimes even to a fault forgetting that it Ȋ̝̊̅§ †ђξ moments that develops passion not performance. All of these and more should lead to †ђξ desire to know if truly we are aware of W̶̲̥̅̊ђA̶̲̥̅t †ђξ ideal love really Ȋ̝̊̅§.
It Ȋ̝̊̅§ essential to establish that ninety-five percent of †ђξ relationships teenagers christen and award total commitment financially, physically and psychologically crash even before they gain root. This Ȋ̝̊̅§ because to †ђξ mass majority, materialism Ȋ̝̊̅§ †ђξ sole route to proper emotional expression. It Ȋ̝̊̅§ believed that as long as one can share with a seeming stranger his or her money, feelings, body and reasoning, a true basis for love has been established. †ђξ rate at which friendships collapse as a result of misinterpretation of affection and as a result of uncontrollable lust and selfishness have drastically risen beyond containable proportion. †ђξ ideals of love that preserved true friendship have today been adulterated by †ђξ desire for sex and thirst for insane adventure. Culture has been banished and replaced by wild discoveries. Love has turned into a weaponry for tears and pain. So where would trust lay tent when deceit’s flag dance confidently in our hearts?
At some point in ones life, †ђξ value placed on true biology Ȋ̝̊̅§ sublime compared to that placed on derived chemistry. In other words, †ђξ preference we give to our family reduces as time pass by and as people with new ideas come our way. †ђξ new girl on †ђξ street with the purple ribbon tied around †ђξ beautifully packed hair, whose smile appears though sinister-like, yet very romantic and unavoidably breath taking becomes †ђξ Cinderella of a time and one’s sister becomes a secondary maiden who Ȋ̝̊̅§ addressed only when Cinderella fall to sleep. †ђξ so called “prof” at school becomes †ђξ world’s greatest for as long as his sight could be caught even if its from afar but †ђξ gut of †ђξ most powerful person in ones life, †ђξ father, becomes as disgusting and irritating as †ђξ pile in man’s intestine. We forget that like †ђξ details in †ђξ tale and myth of Cinderella fades as our days increase and mind develop, our self created fantasy of a queen in a stranger would fade if a balance cannot be established between family and desire,and between true biology and derived chemistry.
Finally, it Ȋ̝̊̅§ essential to state that †ђξ basis for love Ȋ̝̊̅§ communication. Whether intimate or casual relationship, neither Ȋ̝̊̅§ bound to succeed in a situation of faulty communication. Without proper communication, the beautifully graced and alluring young lady who works in a pharmaceutical firm would define †ђξ dirty, filthy scoundrel who treads upon a regular path of a street as insane and invalid, dirty and death bound while on †ђξ other hand, to †ђξ dirty, filthy scoundrel would define †ђξ same lady as selfish and inhumane, wicked and unresolved. However, all these subjective reasoning and shallow minded descriptions could have a definitive conclusion if a basis for communication could be established and facts of existence shared in a polite and comforting conversation. An ideal love craves for memorable moments, and not arcades of performance that could fade away into time.
LOVE ISN’T THIS
I promise you, you have no clue what love is. ‘cos love isn’t the sweetness conjured out of four lustfully locked lips palpating sumptuously the subtleness of two shy tongues tasting as though it were sweet butter mint. Love isn’t a juicy beverage; it isn’t the fondling of ripe oranges moulded in twos against a plain tree-like chest filled with milk only crawlers can milk. It isn’t a shallowness of passion burning with the hoarseness of the fiery furnace but quenched after an exasperating climax ending in minutes( maybe 10minutes or less) with a sonorous solo of temporary satisfaction like a note of a depopulated orchestra void of its conductor.
Love, as I know it is creative stupidity. It is a flourishing wilderness buried in abundance despite drought. It’s a sad happy territory conquered by foolishness but revered in wisdom. It is that excited madman in the jungle, clad in dusty purple jacket, painted in sand and marked by the terrible anger of the dry wind. It is the only feeling fathered by hate and mothered by hope. Love! It is the last ingredient of hope in times of boredom and frustration; it is a decision, mostly generously pointless, yet very critical and tough. Love is me in a distance, when you have run like a toddler in search of the next thing to deep into your throat and I wait praying that you find sweetness instead of nail to encourage your effort.
Love is me in you when away you run and I know you deserve me no more, but still I cannot do without your thought guarding and guiding my every way.
Men forget that being in love isn’t the same as maintaining the love. They forget that a lady may consider you the golden sunset that rids the evening of its basking splendor, but the moment the moon shines in its dimness and the oddity of its brightness strikes their surprised fancy, the purpose of probability and the weight of choice may cause a shift- a major change of heart – that would make the golden sparkle of an evening sunset into haven of greyness and silver caused by night and darkness.
You see, for a sunset to never disappear, the day must forever remain. For the voice of the man to remain the thunder in the times of her windy night, and the storm of the heavy rain of her heart, her frustration must remain the unique twist for her ever present happiness. So that when she says words like ” I don’t want to see you again”, you don’t hear “you are a troubled some of a gun who sees making me upset the only way to remain in charge. I do not want to have you around me; not now, not ever again. Go and never look back cos’ you are a disappointment”. Instead, you interpret her words as ” I am tired! Very tired and although I love it when you are by my side, I think I’d love to be by myself for now. Would you please give me a hug, and tell me everything would be alright and that you would never leave me alone even though you have to go now?
See? Ok! Love is not a curse, it is a process. It is not a reaction, it is an attitude. Although these qualities need both implicit and explicit funding, effective communication at every point of the way serves as a balance that regulates and guilds the process and also embellishes the attitude. For instance, when a lady tells you “No one listens to me anymore” you could only encourage her by understanding that she means ” I am afraid I am boring to you. I am afraid you are no longer interested in me. I seem to be very sensitive at the moment. Would you give me some special attention? I would love it. I’ve had a hard day and feel as though no one wants to hear want I have to say. Would you listen to me and continue to ask me supportive questions such as WHAT HAPPENED TODAY? WHAT ELSE HAPPENED? HOW DID YOU FEEL? WHAT DID YOU WANT? HOW ELSE DO YOU FEEL?”
A lady who talk to you doesn’t talk because she considers herself a liability or wants to be considered thus! In fact many ladies, women or girls of this generation would not want to be treated as infidels. They talk to you about themselves because they care enough about you to talk about themselves. So do me a favour, listen to them. Listen to her, and try not to profer solutions because, then you may present a foolish image of yourself and definitely be missing the point in the process.
I try my best to be a good Christian, and I certainly understand the whole concept of crucifying your flesh, bringing it under your own control rather than vice versa, and ideas like that. Okay, maybe understand is a strong word. Maybe ‘I am familiar with the concept’ is a better way to put it. Anyways, that is not the point. The point is, me and the concept of ‘longsuffering’ and ‘bringing the flesh under subjection’ have been mere acquaintances; acknowledging each other’s existence and occasionally exchanging pleasantries, but for the most part pleasantly ignoring each other. Till Deliverance. Don’t get me wrong. I’m also familiar with the concept of deliverance. I know it comes with vigorous praying which may include but is not limited to curse-breaking, demon-slaying, virtue recovery, and so on. But Deliverance and I are also mere acquaintances; we co-exist on terms which are mutually beneficial. Whenever a deliverance program is on, I simply break my fast after each program. Sometimes, if I’m feeling really pious, I break at five. But the whole idea of avoiding food for days on end? Dear Lord. No. But that all changed after this particular Deliverance. That Sunday, while we were all having dinner, daddy announced, “I hope you all know that there will be a deliverance program this week.” I nodded, still enjoying my meal. “Good. We will all be partaking in the program, and we will follow its terms to the latter. That includes the fasting.” I nodded and continued eating. So I would have no breakfast and lunch tomorrow. Big deal. “Iyanu, how old are you?” my dad suddenly asked. I stopped eating and looked up, surprised. How old am I? What did my age have to do with anything? “I’m fifteen years old, sir,” I replied. “Hmmmm…” my father replied thoughtfully. Then, turning to my mum, “she’s old enough, Folake. I think it’s about time she learned, don’t you think so?” “Yes, dear.” My mum replied. “I agree; she’s old enough.” I looked from one parent to the other, suspicious. What the heck was happening here? My daddy nodded and turned back to me. “Iyanu, I think you’re old enough to join us in the dry fast.” Wait, what? “In fact, I think you should have started long before now. But better late than never. You’re going to join us in fasting tomorrow. So prepare yourself, okay?” Ha. Imagine my consternation. Dry fast ke? Dry… heeeyyyyyy. I panicked. Internally, of course. I was convinced that I was going to die. I’ve seen what dry fast does to my parents; it weakens them, dries them up, completely subdues them. My mum refers to it as a spiritual exercise, one to subdue the flesh and sharpen the spiritual senses. I think it’s more of a spiritual extreme sport; it should be left to the pros. Anyways, you can imagine how my dinner was ruined that night. At the same time, my appetite attained cosmic proportions. I ate, munched, chewed, and basically tried to line my stomach in preparation. Fat lot of good that did. To start with, a stomach ache woke me up in the morning, took me to the toilet, and proceeded to empty my stomach. And so I went off to the first program of the day with a feeling of impending doom. However, that first day wasn’t so bad. We prayed, broke curses, slayed demons, and… yes, some strongmen were also buried. I came back home thinking, ‘hmmm… this isn’t so bad.’ I spoke too soon. By 8 o’clock that night, my chest was throbbing at an alarming rate. By twelve midnight, my temperature was disturbingly high, and I there were black patches over my eyes. I had to take a cold shower before I could get any sleep that night. By the next morning, it was all I could do to drag myself out of bed and go to the program. It was a good thing that daddy drove us to and fro that program, otherwise… I shiver at the thought. Anyways, the second day of the program was a struggle. But the height was the vigil. I couldn’t help thinking how unfair it was; we were not only to be deprived of food, but of sleep too? And the vigil! Oh my God! We did a lot of curse-breaking and releasing. Do you know how stressful those prayers are? Whenever I pray those prayers, my hands hurt for a whole two days after. And now I was supposed to vigorously move my hands up and down as if I was delivering karate chops to an unseen object, all the time shaking my whole body rigorously. At some point, I felt myself going dizzy. I stumbled a bit but quickly found my footing when I heard the voice of a deliverance minister coming dangerously near. However, the whole lack of food and water was beginning to tell on me, and my heart rate was increasing again. At the same time, I felt my knees going weak and quickly sank into a chair. Almost immediately, I heard someone shout, “Don’t be tired!!!The Lord is your strength!!!Stand up and pray!” really close to me, and when I stood up, this person shook me so much I felt my eyes were going to fall out. I couldn’t help glaring at the minister for a bit. Why were they so energetic, anyways? It was obvious they weren’t fasting- no one can go without food and water for two days and be as hyper as they were. Eventually, I had to go back to my prayers. But I couldn’t concentrate anymore. I couldn’t even form the words I was too weak. I felt dizzy again…my heart rate had increased again… ‘fall down and die!’ is the last thing I heard before everything went black. And so I fainted on the deliverance ground. No doubt, they probably thought I was having an Encounter. I wasn’t. I was just Tired. And thus ends the tale of my first encounter with Deliverance. With a capital D! Ayowande Adekunle
And in the beginning, there was a kingdom where I lived as a king without crown. No! I was a god with no earth who sneezed and every being therein caught the cold. It was named Odumuyiwa for a reason, a kingdom laced with power and prestige, but at the sight of my being, every logic was caged and every flair was suspended for the sound of my voice was like a rushing wind echoing from a distance that at the call of a single being, the multitude responded in turns. I was the all powerful, the mighty and the all belligerent, the herbalist who dined with the devil at sunset and told the tale at moonlight to the demons, the woods and the animals with multiple heads. I made the kings, I upset the thrones, I watered many to weeds to growth, and spake other to their deaths. But unfortunately, I knew I needed more, for the witch only flies because her wings haven’t been pecked by the clippers’ pin. And only until I become immortal would the fear of me be total and my defeat, impossible.
I couldn’t rest, I couldn’t help but be fretful like a grumpy frozen wolf lost into the wild of the arctic. Truthfully, I was powerful, but the dissatisfaction of morality created in my gut a vacuum as large as hell’s bottomless pit. And the more I conquered heads of royality for the sake of creating a moral justification for my morality, the more I am sure that the blissfulness of life is renegade and limited to the flow of blood into the brain or heart. I knew that since I could feel; pain, love, hate, hurt, i could be caught. Hence, it became obvious to me that unless I have conquered death itself, I have conquered nothing, so my quest must remain unfinished. Yet I loved the spill of their blood, I loved the gnashing of their teeth. They were weak and I hated them for making me know how weak I could be if or when defeated, so I killed as many weaknesses in me by killing as many humans I encountered. Oh! I conquered villages! Like a beastly tiger at large, going on the pilgrimage of its deadly hunt I conquered from all quarters because I wanted to rule deep into the reach of my sight and tall into the length of my feet. So I took wars far north and east of Odumuyiwa and won far south and west, cruising like Lancelot, the honorable knight of Camelot until that moment that I won that battle that made me lose the war.
He was an old man without style leading his clan with the finesse of a champion. He never cries, he never wails, he was like the stubborn grass of the dry season void of water but at war with its death. The king of a small village whose weaponry is the words he spoke and the tears he does not shed. To this village without name, pain was a fascinating brain, a curse for eternity to which they are zain and affectionately inclined. I was anxious to defeat it, to hold it captive, make its people desolate and at the met y of my grace. Oh! I charged like a cheetah unto the antelope who has chosen never to run, destroyed their farms, burned their huts and waiting for them to beg for mercy. But instead, I met a wall of crushed defenses confident even unto its death without a word of apology or plea. They smiled like the war was a call for victory and at the sound of my rants and pantry screams, they laug. Fhed at their loose.
Then he began to speak- the man whose village was without name began to speak so loudly that he could not be stopped. He ozzed with the confidence of the mummy; a dead man walking whose only value are the words he pronounced. With a voice like the husky trump bone he rendered the advise that wouldn’t be yielded. He said ” you people of vintage vision have come like the sand upon this sad sands, you have destroyed all things like a volcano on the mountain top. You are shocking fools of the moment with mere strength left to be proud of. You have come like a wolf on raid of the flocks, like we are the type of flock without a candid shepherd”. He chuckled, as though he had more to say, looked into our eyes in search of a fear he surely found because his laughter rose after he had set eyes upon us. He continued, repeating those words with a conviction that it would be his last and I must confess, it shouldn’t have been his last, even though I enjoyed the spill of his blood on the turf gulping out like palm wine escaping from the wrecked tapper’s keg “the more you see, the less you know!”. He was landed a strong blow of dagger into his throat, and it felt good because the cry of victory that rose across my camp was not as familiar as others heard and although they were small, their defeat seemed more significant for reasons unknown. I was proud of my General and certain at the same time that he was the dumpest proud man I’d ever meet unless I become immortal.
Now it dawned on me that the most realistic illusion was a pin in the rib I cannot shy away from. The old man’s throat had been slit like a ram in Ramadan and instead of the gladness of victory overwhelming my wit, I felt deep down, a sort of fear I cannot explain even when I repent and become the most saintly sinner ever know to the human race. He would soon appear, I could feel it, the one that I cannot mention his name, the one I do not know! He would soon choke me with the sword, with the glove and the wooded coffin. I could feel the end drawing nearer like a movie in fast forward mode and I was so afraid that I knew it; ashamed and I hated it. I have to be ready for the war, Now it is looming vicariously and I must be ready. My bloody soldiers who are clothe in black and death are ready to die, for without my life they are dead to life, and in my death they would be dead as death itself. So I owe then an honorable death like the Spartan’s 300 at the Trojan war or a victory like the capitalists in the terrain of Venice who are beautiful and subliminal in all ramifications. At Attention!! they stand waiting patiently for the call of their lord, a father who had never failed them. Their gravest woo befall them, and in excitement they fret and hope. But suddenly it sounded marvelously loud; the bang of the century that no one could trivialize. It was like rapture in my ears, so scary and real just that it was no rapture, it was a slap-like bang on my calumny face. I’d probably been sleeping too much that only a miraculous slap could raise my death-like self from the aching bed. Wow! It had all been a dream and it was over. In the gravest fury of a lifetime I turned like a beastly herbalist ready to devour it foolish prey. Lo and behold! It was my mother that stood above my head with a wooded turner. “Would you get your lazy ass out of that bed and go throw the trash before I break you head?* she said.
There are only two types of people in this world, the horses and the tigers and in my opinion, women are the horses while men are tigers. But don’t get me wrong, there are some women that are men and vice versa. Either ways, what I’m about to discuss fits correctly to whichever faction you find yourself.
A woman is like the Horse, she is aggressive, wild, and cautious but at the same time, like a horse, she’s controllable and tameable. At many times in the formative stages of the wild horse, it feels the need to never be maimed either psychologically or physiologically, so it builds its defenses around its most priced strenghts which are its rock solid indestructible heels and the breath taking impossible speed which sometimes are hard lucked flaws that could be catastrophic. A woman is like a horse, whose strengths are her being and her deception and like this honourable animal, she possesses a rare trait called the insight which is a weapon limited by the reach and the richness of the emotion and tact. This is because these emotions and tacts could be made fussy by situations, could be limited by experience and could be clouded by the helms of sentiments. She’s like the Arabian thoroughbred Darley on the course of Ascot in England, threatened by her jockey to move faster than her counterparts and pace. But unfortunately, no matter how determined a Darley get, it is only going to move as fast as a thoroughbred Darley, not more only less. A woman is driven by insight, so she could only get hurt as much as she can hurt which in many cases is a lot.
On the other hand, a man is like a Tiger, it is cunny, swift, angry, silent and predictable. The tiger lives for the hunt and even when the game is beyond its reach, it believes its strength is sufficient to keep him bold and free no matter what the end play may present. It cannot afford to be tamed or drained of its wit, so when caught in the limbo of unawareness, its wails are bitter and touchy. But It aches more for the loss of its freedom and control than the possible loss of a limb for whence its swiftness is pronounced and deadly. A man is like a tiger, proud and confident for his strength lies in his ability to foresee. Once the forest becomes too plain, like a tiger, he senses a threat where the horse senses an opportunity for a flight. It then waits silently for the manifestation of the woe but when it see non, its rage increases because life for a man is like a chess game where no champion ever loses territory without a purpose. That is why the strength of a man is his weakness for his game sometimes moves faster than his plan; for every tiger dies in the hand of his territory and the day a lone tiger attacks the gentle elephant, that day it meets its end like the arrow meets the heart of the knight riding the desert’s champion; the camel.
This is why when a man meets a woman, he senses an aura, unique and splendidly admirable for the wellbeing of his pride from a distance, and like a tiger, silently and dangerously he attacks the neck, not to kill, but with the sole hope that she might never escape again cos her her heart is all he wants to capture like the bushman does his daffodil in the thick forest where everything is thorn to its skin but the lovely smell of the rear Floweret. If he is lucky, he wins, then an empire, he establishes around her that she may glow like the beauty of the sun and that her grace may flourish in his sight like the hay of the valley at winter. He channels his rage to chase away every beastly entry, for he foresees every possible terror, and from a distance sees off every attack, warns his woman against them, but her vision is within, so she sees only that which she can reach. She does not know that the world is of two creatures, her like, the horses and the field for his like, the tigers who are ready to kill her tiger to prove a point that every territory can be invaded cos even the mightiest beast much perish. Maybe her insight would protect her, maybe not, but most times, it takes a better TIGER to win the battle of HORSES.