This blog was created to serve as an inspiration to all who read aspire, to love and to live a life of purpose.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

The Event of August 29, 2002. That Fateful Day.

August 29, 2002
The list book. It was still sitting on the side stool. The list book. The one I placed beside my dad’s favorite chair. It was still there. It had moved slightly in position. So he had seen it. If so, then he must’ve left money inside. I grabbed the book and flipped the pages. No money. So I stormed towards my parent’s bedroom, dragging my 14 year old body along with me.
As I neared the door, it swung open, the weight of the sling crying as if to notify me that the king was coming out.  My Daddy emerged in his work pants and a blue singlet (tank) I hadn’t seen before. But I ignored it.
Him: Morning!
Me: Good Morning Daddy
Him: You didn’t even compliment my new singlet. How does it look? Your brother bought it for me.
He was beaming proudly in an incredibly jovial attitude.

I took a mental note to tell my big brother Uzo to buy Daddy more singlets. Then, I continued.
Me: Yea Daddy its nice
It really was nice but The list. That’s what was on my mind.
He grabbed his ritual morning pawpaw juice and headed back into the room. I followed.  Mommy had just finished packing a suitcase for his trip to Zimbabwe the next day where he was to receive some Publisher’s award.
Mom: Choko, are you ready? If you’re not, the driver can drop you off later. Because I’m running late to my workshop.
She was referring to her dropping me off at the French class I had spent the summer taking. I really didn’t understand why my parents didn’t buy me a ticket to the U.S. for summer vacation like I’d become accustomed to. After all, my mom was spending the summer there with my older siblings; why couldn’t I just go with her?
This particular summer, my dad had insisted I spend the summer with him while my mom was away in the U.S. and attend French classes. I was furious but I survived the summer. In fact, I enjoyed the summer I spent with my daddy. My hero. We had a lot of good conversations that summer....the knowledge he impacted on me, I could never forget. Mommy had gone to the U.S. and come back. Summer was over. Now, my focus had turned to starting S.S. 2 (11th grade) in a few days. 
Me: I am ready Mommy. But I have something to bug daddy about.
I turned to him.
Daddy, I’m going back to school in two days and you haven’t even given me money for my provisions but I see you have seen the list.
He laughed. Like only him could.
Him: Don’t worry. When I get back from work, we’ll look at it together. Wait up for me. Don’t worry.
Me: Hmmmm Mommy you have heard him. Daddy, I’ll hold you to your word o.
They both laughed.
Mommy: Ngwa let’s go.
Me: Bye Daddy
Him: Bye
No hugs. Mommy and I just hurried out the door, down the steps and into the car.
My day was ordinary. Nothing special happened. Scratch that. My day “seemed” ordinary. Daddy wasn’t able to pick me up after lesson because he was busy preparing for his trip the next day. He sent the driver instead.
I was starting to feel sleepy but determined to wait up for Daddy like we agreed, I refused to give in to nature’s beckon. I wasn’t going to let my daddy come home and go to bed without getting the money I needed.
As Mommy and my aunt settled in the living room to watch the 9pm NTA news and my younger siblings climbed into their bed for the night, I tried to keep busy, to stay awake. I listened to music and packed a bit for school.
I had just strolled past the parlor in another attempt to stay awake. When I walked back into my room…….
*Gunshots* It was coming from outside.
*Screams* Those were coming from inside. The parlor.
I did the first thing I saw in American movies. I lay down on the floor.
About 50 seconds passed.
Then it was over. Just like it started. I was in disbelief. Our street was one of the safest in the town. This is the first time, anything out of the ordinary happened. In fact, this was the first time, I had heard live gunshots in my life.
My mom ran to me.
Mom: Baby, are you okay?
Me: Yes Mommy
Mom: Please call your dad. He's at your Uncle’s Arthur’s. Tell him people are shooting on our street and to just spend the night there.
I hurriedly ran to the black house phone.
2 minutes later.
Me: Mommy, Uncle said Daddy already left o.
Everyone laid on the floor again.
*Tires screeching as a car drove away*
When it was over, Mommy didn’t say anything. She just rushed to her cell phone and started dialing my dad’s cell phone.
Mom: I’ll try his MTN. Try the Nitel okay?
Me: Okay.
I obediently and fervently dialed my dad’s phones as I was told.
My hero didn’t pick any of his cell phones that night. I worried because my dad picked my mom’s calls regardless of where he was.
10 minutes later, my mom called out to the gateman Elisha to ask what happened. 

He said "Madam, policemen came and released shots and left". 

Another quiet 10 minutes passed. 

Then the neighbor called to say he saw someone lying in front of our gate. 

My mom then called out to Elisha again to ask if he could see anyone through his window. He looked out the window and said he saw a skinny and light-skinned person lying there. We asked what he was wearing. He said white.
My dad isn’t light skinned. So we stopped worrying that he was involved at all. Instead, we worried that it was someone who needed help.
Then, my mom called her older brother who said he just spoke to my dad and that he was on his way home. He also advised that we go help whoever was out there while he tried to call my dad’s cell phones. We decided it was best to go together.
It was myself, my mom, my aunt and my maternal grandma who walked outside.
I rushed ahead of everyone else. As soon as I stepped outside the gate, I spotted the shoe.
The shoe. My dad had one like that.
I held it up and screamed "Mommy, daddy's shoe!" to my mom who was directly behind me. 

Then I put it down quickly convincing myself it couldn’t be his. 

After all, he couldn’t own the only pair in the world.

My mom ran back to the garage to pull out the car to transport "whoever it was" to the hospital while I walked closer, throwing caution to the wind; my 14 year old mind had given way to a more mature curious mind. I just wanted to know who it was. I’m lying; I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t my beloved.
When I reached him, I screamed. I jolted him. I begged him to wake up. 

but I didn't cry. 

I couldn't cry. 

I just tugged on him and asked him to tell me what happened. I told him not to go like this. I told him he couldn't go like this. His cell phone was in his bloody hands. He must have been trying to pick up my mom’s calls- Like we trusted he always did.
My grandma and aunt walked up to me and saw what I saw.
Before they could react, they noticed my mom’s car driving towards us. When I heard my mom’s car pulling up, I suddenly became speechless and motionless.
“Who is it?” She queried cluelessly.
No one spoke a word as she got out the car only to see the love of her life lying in his own pool of blood.
“Chim o! (My God). Victor!” She screamed his name. Her voice wreaked of anguish.
We carried him into the backseat of the car and she sped off with my aunt in the front seat in a haste, while I went in the house to promise God everything I had or could obtain. 
That night, I lifted up my blood-stained hands to God in plea. I promised Him that if He saved my dad, I’d even become a nun. I told Him I’d do anything if He could just save my hero for me. I even promised Him things I knew were impossible. I pleaded. All I wanted was this one favor. I told Him if He saved my dad, I’d never ask for anything other thing in life.
My dad died that night. It was only one bullet that ended it. On August 29, 2002, someone shot and killed the man I loved first, and left him for us to find.
Apparently, that night my mom took him to 3 hospitals, none of which had any doctors available. One of the hospitals wouldn’t even open the gate without identification. How was a woman who found her husband shot at 10pm at night going to have to his ID on her? They claimed they had a policy of getting clearance from the Chief Medical Officer or a police report before admitting a car into the premises. Yes people, they wanted us to take the man dying in the backseat to get a police report first before attending to him. They didn't even know who he was.

It was the last hospital that pronounced him dead after they finally agreed to assess him.
That night, 10 years ago, a big tree fell. That night, as I waited for him to come home to give me money for my school provisions, my life was being changed. That night, I lost the first man who told me I could be whatever I wanted to be….The first man who believed in me. But that night, I gained an angel. I gained inspiration to live the life I’m living now.
So, today, I’m not mourning 10 years without my father; I’m celebrating 10 years of living under his angelic watch. That’s why I’m telling the world this story. 

I do not write this story to seek revenge because I believe in a God that avenges the pain of His believers. I do not tell you this story to admonish the Nigerian police for never bringing anyone to justice on this hideous crime because even though I can blame them for a host of other deficiencies, I do not blame them for their ignorance as to the caliber of man who was lost on August 29, 2002.  Today, I could spend my time cursing my home country for letting their inadequacies cost the life of a man loved by many, a peaceful man who lived a life of caution, a man who left behind a widow with 7 children, but I won’t waste my time telling a country what it already knows. I refuse to waste time hating the country either because I still love it, just for being home. Instead, today, I still refuse to call it what the media called it “The Assassination of Victor Nwankwo” because I hate the word “assassination” the same way I hated it 10 years ago. I’m sticking to calling it a “tremendous and unfortunate loss”. Even that, doesn't cut it. 
 If you wanted the press version, you could google his name. This one by Guardian describes him this way...
"Nwankwo was a quiet, good-natured, fair-minded and exceptionally level-headed man. His immediate and extended family were central to his life and brought him much happiness."  
You may even find tributes from his colleagues like this one or this one from APNET (African Publishers Network).  You may also find something like this one which weeps for justice for him.
But my own version is that of a 14 year old girl who found her hero lifeless. I wanted to tell the story on this significant milestone, so you could see this event like I saw it, from the eyes of a 14 year old.  I write this story so you could know the human being behind this blog. I hope after you read this story, you will gain an insight into why I am and will always be “NwaVic” father's daughter. Without this post, this won't be complete because you won't know why it was named so.
Today, I’m acknowledging and appreciating the woman who has played mother and father for the past 10 years. I salute the woman, meek in appearance but strong in spirit beyond her years; A woman who has held down the ship for 10 years without missing a beat. The woman who has ensured, to the best of her ability, that none of her children lack in any way or even slightly feel the absence of a father. In the same sense, I hail my siblings for our loss wasn’t one of separation but one of unity….for never ending a phone call or meeting without “I love you” and a hug. 

Today, I hail the clan...Mommy, Uzo, Oby, Ogo, Nazo, Dera and Kennedy.....for our tragedy has become our triumph.  

Today and always, I pay tribute to my first love. Despite death, you are still and always will be a "Victor".

And as long as I breathe, you WILL be celebrated.

We love and miss you Daddy. 

“Each day’s a gift…Each loved one is a treasure. Live, love and appreciate...while you can”
The clan. December 2001. The last "complete" family picture.

Stay Inspired….

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

7 Keys to a Successful Marriage ~ Pastor Agu Irukwu

In Tinapa, Calabar, I heard one of the few wedding sermons that kept 100% of my attention the entire time.

When Pastor Agu Irukwu of Jesus House mounted the pulpit, my baby sisters and I were distracted by the scenery outside and were hushly discussing how the whole family needed to come back to Calabar for our next family vacation. Within a minute, I was shushing the conversation as the subject of the sermon peaked my interest.

Although I'm yet to be married, the ingredients of a successful marriage is one that always get my attention. Honestly, anything about the sacred matrimony gets my attention. Because I want to know how to do it right, when I get in it. Because I saw my parents do it right, I know its doable.

Pastor Irukwu spoke with a certain authority that could only come from a man who had tried, tested and proven the words he spoke. This was supported by his vividly described stories of his own marriage. I was intrigued, I was inspired and before I knew it, I took out my blackberry and started to take notes. My mom looked at me and smiled. We all know what that smile meant. hehehe

Needless to say, I walked away with his words in my head. And you and I know that whatever has an impact on my psyche ends up on here.

Even if you're not married but are in a long-term relationship, or even planning/hoping to be in one, I'm sure there's something here for you as well.

Hope you like :-)

To make a marriage work....

1. Love each other- Not love as in feelings or emotions. Love is more than that. Love in marriage is a decision that leads to commitment. It requires patience. Once you have decided that this is the person you want to grow old with, "decisively" love them.

2. Both husband and wife must understand that you are different individuals. God designed each individual differently. Your partner should be your helper. Being a helper is a complimentary role. Those who have successful marriages are good managers because they learn to "manage" each other well.

3. Learn to communicate with each other. Women need to talk. Men need to listen. Men have to learn what women really mean when they say certain things. Women speak in codes. Once a husband learns to speak his wife's language, he will better understand her.

For e.g., when she says "You don't love me anymore", she doesn't literally mean that. Thus, there's no need to list to her all the things you have done and bought for her as her husband as proof of your love for her. What she really means is "at this moment, I don't feel as loved as I used to." The solution is to show her affection and assure you are hers for keeps.

In the same way, when a man enters his cave, it doesn't mean he doesn't want to hang out with his wife. It just means he needs to process something. As his wife, do not go inside. Stay at the door and let him know that you're waiting there, appreciate that he needs his "cave-time" but that you're there if he needs to talk.

(Did I hear someone scream "Gospel"?!?....Never mind, that was my mind :-))

4. Respect and Appreciate each other. Never take your partner for granted. Say thank you for the simple things. Thank your wife for cooking. Thank your husband for paying the children's school feees. Thank your wife for ironing your clothes. Thank your husband for picking up a small gift for you on his way back from a business trip. Say very often- "I appreciate you". Don't underestimate how that simple sentence can change things.

5. The sole purpose for marriage is a "one-ness". When God adds 1 + 1, it equals 1, not 2. Before you make any major life decision, ask yourself "Is what I'm about to do one step towards oneness or one step away from it?". If its the latter, don't do it.

6. Draw boundaries in your marriage- spoken and unspoken. Words are like eggs; once you drop/break them, you can never put it back together. Avoid verbal abuse. Remain accountable for your words/actions in your marriage.

7. Ensure that you have a healthy sexual life. Marriage means that you own each other's body. Husbands must be benevolent- kind and considerate. Both partners must put the other person's needs first.

And that's it...What do you think?

I googled and found Pastor Irukwu's blog.  Here it is.

Stay Inspired.....

A Gorgeous Wedding in a Gorgeous Location ~ Tinapa Calabar

I'd always heard that Calabar, (Cross-River State) Nigeria was a must-visit. My mom frequents it and my baby sisters had been once. I'd always wanted to go, so when we received a wedding invitation from a close family friend Ijeoma and it read "Venue: Tinapa, Calabar", I was alllll in and a bag of chips. My excitement knew no bounds.

Upon arrival at Tinapa Lakeside Hotel, my excitement was validated.

The scenery was breathtaking, the hotel was wayyyy above "standard" and the wedding was breathtakingingly classy. In fact, the whole thing was giving me all kinds of unconventional ideas *lips sealed* ;-)

The sermon at the wedding was soo inspiring (read it here.). In fact, the whole experience was one I'd never forget. What I regret is that I was busy having so much fun, I didn't take as many pictures for you as should. I'll let the few pictures I "did" take tell the story for me.

By the way, this has to be the only wedding I've been to in Nigeria, that wasn't crowded.

Enjoy :-)


Excited me :-)
Hotel Lounge

Family :-)

Pre-wedding barbeque/comedy show at the waterpark

This comedian was hilarious
My mommie & I :-)

Wedding Ceremony

Happy Bride :-) 
She's so pretty
Sitting on air hehehe
Mom & Baby sis
Mom & I  
Baby sis #1

The beautiful bride & I

Baby Sis #2

The Reception

Post-Wedding Affairs

Good-bye Tinapa....

 Congrats Ijeoma and Henry!

Stay Inspired.....

Friday, August 24, 2012

The Beggar and My Camera

Hey Guys,
Happy Friday!  My sincere apologies for my MIA (Missing-in-Action)-ness. I’ve had quite an interesting past couple of weeks and I can’t wait to tell you all about it.
First and foremost, I lost my camera in Lagos. Alongside all the pictures I promised you. Of Monrovia. Of Lagos. And of everything in between. :-( :-( :-(
Although my mother thinks differently, I’m convinced the loss of my camera isn’t ordinary. For those who believe in “other” powers, what I’m about to tell you will make sense. To others, I’ll seem to be nothing more than a superstitious blogger.
It was a sunny afternoon. My ink-smeared calendar read that I had barely 2 days left in Monrovia. I was happy, not only because the end was nigh. But also because considering the extremely moody weather I had been experiencing in Liberia, the sun seemed to have come out to say good-bye.
So we took a walk to the Monrovian market. It was as crazy as Ogbete market in Enugu, Nigeria. Maybecrazier. My ears were being traumatized by uncoordinated car horns. My nose was being punished by the smell of stale poodles of brown water mixed with all sorts of food. I held onto my sling bag as I continuously attempted to avoid everything “dirty”.
We had barely settled into the clustered yet crowded fabric store when a woman came to beg for money. She was carrying a child who seemed to be about a year old. She was breastfeeding this child as she begged for money. Her breasts were out and as the child had his fill, she stood barely 2 inches away from us begging for money. I didn’t have change so I told her so. So did everyone else.
That wasn’t enough.
She stood there relentlessly. I said nicely again that we didn’t have change. Then she brought herself and her breast closer as she begged. I couldn’t even understand the words she spoke. So I turned away in an attempt to focus on a pink material I was considering for a long gown.
Then she poked me.
I turned and said “please stop touching me”. She brought herself and her breast even closer. I turned away again. She grabbed me this time. I turned and said, “please don’t touch me”.
Then I had an idea. The idea that I believe stole my camera away from me. I pulled my beloved pink Canon (Hailey, that’s her name) out and threatened to take a picture if she won’t go away. When she refused to heed my threat, I took one picture. Then another.
She didn’t budge. So I gave up and returned to considering the pink material with the brown circles.
The next time my attention was called, the woman with the breasts in her child’s mouth, out in the open market was saying something really loud. She was cursing at me. I couldn’t hear everything she said thanks to the thick Liberian accent but I heard “wherever you take that camera and my picture to” and everything else, which seemed like a curse. I kept saying “back to sender”.
I deleted the pictures from Hailey before I left the Monrovian market that day. But the image of the woman who put her breasts in my face was never deleted from my mind. I worried. I have never been cursed. At least to my face. So I wondered what her cause meant. Everyone I told said I shouldn’t worry about it. So, I let it go.
Fast forward 9 days in Lagos Nigeria. Using a hired taxi, I met up with some high school friends and saw the movie Last Flight to Abuja, with my two baby sisters Dera and Nazo. On our way back to my aunt’s house, Dera and I exchanged Hailey several times trying to get good shots of the Lagos traffic and all its interesting features. After 2 hours in Lagos traffic, we got to my aunt’s. My baby sisters quickly exited the taxi into the house while I struggled to gather my belongings. The driver handed me my car charger as I stuffed what seemed to be my phone and Hailey into my already full sling bag.
I wasn’t paying full attention as I got out the car when I heard something fall into the car. But before I could complain, the driver handed me my phone. I told him I thought I had Hailey as well and I quickly set my things aside to look for her. 

Just as I was about to move the front seat, where I heard her fall, Nazo came out the house to inquire as to why I hadn’t come in.
Me: I’m looking for my camera. I think it fell.
Nazo: Dera has it.
So I stopped looking, without question. Without doubt. I entered the house at peace believeing Hailey was safe. Weirdly enough, we didn’t talk about it till the next day when my mom suggested I take a picture of a unique scenery.
Me: Dera pass me my camera
Dera: I don’t have it.
I thought I didn’t hear her.
Me: Huh?
Dera: I don’t have your camera. You have your camera.
Apparently, Nazo assumed if I didn’t have it, then Dera did because we had been exchanging it in the car.
Dial. Ringing.
Me: Hi Driver, How are you?
Driver: Im fine. Thank you.
Me: Please I think I left my camera in your car. Please can you check for it.
Driver: Its not there. Your sister said your other sister had it.
Me: How can you conclude that without looking?
Driver: Ehhhh?
Me: Please just look for it for me. I have over 200 pictures on it.
Driver: Ok.
5 minutes.
Dial. Ringing.
Me: Did you find it?
Driver: No its not here.
That’s how Hailey got lost or that’s how Hailey got stolen. Or that’s how Hailey got sold. Only Hailey knows what happened to her.
For days, it hurt. I really didn’t know who to blame. Myself, because I should’ve continued looking, anyway. Myself, because I was so close to finding Hailey. Nazo, for saying something she wasn’t sure of. Myself for not asking Nazo to go inside and ask Dera while the car was still there. Myself, for not asking Dera after we came inside the house.
Or the beggar who was breastfeeding her child in my face.

What do you think?

Have a blast-filled weekend! 

Stay Inspired.....

7 Things You Don’t Know about Women and Work ~Penelope

Came across this article on Penelope Trunk's blog. Found it interesting and worth a re-blog.

Is there any truth to this?

One of the earliest pieces of advice I got when I started getting paid to write was to not write about women. So I have spent a good part of my career trying to figure out how much of myself to put in the picture.
My first monthly column was in Business 2.0 magazine, and every time I wrote about women my editor deleted the section. When I insisted on writing about what it’s like to be pregnant  he fired me and suggested that I try to write for Yahoo’s women section.

I didn’t, of course. I wrote for their finance section, because that’s where you get paid the most. And they fired me because the stuff I wrote geared toward women was off-topic.

When I negotiated my first book deal, I had to present a ton of metrics to show that my audience was half men.
And when I was just writing for myself on my own blog, and I could write about whatever I want, I realized that if I wrote about women and sex, men would stick with me through the women stuff. (Here’s a link to women and sex for men who are about to give up on this post.)

This is all to say that today’s post is death to professional writing. The more I write about women the more career trouble I have. But people send me tons of great research about women and work, and it piles up, because I get scared to write too many posts about women.
Here’s the best from my pile:

1. Women make the best fighters. I have documented this on a small scale with my bickering at work and at home. However now it’s clear that this goes beyond psychic war: Women are more ruthless in life-or-death battle than men are as well. This research comes from the Council on Foreign Relations. In an interview with a retired Colombian colonel about his experiences fighting female members of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), he said that any sensible soldier would shoot the women first. The women had a “Kamakaze-like mentality” that made them the most deadly opponents.

2. Women keep other women from getting ahead. I know you know this intuitively, but here’s research to back your intuition: Young human resource employees have a bias against interviewing pretty young women. Bradley Ruffle,economist at Ben-Gurion University,  attributes this tendency to our evolutionary goal of competing against other women.

Also, women enjoy being the only woman in their arena, according to research from Michelle Duguid, professor of organizational behavior at Washington University, (via The Economist). Women see their solo stature as special (a perception which is likely valid) and women are likely to balk at adding another woman when they are the token woman.

3. US women would rather clean than take care of kids. It turns out that social pressure in the US to work full time is as bad as social pressure to be thin.
It’s true that women are leaving the workforce in droves to take care of their kids. But polls show they’d rather work part-time. In case you thought some women were born to stay home and take care of kids, most find it difficult but they do it anyway. How do we know? Economist Daniel Kahneman writes, in his book Thinking Fast and Slow, that it’s more pleasant for women to mop the floor than take care of kids.

Which is why I bought a $300 vacuum cleaner. Because there is something really pleasing about being able to turn on the vacuum and clean things up. Whereas the efforts I put into my kids at any given moment often turn out to be useless.

4. Dutch women work part-time and don’t care that they have no power. Seventy-five percent of women who work in the US work full-time. And they say they don’t want to, according to Pew Research. Their instinct is right that they will feel better. We know this because Dutch women work part-time and they are happier, according to a piece by Jessica Olien, in Salon. Very few Dutch women work full-time and very few say they want to.
It turns out that the real barrier to women being happy with their choices is women feeling okay with a sub-par career. Which is not surprising. Women like being high achievers. Look at school: women are outscoring men to the point that it’s easier to get into college if you’re male.  Women graduate college at a higher rate than men and women earn more than men in their 20s. It’s crushing for women to get accolades their whole life and then give it up.

5. Canadian women feel pressure to leave work for one year for each new child. Can you imagine the US workforce if our culture said taking leave from work is what successful women do? The woman who’s the director of development for my reality TV show is from Canada, and she just came back from a year-long maternity leave. When I commented about what a big deal that is, she said that in Canada maternity leave is state funded, so people wonder what’s wrong with you if you don’t take it.
When we talk about what cultural pressures women have, I think the biggest one is to perform at a high level in the workplace. But the workplace for high achievers is absolutely not set up for people with children.

6. US Moms who launch startups have rich husbands. The hardest part of a startup is the long hours coupled with insane instability. Which means that most women have no interest in startups.
However, a startup is the perfect way to have control over your work life and still have interesting work if you can fund the startup yourself. The New York Times has an article about this that is full of good examples of moms who are using a startup this way.

The average age for a first-time entrepreneur is 39. Women who do this and have kids are women who have rich husbands. Why? Because women would not do a risky venture like a startup if they were risking money they needed to put a house over their kids’ heads. Women would not do a startup if they couldn’t afford full-time child care. And women would not have a career big enough to fund a startup themselves if they also had young kids.
What if you don’t have a rich husband? Have kids early, wait until they are grown up, and then do a startup.

7. Most women don’t care about being right. They want to be liked. The majority of women have an F in their Myers Briggs score, which means they care more about feelings than ideas. I am not burdened with this F trait. In fact, like most entrepreneurs, I care more about being right than earning money. Which is why I can throw caution to the wind and continue writing about women. And maybe it’s okay that I keep losing gigs because I write about women, because earning a lot of money makes you mean, and that’s true for men as well as women.

*Culled from here.

Stay Inspired....