4.09.2019

Le Boudoir : The Gallery Wall.

Pinterest Goals Or Nah?


When I first updated my bedroom a few years ago, I went all out 2015 fashion blogger, white / cream / neutral furniture all from IKEA. That very scandi, minimalist neutral theme was bang on trend back then, fast forward a few years and I've naturally found my sweet spot in regards to decor and personal Feng Shui, a mixture of fail-safe warm tones with splashes of colour coming from adorning pieces such as rugs, books, plants, and as of now...  Prints. Sometimes you only realise that you have been truly missing out on something big once it’s in your life, for me it was the infamous gallery wall. Who knew that a mixture of minimal and typography filled prints decorating the space above my bed and dressing table would change the aesthetic of my room so heavily! 
 Since being made redundant I've been spending a lot of time in my bedroom, with it becoming my home office of sorts and I can tell you first hand that when you spend a solid couple of months caged in a room that supports the whole life, work, sleep and play balance, things start to get a little boring and working in such a space begins to feel mundane and uninspiring. One of the easiest ways to bring a little life into your spaces are honestly through prints - You can completely shift the characteristics of your room with them. Desenio is a pretty cool company that is passionate about Scandinavian design, and you've most probably seen their prints and frames in most of your favourite internet folk's homes! Whenever I think off gallery wall prints I think of Desenio and I've previously purchased prints from them before collaborating with them on this post.
In terms of print aesthetics, I was going for a mixture of bold minimalism, mixed with some feel-good quotes and some colourful pieces that didn't quite match but felt very 'me'. Above my bed hang around ten frames in a mixture of gold, black and oak to match my warm neutrals theme. The frames are also a potpourri of sizes ranging from 30 x 40 (A3), 21 x 30 (A4), and 13 x 18 (A5), as I really wanted a mismatched not-to-put-together vibe which well... reflects me I suppose! My favourites of the bunch above my bed have to be the "Find What Feels Good", "Curvy", and "Letter S" prints due to their simple, but bold presence on my walls. 
And on my dressing table sits three new frames in black and gold with some prints that put a little spring in my step as I apply my lipstick in the mornings. I simply HAD to have the "Je Ne Sais Quois", "Kisses" and "Painted Abstract Face" to match the whole Parisian girl chique thing I have going on in that area of my room. 

I’m finally living my Pinterest dreams thanks to Desenio who kindly sent me a very generous amount of prints to spruce up my space anyway in which I chose to. If you'd like to jazz up your spaces with some new affordable prints, My code “INMYSUNDAYBEST” gives 25% off prints* on all Desenio sites between the 9th and 11th of April. *Except for frames and handpicked-/collaboration/personalised prints"

This post has been a {AD-gifted} collaboration with Desenio who kindly provided me with the prints and frames for a room re-vamp. As always all words, images and opinions are my own.


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3.31.2019

I Am My Mothers Daughter.

The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.


The older I get, with each passing day, I recognise the presence of my mother in me, materialising softly in different ways. I see her when i exclaim "Why ti eleyi n' se bayi bi ode?" when someone walks obnoxiously slowly on Oxford street. I see her when I chastise my sister on her perpetual laziness and roll my eyes dramatically towards the sky as if to ask God himself to come down and talk to the girl. I see her when I outline my lips in a dark purple pencil, and fill in the centre with a striking red; an ombre reminiscent of the 1980's house parties in Brixton, filled with colourfully dressed Nigerians by way of Lagos. I see her when I place tomatoes, onions, red peppers and scotch bonnets into my blender, the perfect base for my stew, the kitchen pungent with palm oil bubbling away on the cooker, waiting to be aspersed in the tomato mixture. I was in her, but she remains imparted in me.
My mother is in me, as I am in her. I am my mother’s daughter. You can see it in the angularity of my face, with a smooth hazelnut sheen in contrast with her warm honeyed hue. You can see her in the curve of my smile, the same mouth that when annoyed upturns, with furrowed brows bristling with the same impatience annoyance we are both so prone to. You can see it when I pull on her Ankara dresses, and adjust my wig, looking like a carbon copy of her, pre... well, me I suppose. I am my mother’s daughter. I am the culmination of years of prayer, sacrifice, joy and sometimes fear. And unto me, will be born a daughter, and in her, myself, my mother, my grandmother, and my ancestors will reside in her gently, pouring ourselves out of her when the moments present themselves. Our forbearers will rejoice in her, in me, in my mother. In us.
This mother's day, I am particularly celebrating the woman who brought me into this world, the woman who brought her into this world and all the other women in my lineage. I am exceptionally appreciative to have a mother. I am blessed to have a mother who has raised myself and others to be resilient, resourceful and fiery, to be the flowers that not only survive, but thrive and bloom in a world that has for centuries, not been for us. A mother who is constantly learning and adapting her parenthood as the world changes around her and cultures shift, a mother who knows when it's time to get down and dirty, and when to be soft and reticent. Happy Mothers Day to my Mother, My Momma, Iya Mi, My mum, Dayo. You are so loved, so cherished, so appreciated. Our home is not a home until you are at the centre of it. 


{Photos by Yossy Akinsanya}



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3.17.2019

Bajo el sol Canario.

Tenerife. But not as I thought it would be.


It's 20:01pm and I am on a very cold Thameslink train to Gatwick airport. Sniffly and exhausted from the hours earlier, I let my body fall into the blue flecked chairs and I drift. I am tired but I am filled with a childish bubbling kind of ardour because Kristabel and I will be flying to The Canary Islands, Tenerife to be specific. Tenerife, for me, has always been: Drunken Brits, House music, Cheap Alcohol and Hook up Culture, I suppose because that's what I've been fed, particularly at school where after sixth form most of my school mates did exactly the above in various islands around Spain, including Tenerife. When we arrive at the hotel, I lay in bed googling all things authentic Canarian, and I flit in and out of sleep dreaming of churros, beaches and sunshine. I wake up sans alarm at 4am.  A quick shower later and we are dressed and hastily dragging our luggage downstairs. We breeze through the airport and then we're on the flight,  we’re off, the plane propels upwards and it's goodbye London, and hola Tenerife. Every time I travel, be it by car, train or plane,  I am softly reminded of the sheer beauty of this world and I marvel joyously at Gods creation as our transfer car hurtles through smooth roads surrounded by deep blue Atlantic ocean, lapping hungrily at shiny grey rocks. 
Once we arrive at our hotel, unpack and take in our surroundings, our excursionist's feet carry us to the old district in search of a strong drink and authentic Canarian cuisine and we end up at a beautiful restaurant called La Hierbita. The first thing I order is a small glass of house red wine, reader what I received was an extra large glass of red wine and a few sips later I was feeling relaxed and ready to eat. The speciality black pork with patatas for me, and grilled squid with wrinkled potatoes for Kristabel. The speed at which we wolfed the food down was quite frankly inhuman, but we were mere weary and very tired travellers. Post lunch Kristabel asked for a cappuccino to help wake her up after travelling on about three hours sleep, and instead the waiter insisted that she try the Barraquito - A Specialty coffee of Tenerife, layers of condensed milk, an espresso shot, frothed milk, some lemon peel and liquor 43 and topped with a sprinkling of cinnamon. A delicious blend of sweet, bitter, caramelly goodness. After lunch, we took some photos of the interior of La Hierbita - A member of staff exclaimed that we must see the upper dining rooms and we shuffled through the thin corridors whilst he explained that the restaurant used to be a brothel back in the day.
As I was taking a photo of a dilapidated door, an older gentleman stopped to talk to us. Balentine the architect was his name, and his dog Rocky. Balentine, Kristabel and I express our thoughts about Brexit, loss of jobs, gentrification in Tenerife and loss of culture in broken Spanglish, filled with passionate gesticulation to show our thoughts. Balentine kindly invited us for a gin and tonic with his partner, but we had to places to explore so we bid he and rocky adieu but not without me planting a few kisses on Rocky’s nose and giving him a big squeeze.
In between eating a whole lot of seafood (an obvious specialty), tapas and drinking a lot of Dorada, the local beer, which came in a delicious lemon 'Radler' flavour that I would highly recommend and drink forever, we spent a lot of time just walking, somewhat aimlessly around the streets of Tenerife, be it in Santa Cruz where we were staying, or in La Laguna the university town which is also a UNESCO world heritage site, and it felt wonderful and was something I vowed to do more in London. Just to walk and get lost. 
Sometimes heaven feels like warm soft compact sand beneath your feet, the Spanish sun on your back and the Atlantic Ocean quietly lapping at the shore - gently asking you to be at one with her. Playa de Las Teresitas is a beach a short bus ride away from Santa Cruz, located in the San Andres municipality. Think over a mile of beautiful golden sands, like an effulgence. As a self-confessed city girl, the beach was something that truly felt *needed*, just dipping my lower half into the salty blue sea felt like a type of ablution that absolved me of some of the worries and fatigue that had crept into my brain over the trip.

It was a simple and short visit, but Tenerife, I will be back. Volveré pronto...

2.20.2019

Learning To Walk Through Fire.


[ On Redundancy, Fear & Future ]


On Tuesday 20th November, I heard the words redundancy. That word rolled around my head over and over, smoothing itself over the outline of my heart, seeping into my soul and fitting itself into the cracks and crevices of my brain. Redundancy felt like an ice pick to my chest, at first sharp and stinging and then a dull continuous ache that would not subside. Redundancy tasted like burnt coffee, burning, too hot, a shock to the system. On the first day, I sat mulling over words I saw on the news, Brexit, loss of jobs, redundancy -  and realised that for once, those far away words had finally hit home. On the second day, I awoke with a weight on my chest, asthma attacks triggered by my anxiety and eyes that had been rubbed raw. I sat staring at my computer at work and somehow I’d forgotten how to do anything, my head a mass of cotton wool my thoughts absolutely blank. During lunch I went for a walk, I sat down on a damp bench in the park near my office and I cried. I cried and a choked scream fell out of my mouth. When I got home, I told my parents and they gasped. My usually fairly no-nonsense Nigerian parents both scooped me up in their warm arms and I cried a deep cry, my tears stained their arms, their chests, and their hearts. I could see that they were mourning for me, the toil, the struggle, the past two years of struggle. It felt like I had fallen off the mountainside with the peak in sight. 
On the third day, I didn’t go into work. Instead, I awoke to a splitting headache. Spaced out and exhausted, I lay there curled up in a little ball feeling painfully naked and vulnerable. I turned off my phone and I slept. I didn’t eat much, because my mouth felt like a small pinprick on my face, dry, arid and unwelcoming. On the sixth day I showered, I got dressed and I applied my makeup. I studied myself in the mirror and breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t somehow evaporated in the night. I rubbed my face, and I studied my dark circles. Then I picked up my bag and headed to the office.

A month went by and on my last day at the office, my directors presented me with a leaving gift. A book on architectural drawings - my favourites. We ended the day with a drink and some well wishes and I went home with a full heart and a sound mind. If anything I am and was so grateful to have worked with such a brilliant bunch of people.
January is where it really hit me. I had successfully gotten through the Christmas period riding on pure adrenaline and uncompromising positivity, but as the end of January rolled around, it became painfully apparent that I hadn’t found a role and my bank account was rapidly depleting.  I sat downstairs at Joe & The Juice on Kensington high street and tears filled my eyes as I sent our enquiry after enquiry, application after application. And it felt incredibly stupid, “People are dying Kim” my brain yelled at me, whilst my heart whispered it was perfectly normal to cry. But I felt stupid and selfish for crying over being unemployed, I suppose like most of us, I had made my employment status a part of my identity, I had made it an idol. But a job is a basic human need! My heart cried to my brain, lightly scanning over Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
February came quickly and I was out of the house - interviews! Finally! Hope had returned and my faith felt renewed, I dutifully scraped my hair back into a bun, put on flattering makeup, dressed cool enough to make me seem calm - but not too cool that I didn’t look professional and I went on my merry way. One, two, three, four... The interviews all went well, jokes and handshakes and the... “I think we’ll be making you an offer - we’ll get back to you as soon as possible”. Excitement and waiting, one, two, three, four... a week, two weeks. Nothing. You follow up and there has been some miscommunication. You follow up with another and they say they’re just talking to the resourcing department. You follow up with another and they say they actually decided to go with someone who has a bit more experience, and you bite your lip on the end of the phone until it bleeds, holding back tears you cheerily say “That’s okay! Thank you so much for your time, please do keep in touch in regards to any other opportunities!!!”, they apologise again and the call ends. Your face crumples and you fall to the floor like a discarded piece of tissue. Everything feels so utterly, painfully unfair. After everything, I’ve been through... this. More pain. More fear. More emptiness and you begin to wonder if this is a strange punishment for stealing meat out of the pot aged 10, or for pushing your sister down the stairs at age 14. You start to lose it...
A part of me has become incessantly bored of continuously writing about struggle, fear, and faith, but I continue because I realise that sometimes we only show the highlight reels of our lives through social media, so with these nice pictures, comes honest words, infused with all the tears, pain and fears, and in these words, I hope something in there resonates with those of you who wonder how everyone on the internet has their life altogether - most of us don’t hahaha! We just do a great job of making it seem like that!

There isn’t much of a conclusion here, I simply wanted to write and get my feelings out of my head on somewhere that might help someone else feeling the same way. I have seen that thousands of people have been made redundant online, from Buzzfeed to The Pool, much solidarity, strength, and peace to all those who have started the year as such - especially those facing homelessness and more. I am so sorry. I am so very sorry. I pray that we can all give a shout of praise soon. Just hold on. 



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2.12.2019

J A N U A R Y . [Journal] .

Oops - This post is definitely overdue, but in my lazy defense it was because of *drum roll please*... I filmed a Vlog for January whoop! It's my first ever one so please be gentle on me bb's! February - Finally! Five weeks later and we’ve finally seen the end of January, although for me the month seemed to somewhat fly by, I know it was the opposite for others. January started with a bang quite literally for me and my loved ones - we entered the new year with praise and thanksgiving at HTB which was brilliant and well.. from there January is a little bit of a blur as you'll see in my very brief vlog. January was a month of celebration in a strange way. A félicitation of new beginnings, and a metaphorical closing of the door of last year. This month we celebrated friends birthdays with a lot of two for one cocktails, crazy dancing and even doing the splits before realising that we aren’t as young as we think our bodies are aha!

W E A R I N G : When I say that my priority right now has been comfort! I wore ugg boots out of the house the other day and i really felt like it was an extreme low for me as a fashun influencer - I kid, it was cold af and i wasn't about to freeze my toes and nips off so i bundled up in my biggest, warmest boden coat and mismatched ugg boots and there will probably be more of that in february given the weather warnings.

L I S T E N I N G : I have been obsessively listening to the new United song, it has been so beautifully relevant to the season that i'm in at the moment and the lyrics just hit my soul differently.

R E A D I N G : I picked up two new books from WHSmith on my way home one quiet evening. “The Unexpected Joy of Being Single” and “The Art of Not Falling Apart”, two very apt books for the season I’m in at the moment. The unexpected joy of being single is filled with facts, figures and interesting information regarding love, sex and relationships. It’s not a patronising, pandering read all about forcibly being happy single - but more so a reminder that it’s normal, it’s okay and you won’t die if you don’t find someone aha! The second book I picked up as I saw the blurb mentioned the author was writing about being made redundant at the age of 40, and how she picked herself up out of it and overcame. It’s a witty, well written, no sob story account. 

F E B R U A R Y  G O A L S : I suppose an obvious one is to get a new job (but I'm tired of harping on about it), some others would be to...

  • Get back into the gym (i haven't been since December shamefully).
  •  Get better at writing.
  • Learn to push through in order to achieve my goals.
  • Secure at least two paid collaborations for the month of February.

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