For many Africans, marriage is serious business. Many women want to wear that white gown. While many guys have resigned to the idea , that to be taken seriously as responsible members of African society, they should be married. But, what happens when a marriage goes awry and the woman decides that she wants to go it on her own.

Dear Diary,

I sit here at my desk writing the story of my past.  My phone keeps on ringing and the receptionist is doing his best to get my attention.  From my window, I can view the busy streets; I believe the children are out of school.  My life who could have imagined?  I have been silent for so long but each day, the urge to take my pen to paper becomes stronger.  I find myself often scribbling aimlessly on every piece of  paper as I wonder often if the letters often placed everywhere will come together to form words.  But, today, I think we will be lucky.  I see the words coming together, forming to tell a story, my story.  We often forget, that untold story can hold you prisoner until you start spilling it out one by one - either through your friends or maybe through crafting words, in the same way - a sculptor sees a piece of wood and turns it into something either beautiful or ugly.  It is often important to take a break, to feel refreshed to tell your story, your own way and your own pace.  The journey that is my life is quite hilarious now when one looks back.  Who could  have imagined that getting off at the wrong bus stop could lead to the pre awakening of independence? A sense of purpose not dictated by my ‘territorial’ Yvonne. Love you!

I remember.  I  was lost in thought and I had gotten on the wrong bus going into the wrong part of town.  Getting off the bus, I figured all I needed to do was just get back on the bus heading off in the right direction  but this neighborhood was very different from mine.  Though now, in retrospect I can say that though  I lived in a low income neighborhood with my spouse but at least we were surrounded by immigrants who had been wealthy in their home country but this place was worse than dirt.  Dirt littered the streets, the mangy dogs walked around , papers were flying wildly, garbage littered the streets with loud noises emanating from the loud music from cars and the rough looking Hispanic men that seemed to be loitering or hanging out on street corners.  I was scared and I found my mind going to reasons why I could possibly love my ex. (NOT). Just the thought that I won’t ever see that familiar face ever again got me scared.  I did n’t know what to do.  Where was I?  This was a neighborhood situated by many who have lost their way or lost their souls.  The man walking towards me was definitely one of those lost souls.  As he walked towards me, I could smell him, the strong smell of ganja, alcohol and dirt wafted to me.  His haggard, bent look of desolation got to me.  I swear, I could see fleas in  his haggard beard but he kept on walking towards me.

“ Bloody immigrant, would you move?” and then he muttered in what seemed to be a strange language.  He was my shade of Pecan brown, he could pass for my cousin without the beard and definitely not the smell of alcohol or dirt.

  “ What are you standing there for?”  . I silently cursed the public transportation system.  "Where was the bus when you needed it?"

  “ I am lost”. I responded timidly.

“I am lost” he mimicked in a high pitch voice.  Possibly trying to replicate my voice. 

“ You aren’t lost, you are found little one”.  He started laughing and walked away.

I was ready to run and then I felt a strong hold on my  hand, looking down at dirty fingernails, a scream rose up and  just got caught in my throat. 

“ You aren’t lost little one, you are found, your start is at the right” He let go and left singing a strange song that sounded like a mixture of Patois, English and something else.  I took to my heels, running as if my life depended on it.  Running until I found myself in an alley and to the right of the alley was a training center with an ad that read, “looking for quick money, flexible schedule, training available  walk in”.

I felt petrified as I stood right in front of the training center.  Though, I had never considered it, it was just as if something was rising within me telling me that this might be the way in which I can get my own.  Have my own money without completely depending on the good will or happy mood of a constantly disappearing ex spouse.   I walked in and met a dour receptionist.

He seemed to be looking for an opportunity to SNAP.

“I will like to fill out an application, I want to be trained”.  I said with confidence that I did not feel.

“ Great!, another stupid one” he said.
“sir, I saw the ad that you placed outside and I will like to fill out an application”  I repeated less confidently.
“First you have to take a test and then you fill out the application”
I was not prepared for a test.  I hate tests. But, just the chance to have my own proved bigger than the fear I had for tests.  I took the test and there my covet life began.