As an aspiring filmmaker myself and seasoned storyteller, I have made it a point of duty to pay close attention to any person(s) whom I believe to be standouts within our craft and thus, you have been on my list of artistes to watch for quite some time now. However, I must say that I am becoming increasingly disappointed with the quality of material that you put out there.
Granted, compared to your colleagues in the industry, your work is above average and I am not going to make this open letter to be about technical issues like using techniques better suited to the theatrical stage in scenes,grammatical errors and misspellings in subtitles, excessive dialogue, improperly handled boom mics and poor scene blocking that results in crew shadows being visible to the audience. I am more interested in the content of your work and the fact that though I get excited when I hear you have come up with a new project, I am barely into the story five minutes and I am left deflated and disappointed.
I mean:
1. Representing your sisterhood: There are very few women writers, producers and directors and so far there is no one that is at this point really presenting any progressive thinking for women. Women are simply portrayed in stereotypes and misinformation. The only type of woman that is celebrated is one that does not challenge the traditional roles which place her as secondary to the man and define her solely by her marital status and reproductive abilities. As a member of the sorority, I always find very little that caters to the modern woman. And your stories don't.
In Jenifa, all the girls that were fashion conscious were promiscious. All the sexually active girls either ended up dead, diseased or with a reproductive defect. As someone who went to Unilag, you cannot tell me you don't know of females who keep up with trends without the sole purpose of securing an older and irresponsible man to financially support them. Also, you cannot tell me that all the sexually active girls that you know end up with the same results listed above. Do a bit of research and you will find thousands of females with stories to inspire and encourage and not endorse stereotypes that objectify or demean us.
In Aye Olomokan, all I hear from the beginning of the movie till the end, despite the supposed twist at the end is that, if a woman cannot cook and clean, this is reason enough for her man/husband to sleep with the maid or any other woman who figures that she knows how because she can mix pepper, locust beans and spinach into an edible concoction.
If you believe the stereotypes you portray, then you, Funke Akindele, are not an artist or complete as a woman. I mean, where is your husband and children, if that is all a woman is defined by? Your life and work are an antithesis to the embedded messages you present.
Are you then saying to your fellow sisters, that all we are to be are cooks, maids and breeding machines? Really? With a university degree under your belt?
2. Over exaggeration of humor at the expense of the plot: Exaggeration is a technique better suited to the stage because the person at the end of the room cannot clearly see the facial expression of the actor beneath the lights and thus the thespian has to employ over emphasised gestures and extended dialouges to explain what is going on.
It is only in Nigerian movies that one would find characters conducting a monologue with no one else in the scene. And yet, we are from a culture where such an action is considered a sign of lunacy. Gatemen/hired help will spend almost five minutes saying nothing important, even though it is funny. Characters have quirks that don't correlate with their image:I mean,in Aye Olomo kan, why would a woman in her twenties be watching Hannah Montana? Fifteen year old Americans don't watch Hannah Montana and for some reason, a character in your story does? Okayee. Humor must have a point or it is a waste of reel, editing and audience time.
3. Depth of characters: There is never depth to your characters. They are always one dimensional and have linear expressions within the plot. You have in Jenifa, a girl who seeks to define her identity within an environment that is superficial ending up with HIV (that one is even a post for another day) and you have your main character in Aye Olomokan loosing her husband because she can only boil water, make tea and custard.
I know that just because a woman is bad at one thing does not make her a bad person or a total write off. Maybe she cannot cook, but she is good with making money. Maybe she is not good with money but she had great people skills that come in handy with the relationship. Maybe she is lazy with housework but a gifter writer. Maybe she can sing and write songs. Maybe she is fashionable and that is a way for her to changer her life and the lives of others.
A woman is multi faceted. Have you not seen women athletes, braving it all. How about market women who have to rise before dawn to get to the depot to meet with trailers coming from the north; negotiating sales, customers with dreams and aspirations for themselves or for their kids?You are multi faceted. Why is that never expressed in your stories?
Also, the men in your stories are always old fashioned and playing by stoneage manuals: Man comes in and says to wife "Go into the kitchen and fix my food." I thought to myself, is she a maid or "bone of his bone". There are men who don't base their relationships with their wives on whether or not eba is hot, or if they ate pounded yam. I feel that constantly presenting men in that light sets low standards for them. A man, who will walk out on a marriage because of vegetable soup is not worth his oxygen. What will he do in the event of a huge test from God? Disappear?
I am not calling out anyone else on this because frankly speaking, I don't expect them to do any better that what they have and I am don't care about what they do. Most of the other producers are men, and frankly speaking, you think they are going to advocate for the woman? But you can. You are a woman too and you appear to be enlightened. I know that you are much better than what your work implies you to be. I sense it in your attempts and presentation but don't see it in the delivery of your subject matter.
I know that our styles of storytelling are different and you most likely will totally disagree with me; afterall, if I have all this to say, where is my own film portfolio? I guess without one at this point, you might give no credence to my observations. Still, as a soror of the arts, I expect more of a mind like yours because these are the standards we should be setting.
So, you and I need to have a talk.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Twitter twitter, little tweet
Every third Sunday afternoon, after the hustle and bustle of carting family to and from the morning's service, the Daughters of Obasa meet in one of the homes of its members. When the group was just three people, they would meet in Anna's house on Oluwa Close on Allen Avenue but as the group grew and thus the distance some people had to travel to make the meeting, the need for the venue to be rotated arose. Also, there was the fact that some women felt uncomfortable around Anna's clearly amorous husband but that was not something that was shared with the tiny woman. Instead, it was cited in the minutes to be unfair that she had to bear most of the responsibility of hosting the event and thus, the rotation began.
That Sunday, it rained. It had been drizzling all through Saturday before and when dawn broke that morning, even before the cock had the chance to draw enough air into its breast to belt out its horrible morning greeting, the skies opened up and dumped its gallons upon the city of Lagos. While some people were running helter skelter to save their neighbourhood's from flooding, the Daughters of Obasa, securely ensconsced within securely and properly planned neighbourhoods prepared for both the morning's service and the meeting after.
Unlike other Sunday mornings, they would all take seperate cars from the rest of the family; the kids and their father--if present in the picture--would either pick up lunch at one of the eateries or head home to waiting arms of well trained maid. The Daughters however, would shed their church hats or hand woven silk scarves, put their luxury vehicles into gear and head for the day's meeting.
The evening before, they would all have paid a visit to the hair dresser who would have coaxed imported human hair into sculptures atop their hair; a clear sign to their husbands upon their arrival at home that there would be no action that night. Not that there was that much. The Daughters had resigned themselves to the fate that their spouses found entertainment elsewhere. For one, two Daughters were the entertainment of other men. Those kinds of things were not important. What was important, was the inclusion in an exclusive club of women with disposable incomes and enviable luxury lifestyles. Lifestyles that if profiled would make even Jackie Collins, the western author whose career had grown on her ability to write scintillating exposes on the lives of the rich and famous, sit with her mouth open. Jackie would not be able to fathom the kind of lives the women of Lagos society lived. The Daughters of Obasa did not keep up with the latest trends; they set it.
Theirs was a strict code of appearances. Hair was to be long and cascading. If you were not blessed with long tresses or had lost them due to years of chemical damage, you improvised with the imported purchases from Asia. Nails were the shiniest of french manicures and on no account was there to be colour on your toes. Those too were to be clear and tipped in white. Your feet were subjected to warm, salt water pedicure every week and encased in slippers hand made in the workrooms of a major Italian brand name. Clothing was never repeated and if it was indeginous was to be sewn with nothing less than a five figure sum; the fabric being imported from the UK or Eastern Europe.
Jewelry, oh the glitter. Each woman wore only signature pieces. These were not women who adorned themselves with gold chains and huge earrings. These were not women who would be caught dead with anything other than their wedding bands and engagement rings on their fingers. These were women who shopped with the stores closed to the public. They would receive the international calls from jewelers in their country of preference to let them know that a new line was in circulation. These would not be the designs that one would find in a magazine. These would be designs that came pre-insured. For daily use, they picked up simple strands of spun gold, platinum or fresh water pearls.
The Daughters would never be found on the pages of the tabloids. The press would never be allowed at events that they attended. When they walked into the room, whispers circulated like the cloud of signature fragrances that enveloped their beings. These were the Daughters of Obasa; the women of unique definition and all Hera wanted was to be rid of them in her life.
In the beginning, she had been giddy with the notoriety of inclusion. Her induction into the club took three years and almost bankrupted her husband. The husbands or men of the Daughters belonged to their own and one group did not exist exclusive of the other.
Consoling herself with the knowledge that the Daughters were a philantropic organisation, Hera launched herself at them with such determination that it was all but a given that she would be allowed into the group. Barely eighteen months in, and she was done.
It never ended. The conformity. She was to arrive at exactly 3.45, after the woman who was to arrive at 3.30 and before the woman who was to arrive at 4.00. Many times, she had had to park up the street, biding time in her plush air conditioned interior because she dared not break the status quo. Heirarchy was everything and if you stepped out of place, you were dropped like a bad fart. Nothing was ever spoken to the effect but arriving at the meeting to find someone absent was a sure sign. No one, not even when Laide Marinho had just undergone a hysterectomy, missed a meeting.
There would be the perfunctory greetings which also served as a wardrobe assessment. You were all but finished if you arrived carrying a purse worth less than 2,000.00 pounds. Almost all the women had Birkin's and if they didn't, they were on waiting lists. The greetings were followed by light refreshments of champagne in signature bottles. No one, seemed to consider the fact that these women would need to drive back home. No one ever came with a driver. These were independent, modern women and everyone knew that a driver was only a spy for the husband.
The meeting itself was always about 45 mins long. Minutes would be read and would be brief. Checks would be proferred for the monthly donations towards whatever cause had taken their fancy and they got down to business. This was the time, when they kicked off their shoes and reclined in the comfort of the couches and day beds. This was when each one would artfully try to out do the other with whatever scandalous information they had.
It was in the Daughter's circle that Hera had first learned that a governor had a male lover that his first wife had had killed and that the governor had been so broken up about it, he had signed off on the wrong government and nearly dissolved the state into chaos. Hera had watched the news of the riots in the state capital like everyone else oblivous to the goings on.
It was in the Daughter's circle that affairs were discussed, paternity issues were solved, information on the best traditional medicine man was divulged, contacts to "correct" husband's mistresses that were over stepping their boundaries, schools for children, plastic surgeon referrals, fertility treatments, shopping concierge referrals and whatever else struck their fancy.
At the very head was Miatta Khosa. And she ruled with a fist so strong and judgement so deadly that it had been rumoured that she had once made the president shed tears. She made everyone understand the price of their membership and everyone always paid.
Miatta had told Hera what to do. Sunbo Majekodunmi had had to "leave" the group. Someone had to take her place. Miatta was confident Hera would do a great job. Sunbo had been the social secretary of the group.
And Miatta's lover.
That Sunday, it rained. It had been drizzling all through Saturday before and when dawn broke that morning, even before the cock had the chance to draw enough air into its breast to belt out its horrible morning greeting, the skies opened up and dumped its gallons upon the city of Lagos. While some people were running helter skelter to save their neighbourhood's from flooding, the Daughters of Obasa, securely ensconsced within securely and properly planned neighbourhoods prepared for both the morning's service and the meeting after.
Unlike other Sunday mornings, they would all take seperate cars from the rest of the family; the kids and their father--if present in the picture--would either pick up lunch at one of the eateries or head home to waiting arms of well trained maid. The Daughters however, would shed their church hats or hand woven silk scarves, put their luxury vehicles into gear and head for the day's meeting.
The evening before, they would all have paid a visit to the hair dresser who would have coaxed imported human hair into sculptures atop their hair; a clear sign to their husbands upon their arrival at home that there would be no action that night. Not that there was that much. The Daughters had resigned themselves to the fate that their spouses found entertainment elsewhere. For one, two Daughters were the entertainment of other men. Those kinds of things were not important. What was important, was the inclusion in an exclusive club of women with disposable incomes and enviable luxury lifestyles. Lifestyles that if profiled would make even Jackie Collins, the western author whose career had grown on her ability to write scintillating exposes on the lives of the rich and famous, sit with her mouth open. Jackie would not be able to fathom the kind of lives the women of Lagos society lived. The Daughters of Obasa did not keep up with the latest trends; they set it.
Theirs was a strict code of appearances. Hair was to be long and cascading. If you were not blessed with long tresses or had lost them due to years of chemical damage, you improvised with the imported purchases from Asia. Nails were the shiniest of french manicures and on no account was there to be colour on your toes. Those too were to be clear and tipped in white. Your feet were subjected to warm, salt water pedicure every week and encased in slippers hand made in the workrooms of a major Italian brand name. Clothing was never repeated and if it was indeginous was to be sewn with nothing less than a five figure sum; the fabric being imported from the UK or Eastern Europe.
Jewelry, oh the glitter. Each woman wore only signature pieces. These were not women who adorned themselves with gold chains and huge earrings. These were not women who would be caught dead with anything other than their wedding bands and engagement rings on their fingers. These were women who shopped with the stores closed to the public. They would receive the international calls from jewelers in their country of preference to let them know that a new line was in circulation. These would not be the designs that one would find in a magazine. These would be designs that came pre-insured. For daily use, they picked up simple strands of spun gold, platinum or fresh water pearls.
The Daughters would never be found on the pages of the tabloids. The press would never be allowed at events that they attended. When they walked into the room, whispers circulated like the cloud of signature fragrances that enveloped their beings. These were the Daughters of Obasa; the women of unique definition and all Hera wanted was to be rid of them in her life.
In the beginning, she had been giddy with the notoriety of inclusion. Her induction into the club took three years and almost bankrupted her husband. The husbands or men of the Daughters belonged to their own and one group did not exist exclusive of the other.
Consoling herself with the knowledge that the Daughters were a philantropic organisation, Hera launched herself at them with such determination that it was all but a given that she would be allowed into the group. Barely eighteen months in, and she was done.
It never ended. The conformity. She was to arrive at exactly 3.45, after the woman who was to arrive at 3.30 and before the woman who was to arrive at 4.00. Many times, she had had to park up the street, biding time in her plush air conditioned interior because she dared not break the status quo. Heirarchy was everything and if you stepped out of place, you were dropped like a bad fart. Nothing was ever spoken to the effect but arriving at the meeting to find someone absent was a sure sign. No one, not even when Laide Marinho had just undergone a hysterectomy, missed a meeting.
There would be the perfunctory greetings which also served as a wardrobe assessment. You were all but finished if you arrived carrying a purse worth less than 2,000.00 pounds. Almost all the women had Birkin's and if they didn't, they were on waiting lists. The greetings were followed by light refreshments of champagne in signature bottles. No one, seemed to consider the fact that these women would need to drive back home. No one ever came with a driver. These were independent, modern women and everyone knew that a driver was only a spy for the husband.
The meeting itself was always about 45 mins long. Minutes would be read and would be brief. Checks would be proferred for the monthly donations towards whatever cause had taken their fancy and they got down to business. This was the time, when they kicked off their shoes and reclined in the comfort of the couches and day beds. This was when each one would artfully try to out do the other with whatever scandalous information they had.
It was in the Daughter's circle that Hera had first learned that a governor had a male lover that his first wife had had killed and that the governor had been so broken up about it, he had signed off on the wrong government and nearly dissolved the state into chaos. Hera had watched the news of the riots in the state capital like everyone else oblivous to the goings on.
It was in the Daughter's circle that affairs were discussed, paternity issues were solved, information on the best traditional medicine man was divulged, contacts to "correct" husband's mistresses that were over stepping their boundaries, schools for children, plastic surgeon referrals, fertility treatments, shopping concierge referrals and whatever else struck their fancy.
At the very head was Miatta Khosa. And she ruled with a fist so strong and judgement so deadly that it had been rumoured that she had once made the president shed tears. She made everyone understand the price of their membership and everyone always paid.
Miatta had told Hera what to do. Sunbo Majekodunmi had had to "leave" the group. Someone had to take her place. Miatta was confident Hera would do a great job. Sunbo had been the social secretary of the group.
And Miatta's lover.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Is it not funny how Nigerians think?: There are Nigerian citizens and there are Nigerians
I came across a blog post yesterday written as a follow up to the hullaballoo surrounding the issue of a Nigerian soft sell choosing to grace the cover of their current issue celebrating "Top 30 young Nigerians" with a woman of apparent East Indian descent and another of mixed parentage; one of her parents being Nigerian.
Arguments have ranged from the idea that these women represent a mentality that foreigners are better than Nigerians to the question of who a Nigerian really is.
Sugabelly made the point of stating that there was no way in hell that a Nigerian woman would be allowed to grace the cover of an Indian magazine, no matter what she had done or who she was. I agree. I know for a fact that in almost every culture, the darker your skin, it is more likely that you are relegated to the bottom of the social pile.
This is even more sad when this ideology is shared amongst the dark skinned people.Nigerians tend to favour "whiteness". Characters in Nigerian movies are given western names and storylines have very little relevance to our realities. That is probably why I am suddenly seeing bikini clad European females in music videos and why they are being shot in South Africa and London. I also know that due to our behaviour towards foreigners, they possess a sense of entitlement which we always accord them.
However, there is also the fact that there are those people who are to be considered Nigerian by virtue of their lineage and affiliations. I have no idea how long the Indian woma, Ruby, had been living in Nigeria or even if she was born there but I know that if it was a Nigerian girl who had spent the same amount of time in the US, she would have checked to see if she had fulfilled the necessaru criteria, filed for citizenship sharp sharp and be quick to let everyone know that she now has papers. I also know that the same courtesies that are extended to us in other countries are not the same to foreign-born Nigerian citizens....and I do not mean the grovelling that happens for white/foreign expatriates.
Sugabelly said that "There are Nigerian citizens and there are Nigerians". I can just see the headlines and lawsuits if some white American or European national had said that to a Nigerian person...
No, we don't have to glorify fair skin or anything outside of the shores of our borders but yes, we have to realise that the way we define citizenship has to change. I doubt if anyone will agree, afterall, if some could have their way, they would wipe out the Igbos who will return the favour in a heart beat. Or kill off the Northerners...as it is, the Niger Delta is on fire.
This might seem like a ramble but at the heart of it, my point is this: Whether Nigerian by blood, or Nigerian by affiliation. We are Nigerian and should be working together to build the country and not beat each other down. Jews every where send money home to Isreal and are committed towards its development. Let's wake up, please
Arguments have ranged from the idea that these women represent a mentality that foreigners are better than Nigerians to the question of who a Nigerian really is.
Sugabelly made the point of stating that there was no way in hell that a Nigerian woman would be allowed to grace the cover of an Indian magazine, no matter what she had done or who she was. I agree. I know for a fact that in almost every culture, the darker your skin, it is more likely that you are relegated to the bottom of the social pile.
This is even more sad when this ideology is shared amongst the dark skinned people.Nigerians tend to favour "whiteness". Characters in Nigerian movies are given western names and storylines have very little relevance to our realities. That is probably why I am suddenly seeing bikini clad European females in music videos and why they are being shot in South Africa and London. I also know that due to our behaviour towards foreigners, they possess a sense of entitlement which we always accord them.
However, there is also the fact that there are those people who are to be considered Nigerian by virtue of their lineage and affiliations. I have no idea how long the Indian woma, Ruby, had been living in Nigeria or even if she was born there but I know that if it was a Nigerian girl who had spent the same amount of time in the US, she would have checked to see if she had fulfilled the necessaru criteria, filed for citizenship sharp sharp and be quick to let everyone know that she now has papers. I also know that the same courtesies that are extended to us in other countries are not the same to foreign-born Nigerian citizens....and I do not mean the grovelling that happens for white/foreign expatriates.
Sugabelly said that "There are Nigerian citizens and there are Nigerians". I can just see the headlines and lawsuits if some white American or European national had said that to a Nigerian person...
No, we don't have to glorify fair skin or anything outside of the shores of our borders but yes, we have to realise that the way we define citizenship has to change. I doubt if anyone will agree, afterall, if some could have their way, they would wipe out the Igbos who will return the favour in a heart beat. Or kill off the Northerners...as it is, the Niger Delta is on fire.
This might seem like a ramble but at the heart of it, my point is this: Whether Nigerian by blood, or Nigerian by affiliation. We are Nigerian and should be working together to build the country and not beat each other down. Jews every where send money home to Isreal and are committed towards its development. Let's wake up, please
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Post 205!!!
I came to get an education
I endured through five years...thanks to prayer, family and great friends
I present a thesis...and
I graduated
I endured through five years...thanks to prayer, family and great friends
I present a thesis...and
I graduated
Sunday, April 26, 2009
A blouse of soft blue chiffon folded back at the neck into cascading petals draped across her right shoulder. Paired with a slate grey pencil skirt that hugs her ample derriere like a jealous lover with a slit on the side to hint at the barest evidence of chocolate thigh. Thighs that lead to legs toned by constant exercise and anchored in the soft cushions of Mona Matthew, 5 inch stilleto pumps. Her back is straight, her spine taut to hold up a head crowned with half braids swept into a french coiff. Her face is expressionless, the makeup masking emotions artfully applied with the expertise that comes with years. She is stunning to behold. If only her eyes were not as cold.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Cows and other things
"In your country, what would they say about a woman dating a much younger man?" His voice was soft and almost tentative as he asked but his gaze was direct and unwavering as he awaited my response. I had just taken a bite out of my sandwich filled with chicken salad, lettuce, tomatoes, hot peppers and olive oil and so, he had to wait a bit.It wasn't that I had much to think about before giving my answer, I was just a little taken aback that he had switched topics so suddenly.
We had been discussing waking dreams, a way by which one can communicate with the divine by simply paying attention to what is going on around you. We agreed that so many people were more concerned with finding their "burning bush" or "writing on the wall" as signs and so missed it when messages came from an unlikely or seemingly unrelated source. For almost an hour, we laughed, joked and shared experiences over a sandwhich and some chilled drinks. I was in a great mood and in great company. He had been open with me with all my questions about his home country of Mexico, his trip over to the event we were at as well as other things and so I felt that he genuinely wanted an answer; which made it more interesting. I wondered what Nigerian woman he was interested in.
"Well," making a quick sweep of my front teeth with my tongue and swallowing to clear my mouth, "the general population is not open about anything that goes against the general order of things. It is more acceptable for a man to date a considerable younger woman which most of them do because they take on mistresses and multiple wives."
"So, people would be against you dating a younger man?"
I thought about it and smiled, "Yes, they would but I would not be concerned about that. It is my life and no one else."
He nodded and reached for his fruit.
"Why?" I asked jokingly, nudging him with my elbow, "you have someone younger that you would like to hook me up with?"
He smiled mischievously, "What if I do?"
I grinned, "Well as long as he can deliver the exact number of cows that my father asks for, we are cool".
"Really?" he asked and his expression was so surprised that I immediately burst out laughing, "you have a bride price?"
"No," I shook my head, "no, but some ethnic groups will ask for one. If I were to have a Yoruba wedding, a traditional one, the exchange of bride price would be more symbolic than anything else. Yoruba women are not for sale."
"But if you had one, what would they ask for?"
That was an interesting question for me because I really did not know. "I know there is an exchange of gifts between the families and his would have to come with things like yams, pepper, expensive cloth, palm oil, salt, sugar and some other things but the exact amount, I have no idea."
"Your culture is interesting." he said simply and I mused over how much he had grown. The first time I had met him, he was about thirteen and at then he had looked a bit like a girl, with shaggy over grown hair and the pleasant smoothness of baby fat over his features. Now, he was nineteen going on twenty, with the sharply defined features of a young man and a voice lowered to a deep baritone by his training as a musical theatre performer. So far, at the weekend event we were at, I had been meeting young people like myself who had changed considerably since the first time we had met. I was becoming an adult and would be leaving their circle of youthfulness and they were coming into their own. In so many ways, I felt protective towards him because I had known him before he was a man. The irony was that I had stopped growing and now, he towered over me.
"Hey guys," Arit poked her head behind the curtain where Benicio and I had been grabbing a quick lunch. Once more, I was reminded of yet another person who had grown up. Arit, had been sixteen, carrying around baby fat, a mouthful of metal and a face full of adolescent acne. All that was gone and all that was left was a very attractive woman with the most beautiful coffee coloured skin I had ever seen. She and I were twenty four and would be leaving the youth programme as well. Like me, she was also Nigerian.
"Hey," Benicio said with a small smile. Had I not been watching I would have missed the way he suddenly tensed up and sat up straighter when Arit spoke. My ears all but perked up and it was all I could do not to gasp and scream. It was Arit. It was Arit. That was all I could think.
"You okay, luv?" Arit asked me. Years in London had peppered her vocabulary with these little additions to sentences. I quickly arranged my features and smiled.
"I'm good, you needed something?"
"I hope I am not interrupting anything..."she said apologetically.
"Oh no, no" I assured her, "whatcha need?"
"Benicio." she said.
Oh really, I thought to myself mischieviously and winked at Benicio. It was all I could do not to chuckle as a soft flush began to spread over his neck and up his face. He could not get off his seat fast enough.
"I will be back," he said quickly, "what do you have next? or will you be here?"
I lookd at my watch, "Oh, I have to run upstairs to my room and get something from my bag and will probably be there for a few minutes to freshen up before I come down for the workshop with Eleanor".
He began to reach for his leather jacket. I had been teasing him all weekend about the thing. He wore it well but I enjoyed messing with him. It was very easy and entertaining to do.
"You are on the eight floor, right?"
"yeah. 818."
He picked up the remains of his lunch and propelled them across the room to neatly land in the trash.
"I'll meet up with you then. Then we can go for the workshop together."
"Go..." i urged him because Arit was waiting quietly. I waved both of them off and they were gone.
I could not find my lip gloss. I had hidden it in my suitcase because I was afraid that the security people at the checkpoint would throw it away. i was not very sure what size of gel or anything was acceptable to pass the security check and after loosing almost $50.00 worth of lotions, creams and gels at one time, I was not taking chances. Now, everytime I flew, I arrived at my destination with ashy hands and dry, parched lips. I knew I had kept the darned thing in the suitcase but could not find it. I was so engrossed in my monlogue, as I traced my actions leading to my packing aloud that I did not realise that there was a knock on the door. The person was probably on their third round of knocking before I jerked out of my reverie.
I rushed to the door and opened it without checking. It was Benicio, his guitar and his smile.
"You alone?" he asked as he stepped through the threshold.
"Yeah, " I closed the door and walked past him to my suitcase, "I was trying to remember where I put my lip gloss."
"Out loud?"
"Yes...I talk to myself." I said, then added "sometimes" because of his expression, "you done with Arit?"
"Yeah, she needs backing up for her performance."
"Ooh, tonight at the gala?"
"Yeah, you're performing right?"
"Yes. But I am singing acapella."
"Then I cannot wait, you have a beautiful voice." he said simply and I was surprisingly pleased.
"Thanks. I should be getting to rehearsals if only I could find my gloss" I waved my hand across my suitcase with clothes strewn all over.
"What does it look like?"
"uh, it is in a tube, like a marker, not like a pencil. wider. colour is a burnished copper red...."
"you mean, this?" he asked, bending down to pick something up at my feet. It was my highly prized gloss. I felt instantly stupid.
"Thanks. The silly thing was hiding" I applied some to my lips. They had been desperately dry.
"I can only imagine," he laughed, "with you talking to yourself, what was the poor bugger to think?"
I feigned surprise, "Benicio Alvarez, are you mocking me?"
"Why, m'lady," he returned in his best British accent, "I would never dare such a thing."
I bent down to pick up clothes and place them in the suitcase.
"You ready?" I asked of him when I stood up, making a cursory glance at my reflection in the mirror that I was okay and my hair and make up intact.
He nodded.
"Let me just get my coat." I moved to go past him to the closet where my coat was hanging. "I wonder what Eleanor has..."
He reached for me as I moved past and in one fluid move, drew me to him and covered my open mouth with his. I was too shocked to react. His lips were soft and probing, his breath warm and minty. He must have chewed some gum before coming to my room. I moved back and he moved with me, persistent and determined. The strap of his guitar bag pressed hard against my chest. Alarm shot through me as a small warmth began to crawl through my stomach. I continued to move backwards, trying to step away but both his hands were now around me, one at my neck anchoring my mouth to his and the other at my wait holding me to him.
The bathroom door was behind me, a barrier for further movement and I rammed up against it. The force jerked us both and he pulled away, slightly.
Breathing had quickened and we were both dazed.
"Benny", I said softly, more like a question. He must have sensed the tone of my voice because he jerked away. Clarity came into his eyes and slight alarm.
"Tuza..." he began.
I shook my head to collect my thoughts and to figure out why my heart was racing.
He moved further away and shoved his hands in his pocket.
"I am sorry..."he closed his eyes in mortification. "I am sorry..."
I shook my head. I could not speak. I was too stunned. What had just happened? What had I been thinking? Had I actually been kissing him back? Was I really really sorry that he had done that? What were we doing? This seminar was no place for this. He was nineteen. Nineteen. I was six when his spare parts were formed. I was too young to be robbing a cradle. He was younger than my baby brother. What just happened?
I could not form a coherent thought in my head.
"Benicio", I asked, "What about Arit?"
He opened one eye and looked at me with puzzlement.
"Arit?"
"At lunch. You were asking. I thought it was Arit?" I was now myself even further confused.
He stared at me for a minute and then realised what I was hinting at.
"No, " he shook his head, "Not Arit. You. But she knows."
"Knows what?"
"How I feel about you. How I have always felt about you."
I was grateful God had designed a hinge for my jaw attaching it to my face because it surely would have hit the ground.
"I am twenty four" was all I could say.
"I am nineteen" he responded simply, "you said you wouldn't care."
"I..."
"But you don't feel the same way," he finished, his voice filled with a soft sadness that suddenly made the scenario painful.
I did not know what I was feeling. But I knew I had kissed him back. I knew it and I was alarmed. What had I been thinking?
He sighed and reached into the front pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.
My hands shook as I reached to receive it. My head was swimming. It was a folded piece of blue construction paper.
I opened it. Glued into the folds was a picture of a fat cow.
"I thought, I'd get cracking. I have no idea, how many your people are going to ask for."
I tried to speak. It was the most beautiful magazine cut out of a cow I had ever seen.
"Benny..." I looked into his eyes. His stare was unnervingly unwavering and yet softened with thinly veiled hope and longing. No one had looked at me like that. "You cannot know..."
"I have felt like this since the first time I met you. I thought it would go but it hasn't. I am sure you must have at one time, wondered why I am always around you when we come together and why I constantly write you online..."
It was true. I had more emails between us two than with anyone else. He was one person outside the group that I kept most in touch with and we called each other quite a bit. But we had not discusses anything romantic. But we had talked. Alot.
"Benny..."
"It's okay. I understand and I am sorry, I just acted so rash. I just had promised that I would not go home this time without letting you know how I felt."
I sighed, "And how do you feel now that you have."
He smiled, a wide genuine smile, "Relieved that you know and I can stop censoring everything I want to say to you. But I am scared, you don't feel the same way and I will never have you back if I can't have you this way."
"I don't know what to do or say, Benicio." I said simply. Because it was true.
"You don't have to say anything." He adjusted his guitar and passed his hands through his hair, "I have to go now. Arit is waiting."
"You said she knows?"
"Yes, she gave me the push to make this move and I am going to tell her it was a disaster."
"It wasn't." I told him, "I am surprised and I have to evaluate things. "I moved closer to him, "even if I can't give you what you want, I will always be here for you. I will always be your friend."
"I want more. I want you."
"Thank you."
We were silent for a minute. Then we did what we always did when we parted. We embraced. This time it was different. I was now aware of him. His form, his feel, his scent, his arms....him. I could barely wrap my head around it all. Why, couldn't he have been six years older? I would have jumped him myself. He buried his face in my hair and I held him in what I hoped would let him know that no matter what, we would be fine. Because I was going to make sure.
He pulled away, smiled and planted a soft kiss on my forehead.
He moved to the door and turned around as he opened it, "Just have it on record...I have submitted my first cow."
I laughed.
Then he was gone.
I made a mental note to break Arit's neck when I saw her downstairs. But for now, I took a moment to admire my first bride price offer. My first cow.
We had been discussing waking dreams, a way by which one can communicate with the divine by simply paying attention to what is going on around you. We agreed that so many people were more concerned with finding their "burning bush" or "writing on the wall" as signs and so missed it when messages came from an unlikely or seemingly unrelated source. For almost an hour, we laughed, joked and shared experiences over a sandwhich and some chilled drinks. I was in a great mood and in great company. He had been open with me with all my questions about his home country of Mexico, his trip over to the event we were at as well as other things and so I felt that he genuinely wanted an answer; which made it more interesting. I wondered what Nigerian woman he was interested in.
"Well," making a quick sweep of my front teeth with my tongue and swallowing to clear my mouth, "the general population is not open about anything that goes against the general order of things. It is more acceptable for a man to date a considerable younger woman which most of them do because they take on mistresses and multiple wives."
"So, people would be against you dating a younger man?"
I thought about it and smiled, "Yes, they would but I would not be concerned about that. It is my life and no one else."
He nodded and reached for his fruit.
"Why?" I asked jokingly, nudging him with my elbow, "you have someone younger that you would like to hook me up with?"
He smiled mischievously, "What if I do?"
I grinned, "Well as long as he can deliver the exact number of cows that my father asks for, we are cool".
"Really?" he asked and his expression was so surprised that I immediately burst out laughing, "you have a bride price?"
"No," I shook my head, "no, but some ethnic groups will ask for one. If I were to have a Yoruba wedding, a traditional one, the exchange of bride price would be more symbolic than anything else. Yoruba women are not for sale."
"But if you had one, what would they ask for?"
That was an interesting question for me because I really did not know. "I know there is an exchange of gifts between the families and his would have to come with things like yams, pepper, expensive cloth, palm oil, salt, sugar and some other things but the exact amount, I have no idea."
"Your culture is interesting." he said simply and I mused over how much he had grown. The first time I had met him, he was about thirteen and at then he had looked a bit like a girl, with shaggy over grown hair and the pleasant smoothness of baby fat over his features. Now, he was nineteen going on twenty, with the sharply defined features of a young man and a voice lowered to a deep baritone by his training as a musical theatre performer. So far, at the weekend event we were at, I had been meeting young people like myself who had changed considerably since the first time we had met. I was becoming an adult and would be leaving their circle of youthfulness and they were coming into their own. In so many ways, I felt protective towards him because I had known him before he was a man. The irony was that I had stopped growing and now, he towered over me.
"Hey guys," Arit poked her head behind the curtain where Benicio and I had been grabbing a quick lunch. Once more, I was reminded of yet another person who had grown up. Arit, had been sixteen, carrying around baby fat, a mouthful of metal and a face full of adolescent acne. All that was gone and all that was left was a very attractive woman with the most beautiful coffee coloured skin I had ever seen. She and I were twenty four and would be leaving the youth programme as well. Like me, she was also Nigerian.
"Hey," Benicio said with a small smile. Had I not been watching I would have missed the way he suddenly tensed up and sat up straighter when Arit spoke. My ears all but perked up and it was all I could do not to gasp and scream. It was Arit. It was Arit. That was all I could think.
"You okay, luv?" Arit asked me. Years in London had peppered her vocabulary with these little additions to sentences. I quickly arranged my features and smiled.
"I'm good, you needed something?"
"I hope I am not interrupting anything..."she said apologetically.
"Oh no, no" I assured her, "whatcha need?"
"Benicio." she said.
Oh really, I thought to myself mischieviously and winked at Benicio. It was all I could do not to chuckle as a soft flush began to spread over his neck and up his face. He could not get off his seat fast enough.
"I will be back," he said quickly, "what do you have next? or will you be here?"
I lookd at my watch, "Oh, I have to run upstairs to my room and get something from my bag and will probably be there for a few minutes to freshen up before I come down for the workshop with Eleanor".
He began to reach for his leather jacket. I had been teasing him all weekend about the thing. He wore it well but I enjoyed messing with him. It was very easy and entertaining to do.
"You are on the eight floor, right?"
"yeah. 818."
He picked up the remains of his lunch and propelled them across the room to neatly land in the trash.
"I'll meet up with you then. Then we can go for the workshop together."
"Go..." i urged him because Arit was waiting quietly. I waved both of them off and they were gone.
I could not find my lip gloss. I had hidden it in my suitcase because I was afraid that the security people at the checkpoint would throw it away. i was not very sure what size of gel or anything was acceptable to pass the security check and after loosing almost $50.00 worth of lotions, creams and gels at one time, I was not taking chances. Now, everytime I flew, I arrived at my destination with ashy hands and dry, parched lips. I knew I had kept the darned thing in the suitcase but could not find it. I was so engrossed in my monlogue, as I traced my actions leading to my packing aloud that I did not realise that there was a knock on the door. The person was probably on their third round of knocking before I jerked out of my reverie.
I rushed to the door and opened it without checking. It was Benicio, his guitar and his smile.
"You alone?" he asked as he stepped through the threshold.
"Yeah, " I closed the door and walked past him to my suitcase, "I was trying to remember where I put my lip gloss."
"Out loud?"
"Yes...I talk to myself." I said, then added "sometimes" because of his expression, "you done with Arit?"
"Yeah, she needs backing up for her performance."
"Ooh, tonight at the gala?"
"Yeah, you're performing right?"
"Yes. But I am singing acapella."
"Then I cannot wait, you have a beautiful voice." he said simply and I was surprisingly pleased.
"Thanks. I should be getting to rehearsals if only I could find my gloss" I waved my hand across my suitcase with clothes strewn all over.
"What does it look like?"
"uh, it is in a tube, like a marker, not like a pencil. wider. colour is a burnished copper red...."
"you mean, this?" he asked, bending down to pick something up at my feet. It was my highly prized gloss. I felt instantly stupid.
"Thanks. The silly thing was hiding" I applied some to my lips. They had been desperately dry.
"I can only imagine," he laughed, "with you talking to yourself, what was the poor bugger to think?"
I feigned surprise, "Benicio Alvarez, are you mocking me?"
"Why, m'lady," he returned in his best British accent, "I would never dare such a thing."
I bent down to pick up clothes and place them in the suitcase.
"You ready?" I asked of him when I stood up, making a cursory glance at my reflection in the mirror that I was okay and my hair and make up intact.
He nodded.
"Let me just get my coat." I moved to go past him to the closet where my coat was hanging. "I wonder what Eleanor has..."
He reached for me as I moved past and in one fluid move, drew me to him and covered my open mouth with his. I was too shocked to react. His lips were soft and probing, his breath warm and minty. He must have chewed some gum before coming to my room. I moved back and he moved with me, persistent and determined. The strap of his guitar bag pressed hard against my chest. Alarm shot through me as a small warmth began to crawl through my stomach. I continued to move backwards, trying to step away but both his hands were now around me, one at my neck anchoring my mouth to his and the other at my wait holding me to him.
The bathroom door was behind me, a barrier for further movement and I rammed up against it. The force jerked us both and he pulled away, slightly.
Breathing had quickened and we were both dazed.
"Benny", I said softly, more like a question. He must have sensed the tone of my voice because he jerked away. Clarity came into his eyes and slight alarm.
"Tuza..." he began.
I shook my head to collect my thoughts and to figure out why my heart was racing.
He moved further away and shoved his hands in his pocket.
"I am sorry..."he closed his eyes in mortification. "I am sorry..."
I shook my head. I could not speak. I was too stunned. What had just happened? What had I been thinking? Had I actually been kissing him back? Was I really really sorry that he had done that? What were we doing? This seminar was no place for this. He was nineteen. Nineteen. I was six when his spare parts were formed. I was too young to be robbing a cradle. He was younger than my baby brother. What just happened?
I could not form a coherent thought in my head.
"Benicio", I asked, "What about Arit?"
He opened one eye and looked at me with puzzlement.
"Arit?"
"At lunch. You were asking. I thought it was Arit?" I was now myself even further confused.
He stared at me for a minute and then realised what I was hinting at.
"No, " he shook his head, "Not Arit. You. But she knows."
"Knows what?"
"How I feel about you. How I have always felt about you."
I was grateful God had designed a hinge for my jaw attaching it to my face because it surely would have hit the ground.
"I am twenty four" was all I could say.
"I am nineteen" he responded simply, "you said you wouldn't care."
"I..."
"But you don't feel the same way," he finished, his voice filled with a soft sadness that suddenly made the scenario painful.
I did not know what I was feeling. But I knew I had kissed him back. I knew it and I was alarmed. What had I been thinking?
He sighed and reached into the front pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.
My hands shook as I reached to receive it. My head was swimming. It was a folded piece of blue construction paper.
I opened it. Glued into the folds was a picture of a fat cow.
"I thought, I'd get cracking. I have no idea, how many your people are going to ask for."
I tried to speak. It was the most beautiful magazine cut out of a cow I had ever seen.
"Benny..." I looked into his eyes. His stare was unnervingly unwavering and yet softened with thinly veiled hope and longing. No one had looked at me like that. "You cannot know..."
"I have felt like this since the first time I met you. I thought it would go but it hasn't. I am sure you must have at one time, wondered why I am always around you when we come together and why I constantly write you online..."
It was true. I had more emails between us two than with anyone else. He was one person outside the group that I kept most in touch with and we called each other quite a bit. But we had not discusses anything romantic. But we had talked. Alot.
"Benny..."
"It's okay. I understand and I am sorry, I just acted so rash. I just had promised that I would not go home this time without letting you know how I felt."
I sighed, "And how do you feel now that you have."
He smiled, a wide genuine smile, "Relieved that you know and I can stop censoring everything I want to say to you. But I am scared, you don't feel the same way and I will never have you back if I can't have you this way."
"I don't know what to do or say, Benicio." I said simply. Because it was true.
"You don't have to say anything." He adjusted his guitar and passed his hands through his hair, "I have to go now. Arit is waiting."
"You said she knows?"
"Yes, she gave me the push to make this move and I am going to tell her it was a disaster."
"It wasn't." I told him, "I am surprised and I have to evaluate things. "I moved closer to him, "even if I can't give you what you want, I will always be here for you. I will always be your friend."
"I want more. I want you."
"Thank you."
We were silent for a minute. Then we did what we always did when we parted. We embraced. This time it was different. I was now aware of him. His form, his feel, his scent, his arms....him. I could barely wrap my head around it all. Why, couldn't he have been six years older? I would have jumped him myself. He buried his face in my hair and I held him in what I hoped would let him know that no matter what, we would be fine. Because I was going to make sure.
He pulled away, smiled and planted a soft kiss on my forehead.
He moved to the door and turned around as he opened it, "Just have it on record...I have submitted my first cow."
I laughed.
Then he was gone.
I made a mental note to break Arit's neck when I saw her downstairs. But for now, I took a moment to admire my first bride price offer. My first cow.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
In therapy
Picture from here
The walk takes five minutes. I walk out the house, across the creaking front porch and down the equally creaking steps. I hit the sidewalk, raised by the defiant roots of an old tree. I don't know what kind it is but squirrels sure love it. There is one in particular that I am convinced watches me between gnawing on its meal of seeds. My odd furry friend is nowhere to be seen.
I start down the street of row houses. When I first came to the city, I hated the unending facade of uniformity; the repeated motif of steps, porches and doors with mail box slits. Even after five years, that feeling has not changed much but I am not as repelled by the lack of a fence and gates. The boundaries are clear enough. Erected concrete is not necessary for that. I know where I can or cannot go. Everything around me is a billboard of my limitations: like the exposed doorways of the three story row houses whose doorbells I cannot ring and threshholds I cannot cross.
My steps match the beat the music flowing softly against my eardrums; my Ipod having become my new source of escape. The irony is that when I first saw the ads for the gadget, I thought to myself "Another reason for us to shut one another out" only to find myself desperately wanting one for the same reason. With my playlist of almost a thousand songs, I can whisk myself away from my realities in at least nine different languages from six continents.
I now speak to violin solos, guitar riffs, vocals that produce goosebumps and argue with piano pieces. David Arkenstone knows me. Eric Tingstad and Nancy Rumbel always know when to take me to Shenandoah. From time to time, I toy with movement and sweat to Meiway's DJ Tassouman. Shreya Ghosal, Pravin Mani & A R Rahman always remind me of my past incarnations draped in sarees, performing for Maharajas as a courtesan with a mastery of the movements of Khatak. Then there are the sounds of M.I, MohitsAyo, Asa, Eldee, Bijiano & Styl Plus among others pulling at my heartstrings to return home. I am in my world of therapy.
By now, I have left the street of row homes and merged on to the hilly thoroughfare where people in their cars zip past oblivious to me, the sole pedestrian. Girls dash past to their busy days and glamorous destinations,;their hairs, figures and make up impeccable and appropriate. I stand at the crosswalk and push aside the tinges of envy that I feel unable to define myself as I wish it. The air is cool and my sensible, well worn clothes shield me from its slight bite, like the encouraging words of a tired mother trying hard herself to hold on.
I cross the street and labour up the hill to my first order of the day. The building is an old historic relic from a time when the area was monochromatic in race and largely undisturbed by the interferring or interested characters from across the water. Its facade is mostly unchanged save for a winding handicap ramp leading to the front door. The interior however has been remodelled to accomodate the needs of the modern businesses that are now housed within it. I smile briefly at the perky, possibly over caffeinated receptionist and whip past her to the bank of elevators. My destination: fourth floor.
Dr. Rishi welcomes me, her bright smile illuminating her tiny features. I shake her hand and shed my old pea coat. One of the buttons is missing on the front. I must remember to sew it back on. I hang it next to her cashmere throw on the coat rack shaped like barren tree; its branches being the hooks. I am soon seated across from her on a love seat whose cushions envelope my butt cheeks in a most inappropriate yet comforting way and we begin.
"So, tell me," Aakrit Rishi begins, "how has your day been?"
The walk takes five minutes. I walk out the house, across the creaking front porch and down the equally creaking steps. I hit the sidewalk, raised by the defiant roots of an old tree. I don't know what kind it is but squirrels sure love it. There is one in particular that I am convinced watches me between gnawing on its meal of seeds. My odd furry friend is nowhere to be seen.
I start down the street of row houses. When I first came to the city, I hated the unending facade of uniformity; the repeated motif of steps, porches and doors with mail box slits. Even after five years, that feeling has not changed much but I am not as repelled by the lack of a fence and gates. The boundaries are clear enough. Erected concrete is not necessary for that. I know where I can or cannot go. Everything around me is a billboard of my limitations: like the exposed doorways of the three story row houses whose doorbells I cannot ring and threshholds I cannot cross.
My steps match the beat the music flowing softly against my eardrums; my Ipod having become my new source of escape. The irony is that when I first saw the ads for the gadget, I thought to myself "Another reason for us to shut one another out" only to find myself desperately wanting one for the same reason. With my playlist of almost a thousand songs, I can whisk myself away from my realities in at least nine different languages from six continents.
I now speak to violin solos, guitar riffs, vocals that produce goosebumps and argue with piano pieces. David Arkenstone knows me. Eric Tingstad and Nancy Rumbel always know when to take me to Shenandoah. From time to time, I toy with movement and sweat to Meiway's DJ Tassouman. Shreya Ghosal, Pravin Mani & A R Rahman always remind me of my past incarnations draped in sarees, performing for Maharajas as a courtesan with a mastery of the movements of Khatak. Then there are the sounds of M.I, MohitsAyo, Asa, Eldee, Bijiano & Styl Plus among others pulling at my heartstrings to return home. I am in my world of therapy.
By now, I have left the street of row homes and merged on to the hilly thoroughfare where people in their cars zip past oblivious to me, the sole pedestrian. Girls dash past to their busy days and glamorous destinations,;their hairs, figures and make up impeccable and appropriate. I stand at the crosswalk and push aside the tinges of envy that I feel unable to define myself as I wish it. The air is cool and my sensible, well worn clothes shield me from its slight bite, like the encouraging words of a tired mother trying hard herself to hold on.
I cross the street and labour up the hill to my first order of the day. The building is an old historic relic from a time when the area was monochromatic in race and largely undisturbed by the interferring or interested characters from across the water. Its facade is mostly unchanged save for a winding handicap ramp leading to the front door. The interior however has been remodelled to accomodate the needs of the modern businesses that are now housed within it. I smile briefly at the perky, possibly over caffeinated receptionist and whip past her to the bank of elevators. My destination: fourth floor.
Dr. Rishi welcomes me, her bright smile illuminating her tiny features. I shake her hand and shed my old pea coat. One of the buttons is missing on the front. I must remember to sew it back on. I hang it next to her cashmere throw on the coat rack shaped like barren tree; its branches being the hooks. I am soon seated across from her on a love seat whose cushions envelope my butt cheeks in a most inappropriate yet comforting way and we begin.
"So, tell me," Aakrit Rishi begins, "how has your day been?"
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Just talking
You need to be careful how you say things, lest people perceive you to be cold.
Why do you say that?
I am just saying...you don't know how unfeeling you sometimes sound?
Because I refuse to join you in commiserating over pain? I am sorry that I am neither amused nor interested in that kind of bullshit...
There you go again...
I speak my mind, m'dear
Sometimes, you don't need to. Would it kill you to simply offer a kind word, now and then?
If this has to do with Caroline, them I am sorry, no.
This is not just about Caroline. It's everyone. It's me. It's everyone other than yourself.
Look, I am not going to lie to you and you know it. The reason you tell me things is not because I will always agree with you but because you know, I will approach the situation from a detached point of view. You already know what you are supposed to do, yet you want someone to validate what you have chosen to do.
You are missing my point...
No, you are missing mine. You have been lamenting how your boss has been making advances towards you. Yet, I don't hear you choosing to either call him out or request a transfer to another account. The truth is that, you have decided to give in. Even when you know that he is married. Caroline will tell you that it is not that bad...afterall, did he not say that he and his wife are having trouble? I will tell you, "what the fuck do you think you are doing?" And I am the one who is the bad guy? I think you don't want the truth. Now, I am pissed.
It's complicated.
Actually, it isn't. Like me, you have not been in a quality relationship for a while. You are lonely and your judgement is shut. Now, you are considering married men. And like Caroline who remains in her useless marriage, you are screwing yourself over.
You think you have all the answers? I don't see your life being perfect?
I never said that it was. I face up to that fact and I manage it daily. I don't expect that you as my friend will like to me and tell me that it is or expect me to do the same with you.
This is what I don't like about you. You think you are so superior to everyone else. Like you are the only strong one and everyone is weak.
I never said that.
That is how you act, that is why no one really likes you
*laughing*
That's not news. I have never been the most liked but I know damn well that I am respected. Like that shit that Caroline pulled yesterday, do you think she would have dared to do that with me? Never. You are the one always allowing yourself to be used...all because you want to please her and say the right thing, and be kind and considerate.....and what's the word...warm?
Caroline is our friend
No, she is yours. She needed a handbag and she found one in you. Why is it that she never can go where she wants to go by herself and why do you always have to look like twins? Can she not do anything by herself?
What is so wrong about wanting to be part of a team? You are talking like you don't also join us sometimes...
I do, when it strikes my fancy. I don't make a habit of it. You already said you did not want to wear that dress. Caroline shows up and the next thing, you are sitting by quietly as she rubbishes your wardrobe choice and makes you wear the exact replica of what she is putting on and for what? So that the two of you looked like ridiculous pretentious folk at the party. The invite said casual. Even if you wanted to wear "native" you could have worn one of your shorter ankara[1] dresses and looked chic. Instead, you swathed yourself in iro[2] and buba[3], aging yourself twenty years and then upset that the only men that spoke to you were your father's age mates. What were they supposed to think? I nearly died from laughter when Banji bowed to you and said 'ma'. The guy is five years older than you...
It's not funny
Whose fault is that? Everyone was in denim, on the dance floor. You came in lace iro and buba and a satellite dish for a head tie not being able to dance. Did you think that Molara was throwing an "owambe"[4] party?
Thank you for your kind insights.
Anytime girl. You know I've got you. next time, you want to be a "big girl" like Caroline. Let me know, I will come armed with my camera again.
So you are not taking the pictures off facebook?
What the hell for? Aren't you interested in the comments? Here's one "Is that Fatou or her mother?"....hahahahahaha....that one is priceless. Kweile is such a naughty girl...i should call her for that.
So even after I have begged you, you won't take the picture off?
Look, even if I do, there are other pictures of you from the party. Are you going to call everyone and ask them to take them off?
Are you going to take them off or not?
Fine, I will...how am I going to get my forty two comments back? You guys are the talk of the bash...
Sometimes, you are so insensitive, it is amazing that you have any friends. It's not like you are skinny or something.
I am not and never was. I just dress my age.
I am 36. Iro and buba is appropriate for my age.
But inappropriate for that particular occassion. It was not the fact that you went traditional. It is that you went off-tangent traditional. I mean, all the guys had naija shirts now...but they put them on slacks. Those with ankara paired them with other monochromatic fabrics and even those who had scarves, had soft scarves....not gele[5] that nearly got knocked off by the fan...
I could not believe that you were laughing at me like that
You know me I would laugh to your face...when i did not send you message...
*sigh* I don't even know why we are friends...
Well, such is life. Like the day, I had that immensely bright idea to go cycling in the park, who could I call but you when I rode myself into the pond?
and the silly part is that you have not gotten rid of the bicycle knowing fully well you don't know how to ride it...
hehehehe...persistence my dear. In about fifteen years, I should be able to do the cycling marathon
fifteen years? only?
don't mock me o...
I am not mocking you...I am laughing at you....you are going to need alot of dusting powder for your chaffed thighs...
se you will come and cheer me on. You can wear "gele" and lace to the race
'
you are an agbaya[6]
1. ankara: african print fabric
2. iro: woman's wrapper
3. buba: woman's blouse
4. owambe: traditional party of ostentatiousness...
5. Gele: Yoruba woman's head tie
6. Agbaya: big for nothing
Why do you say that?
I am just saying...you don't know how unfeeling you sometimes sound?
Because I refuse to join you in commiserating over pain? I am sorry that I am neither amused nor interested in that kind of bullshit...
There you go again...
I speak my mind, m'dear
Sometimes, you don't need to. Would it kill you to simply offer a kind word, now and then?
If this has to do with Caroline, them I am sorry, no.
This is not just about Caroline. It's everyone. It's me. It's everyone other than yourself.
Look, I am not going to lie to you and you know it. The reason you tell me things is not because I will always agree with you but because you know, I will approach the situation from a detached point of view. You already know what you are supposed to do, yet you want someone to validate what you have chosen to do.
You are missing my point...
No, you are missing mine. You have been lamenting how your boss has been making advances towards you. Yet, I don't hear you choosing to either call him out or request a transfer to another account. The truth is that, you have decided to give in. Even when you know that he is married. Caroline will tell you that it is not that bad...afterall, did he not say that he and his wife are having trouble? I will tell you, "what the fuck do you think you are doing?" And I am the one who is the bad guy? I think you don't want the truth. Now, I am pissed.
It's complicated.
Actually, it isn't. Like me, you have not been in a quality relationship for a while. You are lonely and your judgement is shut. Now, you are considering married men. And like Caroline who remains in her useless marriage, you are screwing yourself over.
You think you have all the answers? I don't see your life being perfect?
I never said that it was. I face up to that fact and I manage it daily. I don't expect that you as my friend will like to me and tell me that it is or expect me to do the same with you.
This is what I don't like about you. You think you are so superior to everyone else. Like you are the only strong one and everyone is weak.
I never said that.
That is how you act, that is why no one really likes you
*laughing*
That's not news. I have never been the most liked but I know damn well that I am respected. Like that shit that Caroline pulled yesterday, do you think she would have dared to do that with me? Never. You are the one always allowing yourself to be used...all because you want to please her and say the right thing, and be kind and considerate.....and what's the word...warm?
Caroline is our friend
No, she is yours. She needed a handbag and she found one in you. Why is it that she never can go where she wants to go by herself and why do you always have to look like twins? Can she not do anything by herself?
What is so wrong about wanting to be part of a team? You are talking like you don't also join us sometimes...
I do, when it strikes my fancy. I don't make a habit of it. You already said you did not want to wear that dress. Caroline shows up and the next thing, you are sitting by quietly as she rubbishes your wardrobe choice and makes you wear the exact replica of what she is putting on and for what? So that the two of you looked like ridiculous pretentious folk at the party. The invite said casual. Even if you wanted to wear "native" you could have worn one of your shorter ankara[1] dresses and looked chic. Instead, you swathed yourself in iro[2] and buba[3], aging yourself twenty years and then upset that the only men that spoke to you were your father's age mates. What were they supposed to think? I nearly died from laughter when Banji bowed to you and said 'ma'. The guy is five years older than you...
It's not funny
Whose fault is that? Everyone was in denim, on the dance floor. You came in lace iro and buba and a satellite dish for a head tie not being able to dance. Did you think that Molara was throwing an "owambe"[4] party?
Thank you for your kind insights.
Anytime girl. You know I've got you. next time, you want to be a "big girl" like Caroline. Let me know, I will come armed with my camera again.
So you are not taking the pictures off facebook?
What the hell for? Aren't you interested in the comments? Here's one "Is that Fatou or her mother?"....hahahahahaha....that one is priceless. Kweile is such a naughty girl...i should call her for that.
So even after I have begged you, you won't take the picture off?
Look, even if I do, there are other pictures of you from the party. Are you going to call everyone and ask them to take them off?
Are you going to take them off or not?
Fine, I will...how am I going to get my forty two comments back? You guys are the talk of the bash...
Sometimes, you are so insensitive, it is amazing that you have any friends. It's not like you are skinny or something.
I am not and never was. I just dress my age.
I am 36. Iro and buba is appropriate for my age.
But inappropriate for that particular occassion. It was not the fact that you went traditional. It is that you went off-tangent traditional. I mean, all the guys had naija shirts now...but they put them on slacks. Those with ankara paired them with other monochromatic fabrics and even those who had scarves, had soft scarves....not gele[5] that nearly got knocked off by the fan...
I could not believe that you were laughing at me like that
You know me I would laugh to your face...when i did not send you message...
*sigh* I don't even know why we are friends...
Well, such is life. Like the day, I had that immensely bright idea to go cycling in the park, who could I call but you when I rode myself into the pond?
and the silly part is that you have not gotten rid of the bicycle knowing fully well you don't know how to ride it...
hehehehe...persistence my dear. In about fifteen years, I should be able to do the cycling marathon
fifteen years? only?
don't mock me o...
I am not mocking you...I am laughing at you....you are going to need alot of dusting powder for your chaffed thighs...
se you will come and cheer me on. You can wear "gele" and lace to the race
'
you are an agbaya[6]
1. ankara: african print fabric
2. iro: woman's wrapper
3. buba: woman's blouse
4. owambe: traditional party of ostentatiousness...
5. Gele: Yoruba woman's head tie
6. Agbaya: big for nothing
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Things mama should not hear me say....
When I think of making love with you, I know I am a virgin. The way I feel is so inexplicable that it must be that I have never felt this way and thus I know that my body has been untouched by passion. I know that my body has not known release until you give it to me.
When I see you, will I be able to stop myself from rushing to claim your lips with mine? Will I be able to stop from sinking my nails through your fabric clad cheeks as I grind our pelvics together? Will I bite? Will I lick? Will I taste? Will I drink? Will I suck at the essence of you?
I want to stand in the heat of your gaze as all melts away. I want so badly to feel your hands cup my aching breasts...don't knead, just hold them. The kneading, you can do with your mouth. Don't just flick at my nipples, driving me crazy with the need for full pressure. Take all of globes as far as the suction of your mouth can take them. Lift them to your mouth and claim them. They are yours.
Clasp my butt in your hands. Lift me against you...hard. Slam me into you. Remind me who I belong to. Force me to feel the length of you pressed up against me. Let me know that in a while, I am going to feel it so deep in me that each thrust will hit the base of my throat. Tease my lips. Crush them with yours. Brand me with your tongue. Let me forget my own and only move to drink from you.
Taste my skin. Bite me. Suck me. Touch me. Merge your hands with your lips. Follow the curve of my neck to the base of my throat. You can feel the rise of my breasts pushing against you, begging for attention. Hold me steady if I am on my feet because I can assure you, I will have lost control of them. Lift me onto you. Back me up against the wall for support. Hard. Grind me into the cold material that makes the structure of the building, your hand cradling my thighs and holding me anchored to you.
Thrust against me...slowly. Give me what is mine. Give me what is mine. Show me what I have been waiting for. Show me how good your stroke is going to be. Show me what motion I have to take. Talk to me. Ask me if I can feel you. Command me to respond. Tell me what you're going to do to me. Tell me you can feel my wetness seeping through against you. Thrust against me as I come. I can't speak. My sounds are incoherent. You know what I mean and what I want. You give it to me and you tell me just how.
When we make it to the spot where we are skin on skin, I will take you into my mouth. You can't see me. My blindfold shields your eyes and the handcuffs keep you from interfering. I will taste you. First the very tip, you know, the cleft at the top where your seed spills from. Then I will taste the ridge of the cap, discovering the width of you. I am afraid that I might not be able to take the length of you in my mouth, so I simply trace your sex with my tongue. I follow every vein, every ridge, every bit until I arrive at the base where your man sacks lie, taut and pulsing.These I take into my mouth as much as I can. I brush my face against you, inhaling your scent. I weave my hands around you and move my wrist ever so slightly over your flesh. I suck and bite at your pelvis, your hairs, your thighs, your skin...you. I take you in my mouth as much as I can and love you. I want you to feel good. I want you to get release. I want you to know how much I love you. I want you...
Enter me. the first thrust should be slow as you reach in to the length of me. My body has been waiting for this for so long, you have to hold me because the first release is almost immediate. You thrust through each tremor and when the umpteenth time that you feel body clench around you, steeling itself against the tide, increase your thrusts. Hard and fast. You know that in reflex, my body is going to try and pull away; an an attempt to preserve itself against falling apart under the force of an orgasm. I want you to come at me with all you've got. Block my every move. Follow me where my body pulls you to. Give it to me so hard and good that my release is in convulsions and I can't stop the juices that spill from my eyes and sex or the cries that burst from my lips, inaudible and incoherent.
The first time, make love to me. The second time, fuck me
Friday, March 13, 2009
Sisterhood of need
picture from hereI ran into Szezan today and I mean that literarily. I stepped out from the cool bank lobby into the blistering hot sun that Lagos has been infinitely blessed with and slammed into an oncoming figure. It was Szezan. Szezan Ajenkuma. Szezan that I had not seen in almost twenty years. More importantly, she had not changed a bit. Where I was sporting a full head of grey hair brought on by the stress of daily living and clad in the extra pounds birthing three children had gifted me with, Szezan was still her petite self, complete with her signature reddish gold hair and huge spectacles. She looked like she had walked out of the eighties.
Recognition is a special thing. If it comes with fond memories, delighted squeals ensue coupled with tight embraces as both parties try to reconnect. If it is the contrary, it could be a disastrous disintergration into exchanged punches, insults and accusations. When it is a bittersweet one like me remembering Szezan and she remembering me, it is a special kind of discomfort. Still, after our initial gasp and hesitation, we moved into a brief hug.
"How are you?" she asked, her accent deepening her voice. Memories of times spent teasing and imitating her, brought tears to my eyes. I was surprised at the reaction and tried to push them back. It was too late. She had already seen them.
"Haimani," she said my name with a sigh, "come this way". She pulled me away from the entrance where the previously bored security gaurd was watching with barely veiled interest.
"Where have you been?" I asked because I did not know. I had tried so hard to find her but she just seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.
"Here and there...mostly, there" she said with a dismissive chuckle, her tinted curls bouncing over her forehead.
"That is not an answer." I did not mean it but it came out as much more of a retort than I had intended. She blinked and stepped back a bit, putting some distance between us.
"I did not know that you would care." she bit back, the icy cold in her voice bringing on a small shiver even though we were both standing unshaded from the sun.
"That's not true..." I began and stopped because I knew it would sound false to her. What could I say to her? There was nothing to say. Nothing that could change the past.
She had married my brother. There had been no children. Our mother and kinsmen had made her life misreable, subjecting her to varying levels of emotional and physical abuse. Neither myself nor my brother Jahan had done anything. Jahan's solution was to kick out his wife and marry someone from our village who knew that if she too did not produce a child within nine months, that she too would suffer the same fate. Jahan's first son Kabile was born. I had not seen Szezan since the day she had stood by, watching as if she was one of the entertained passersby as her things, accumulated over four years of marriage and three years of courtship were loaded on a rickety pick up truck and driven out of her compound without her.
Jahan and Estelle were blissfully miserable. She had borne him five children. None of them his. We found out when Djiani, the smallest girl needed a bone marrow transplant. The shock nearly gave Jahan a heart attack. He had rounded up his mistresses and their children and just as expected, not one single one of his "offspring" was his. What could we do, everyone knew what had happened with his pretty bride Szezan and what his family had done. It was not to get out, so there Jahan was, father to eight children fathered by other men. At least Estelle, had made sure that all of hers were from one source.
I had tried to find Szezan but even God knew it would be too late to apologise. I always asked myself why I had never defended her. She and I had been friends. Laughing and living lackadaisically, our youth a security blanket of hope, optimism and opportunity. She had married my brother. My family that had watched her grow up, witnessed her life's achievements alongside mine turned on her with such speed and malice that one would have imagined that the resentment had been a long time coming.
"Szezan, I am sorry" I said simply.
She shrugged and smiled and I was surprised to see that it was genuine. "There is nothing to be sorry for."
I shook my head, "I did not say anything because I was scared."
"I know."
We stood in silence. Our history speaking for us instead. She reached into her bag and pulled out what looked like tickets.
"If you are available, here are two tickets. They are my last two spare. Come to the MUSON center"
"You are performing?" My mother had smashed Szezan's grand piano saying that she had sold her womb for the gift of music.
"No," she shook her head, "my son is."
I should not have been surprised that she would be a mother but the news hit me hard.
"You have a son?" I could only whisper.
"Sons and daughters." Chuckling at the look on my face, she continued, "My first two are adopted and my last two are from my husband's first marriage."
I paused. So, she had adopted. So it was true that she could not have kids.
Reading my face, she pushed hair out of her face as she spoke, "I decided not to have children, Haimani. Or I should say, that I did not want to be pregnant. I chose a different kind of motherhood."
That did not make sense.
"Why? After all that you were put through? Could you not have put your enemies and detractors to shame?" I winced because I could easily be on that list.
"I have no enemies or detractors. Anyone that had a problem with me not being pregant, where are they now? I don't know and don't care. I have four healthy children, a happy marriage and blessings beyond what the mouth can mention. Tomorrow night, my second child performs to a sold out crowd...the past is insignificant."
I did not know what to say. So I said nothing. Neither did she.
Without saying goodbye, she walked away and into the building and I turned around to watch her go.
I saw in her stride the things that I myself did not have. Things that I ought to being that I had done every single thing I had been told to. I had married the man I was told to. Given birth to his children and given up my career to raise them. I had closed my eyes to his indiscretions, ceased "antagonising" him when he sometimes hit me. I had been a good wife and a respectable woman. And yet, I had nothing of what Szezan had. Her walk told me that she was happy, confident and proud.
I walked even slower to my car. Suddenly, I was very very very sad.
**************************************************************************************
I watched Haimani's retreat and could not help but feel regret. She had been so beautiful and lively. Now she looked worn out and exhausted. I was not surprised though. I could have been her. That was why when Jahan's mother started the last leg of her climatic attacks, I did not put up a fight.
I had known about Estelle. The moment I found out, I knew one thing infinitely and totally. Jahan was a weak man. And he would always have his mother as his excuse for doing so. That was why I was not surprised that he would not meet my gaze each time his mother accused me of witchcraft. That was why he was away when I was moved out forcefully from my own home and Estelle moved in.
And that was why I stood by and did nothing. Then I took a taxi to the clinic and had Dr. Abayomi remove my four week pregnancy.
Recognition is a special thing. If it comes with fond memories, delighted squeals ensue coupled with tight embraces as both parties try to reconnect. If it is the contrary, it could be a disastrous disintergration into exchanged punches, insults and accusations. When it is a bittersweet one like me remembering Szezan and she remembering me, it is a special kind of discomfort. Still, after our initial gasp and hesitation, we moved into a brief hug.
"How are you?" she asked, her accent deepening her voice. Memories of times spent teasing and imitating her, brought tears to my eyes. I was surprised at the reaction and tried to push them back. It was too late. She had already seen them.
"Haimani," she said my name with a sigh, "come this way". She pulled me away from the entrance where the previously bored security gaurd was watching with barely veiled interest.
"Where have you been?" I asked because I did not know. I had tried so hard to find her but she just seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.
"Here and there...mostly, there" she said with a dismissive chuckle, her tinted curls bouncing over her forehead.
"That is not an answer." I did not mean it but it came out as much more of a retort than I had intended. She blinked and stepped back a bit, putting some distance between us.
"I did not know that you would care." she bit back, the icy cold in her voice bringing on a small shiver even though we were both standing unshaded from the sun.
"That's not true..." I began and stopped because I knew it would sound false to her. What could I say to her? There was nothing to say. Nothing that could change the past.
She had married my brother. There had been no children. Our mother and kinsmen had made her life misreable, subjecting her to varying levels of emotional and physical abuse. Neither myself nor my brother Jahan had done anything. Jahan's solution was to kick out his wife and marry someone from our village who knew that if she too did not produce a child within nine months, that she too would suffer the same fate. Jahan's first son Kabile was born. I had not seen Szezan since the day she had stood by, watching as if she was one of the entertained passersby as her things, accumulated over four years of marriage and three years of courtship were loaded on a rickety pick up truck and driven out of her compound without her.
Jahan and Estelle were blissfully miserable. She had borne him five children. None of them his. We found out when Djiani, the smallest girl needed a bone marrow transplant. The shock nearly gave Jahan a heart attack. He had rounded up his mistresses and their children and just as expected, not one single one of his "offspring" was his. What could we do, everyone knew what had happened with his pretty bride Szezan and what his family had done. It was not to get out, so there Jahan was, father to eight children fathered by other men. At least Estelle, had made sure that all of hers were from one source.
I had tried to find Szezan but even God knew it would be too late to apologise. I always asked myself why I had never defended her. She and I had been friends. Laughing and living lackadaisically, our youth a security blanket of hope, optimism and opportunity. She had married my brother. My family that had watched her grow up, witnessed her life's achievements alongside mine turned on her with such speed and malice that one would have imagined that the resentment had been a long time coming.
"Szezan, I am sorry" I said simply.
She shrugged and smiled and I was surprised to see that it was genuine. "There is nothing to be sorry for."
I shook my head, "I did not say anything because I was scared."
"I know."
We stood in silence. Our history speaking for us instead. She reached into her bag and pulled out what looked like tickets.
"If you are available, here are two tickets. They are my last two spare. Come to the MUSON center"
"You are performing?" My mother had smashed Szezan's grand piano saying that she had sold her womb for the gift of music.
"No," she shook her head, "my son is."
I should not have been surprised that she would be a mother but the news hit me hard.
"You have a son?" I could only whisper.
"Sons and daughters." Chuckling at the look on my face, she continued, "My first two are adopted and my last two are from my husband's first marriage."
I paused. So, she had adopted. So it was true that she could not have kids.
Reading my face, she pushed hair out of her face as she spoke, "I decided not to have children, Haimani. Or I should say, that I did not want to be pregnant. I chose a different kind of motherhood."
That did not make sense.
"Why? After all that you were put through? Could you not have put your enemies and detractors to shame?" I winced because I could easily be on that list.
"I have no enemies or detractors. Anyone that had a problem with me not being pregant, where are they now? I don't know and don't care. I have four healthy children, a happy marriage and blessings beyond what the mouth can mention. Tomorrow night, my second child performs to a sold out crowd...the past is insignificant."
I did not know what to say. So I said nothing. Neither did she.
Without saying goodbye, she walked away and into the building and I turned around to watch her go.
I saw in her stride the things that I myself did not have. Things that I ought to being that I had done every single thing I had been told to. I had married the man I was told to. Given birth to his children and given up my career to raise them. I had closed my eyes to his indiscretions, ceased "antagonising" him when he sometimes hit me. I had been a good wife and a respectable woman. And yet, I had nothing of what Szezan had. Her walk told me that she was happy, confident and proud.
I walked even slower to my car. Suddenly, I was very very very sad.
**************************************************************************************
I watched Haimani's retreat and could not help but feel regret. She had been so beautiful and lively. Now she looked worn out and exhausted. I was not surprised though. I could have been her. That was why when Jahan's mother started the last leg of her climatic attacks, I did not put up a fight.
I had known about Estelle. The moment I found out, I knew one thing infinitely and totally. Jahan was a weak man. And he would always have his mother as his excuse for doing so. That was why I was not surprised that he would not meet my gaze each time his mother accused me of witchcraft. That was why he was away when I was moved out forcefully from my own home and Estelle moved in.
And that was why I stood by and did nothing. Then I took a taxi to the clinic and had Dr. Abayomi remove my four week pregnancy.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Monday, March 02, 2009
Porn Connoisseur
As someone who has been entertained, fascinated and puzzled by the adult film industry, I must pose some questions; and they are some that only few might be able to answer.
1.There is this genre of porn that is shot at parties where people have sex in full view of a crowded room. The female participants typically appear more intoxicated than their male partners. In any case, their performance is cheered on by their equally alcohol indulged audience.
My question: I have noticed that the audience is ninety percent of time, made only of men. I now then wonder, is the girl there to service them all and if so, what could possibly inspire you to be where twelve men (at least, and here, i am undercounting) have just recently been? How do you que up to fuck someone? And how can you just stand around watching two people paint the floor and furniture with bodily juices?
2. Asian porn. Females that look adolescent and sound infantile.
My question: Why would anyone watch someone who looks like a child? It looks to me like what I imagine child pornography to be and I am always sickened. I am never sure whether to call the police or not.
Even more alarming is material that comes out of South East Asia. It is either the women look like they are being forced or not even aware that they are being filmed.
The one, I saw from the middle east freaked me out. The girl was begging to go. She kept trying to keep her hijab on and the man was pulling at it and pushing her around. I did not understand what she was saying but from her body language, I could see the resistance. I could go no further than a minute. I emailed teh cybertipline but who knows. After all, it was porn and they could have been acting. And it was not American material so jurisdiction issues would have been an issue along with the possibility of having that girl in trouble based on their sharia laws.
3. Tera Patrick.
My question: How do I get a body like hers? I swear, that woman is fine and looks like a kindergaten teacher.
4. African Porn
My question: Where are the good ones? It is either they are ridiculous or they all look like they need to take showers. I once saw a clip involving a white girl and a pygmie. I nearly died laughing. I can't even describe what it was about.
1.There is this genre of porn that is shot at parties where people have sex in full view of a crowded room. The female participants typically appear more intoxicated than their male partners. In any case, their performance is cheered on by their equally alcohol indulged audience.
My question: I have noticed that the audience is ninety percent of time, made only of men. I now then wonder, is the girl there to service them all and if so, what could possibly inspire you to be where twelve men (at least, and here, i am undercounting) have just recently been? How do you que up to fuck someone? And how can you just stand around watching two people paint the floor and furniture with bodily juices?
2. Asian porn. Females that look adolescent and sound infantile.
My question: Why would anyone watch someone who looks like a child? It looks to me like what I imagine child pornography to be and I am always sickened. I am never sure whether to call the police or not.
Even more alarming is material that comes out of South East Asia. It is either the women look like they are being forced or not even aware that they are being filmed.
The one, I saw from the middle east freaked me out. The girl was begging to go. She kept trying to keep her hijab on and the man was pulling at it and pushing her around. I did not understand what she was saying but from her body language, I could see the resistance. I could go no further than a minute. I emailed teh cybertipline but who knows. After all, it was porn and they could have been acting. And it was not American material so jurisdiction issues would have been an issue along with the possibility of having that girl in trouble based on their sharia laws.
3. Tera Patrick.
My question: How do I get a body like hers? I swear, that woman is fine and looks like a kindergaten teacher.
4. African Porn
My question: Where are the good ones? It is either they are ridiculous or they all look like they need to take showers. I once saw a clip involving a white girl and a pygmie. I nearly died laughing. I can't even describe what it was about.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The Blacklist Volume II
"God might not always come when you call Him, but He is always right on time"
I must just always remember this.
I must just always remember this.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
It started out as a thought and the next thing I knew I was rolling on the floor laughing...
Cos I remembered when I still used to wear a leg brace. I went for Sunday EWS and afterwards was walking back to the car while my parents touched base with other adults at service. I noticed that some of the "main guys" were seated on a low wall by the cars conversating and that I would have to walk past them. In true fifteen year old form, I attempted to sashay past; a ridiculous idea given that I was a female teen version of Forrest Gump. I was not to be deterred. I began my move. As I approached, the conversation among the boys slowly died down as they paused to behold the spectacle that was my movement. I am guessing I would have made it too if the yeye thing had not locked at the joints and sent me flying. I just lay there while the boys jumped up and rushed over.
Long story short, don't catwalk if you have a leg brace on...
Or the time I was on the bus and wanted to flick my long weave backwards and out of my face and sent my earring flying through the window....
Or the time that I farted while laughing at a joke the School of Architecture's guest of honour said and the poor guy just went "Take it easy child"...
Or the time I was not looking and got into the wrong car in front of my dorm and scared the beejeesus out of these three guys...
Or the time I thought I would get my eyebrows waxed and ended up looking "surprised" for two weeks...
Or the time I did not know that one stupid baby had pulled my wig backwards on the bus while I was dozing and the mother was trying to find a way to push it back without waking me up and ended up knocking me upside the head when the bus jolted. I just woke up and found that people were staring at me with hands over their mouth and some hispanic woman trying to get off the bus fast. When I got out, I caught my reflection in the bus as it drove past and my wig was on backwards....
Or the day I bent down in class to pick up something and my jeans ripped....
Or the....I gotta stop, my side hurts men
Long story short, don't catwalk if you have a leg brace on...
Or the time I was on the bus and wanted to flick my long weave backwards and out of my face and sent my earring flying through the window....
Or the time that I farted while laughing at a joke the School of Architecture's guest of honour said and the poor guy just went "Take it easy child"...
Or the time I was not looking and got into the wrong car in front of my dorm and scared the beejeesus out of these three guys...
Or the time I thought I would get my eyebrows waxed and ended up looking "surprised" for two weeks...
Or the time I did not know that one stupid baby had pulled my wig backwards on the bus while I was dozing and the mother was trying to find a way to push it back without waking me up and ended up knocking me upside the head when the bus jolted. I just woke up and found that people were staring at me with hands over their mouth and some hispanic woman trying to get off the bus fast. When I got out, I caught my reflection in the bus as it drove past and my wig was on backwards....
Or the day I bent down in class to pick up something and my jeans ripped....
Or the....I gotta stop, my side hurts men
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Envy and other musings on a cold January afternoon
On November 4th, a huge chunk of the citizens of the United States of America participated in a free election that put in place the first black man as the 44th president. For country that grew its economic wealth on the exploitation and oppression of others, this was an amazing feat even in itself. And today, braving the bitter Washington DC cold, this man was sworn in with a ceremony that was moving and inspirational, into his office. This man, Barrack Obama, has become the new iconic symbol of global change. He is the black man from the West. He is the future of international relations.
My feelings at this point towards this man and his people are a combination of being impressed and envy. The journey to this point and the ability to get here is what I envy. On the day of the American elections, there were no reports of violence or rigging (no reports might not mean that they did not happen). People went to the polls, cast their vote and went about their day. At the end, the results were announced and the losing party bowed out with a graceful show of sportsmanship and stepped aside so the winning team could take centerstage. The entire country, irrespective of their beliefs and voting choices unified to welcome the new president home. It was like a page out of fairy tale book on what democracy is all about.
My eyes filled with tears as I listened to the 44th president make his first speech as president but I refused to let them fall. It is quite the heartbreak to hear such inspirational words coming from someone addressing his people and come from a country like mine.
I am a Nigerian. And I am wondering when we as a people will be courageous enough to demand leaders who manage our growth towards stability and further development. I wonder when we refuse to be poor in thought, words and deed because poverty is not just about a lack of legal tender; that is simply being broke. When will the mention of my nationality not mean an invitation for people to share what negative experiences they have heard about or experiences with some other Nigerians?
I don't know.
Maybe in twenty years. If we all make the conscious decision to work towards it.
Now, I watch the Americans celebrate.
In a while, and God willing I will be a part of it, so will we.
The Nigerians, I mean....and all other nationalities who wish it.
My feelings at this point towards this man and his people are a combination of being impressed and envy. The journey to this point and the ability to get here is what I envy. On the day of the American elections, there were no reports of violence or rigging (no reports might not mean that they did not happen). People went to the polls, cast their vote and went about their day. At the end, the results were announced and the losing party bowed out with a graceful show of sportsmanship and stepped aside so the winning team could take centerstage. The entire country, irrespective of their beliefs and voting choices unified to welcome the new president home. It was like a page out of fairy tale book on what democracy is all about.
My eyes filled with tears as I listened to the 44th president make his first speech as president but I refused to let them fall. It is quite the heartbreak to hear such inspirational words coming from someone addressing his people and come from a country like mine.
I am a Nigerian. And I am wondering when we as a people will be courageous enough to demand leaders who manage our growth towards stability and further development. I wonder when we refuse to be poor in thought, words and deed because poverty is not just about a lack of legal tender; that is simply being broke. When will the mention of my nationality not mean an invitation for people to share what negative experiences they have heard about or experiences with some other Nigerians?
I don't know.
Maybe in twenty years. If we all make the conscious decision to work towards it.
Now, I watch the Americans celebrate.
In a while, and God willing I will be a part of it, so will we.
The Nigerians, I mean....and all other nationalities who wish it.
Friday, January 16, 2009
God why?
I just need a simple explanation why it is so FRACKING cold today!!!! I nearly passed out walking from the metro and I must have lost alot of energy doing so because now, I am so sleepy.....
My mind has been made up for me, Nope, I am not living in a cold climate even if I get a nice car to cart me and my stuff around. I need not to fear that I will loose my ear lobes because somebody sometime ago insulted God and he cursed the land with ice weather.
Haba!!!!
My mind has been made up for me, Nope, I am not living in a cold climate even if I get a nice car to cart me and my stuff around. I need not to fear that I will loose my ear lobes because somebody sometime ago insulted God and he cursed the land with ice weather.
Haba!!!!
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
The Kiss
Picture from here"Now, we are here. This is the most important part of the film. This kiss is the most important thing about the film. This is what should tell the audience if both your characters are supposed to be together. Your love story so far has been a series of hits and misses and now finally, you are here. Look at her, she is Sajida. The one for whom your heart beats and your blood boils. The one for whom you have risked even death itself just so you can feel her forbidden touch. And you, Malicka, you as Sajida have been waiting all your life for this moment. You have fled your wedding on the promise made to you eleven years ago when you were but children. Your love is one of desperation. You know loving him will destroy you but you cannot help yourself. You are lost. You are his and only he can save you from this jump off the cliff into the unknown. Are you with me?"
We both nodded. What could we do. Draped across each other in a state of suggestive undress whilst a frantic crew orbitted around us, there was nothing Kunal and I could do but nod. Ask anyone in our line of work and they will tell you that it does not matter how many movies you do, the love scenes are the most uncomfortable. First, there is the fact that you have to pretend to feel all that emotion for someone you are not supposed to. Even if your body responds, you have to act like it doesn't while acting like it does. It never ceases to be embarassing for either one of you to suddenly become aware that the other is aroused. That has led many a leading pair down the hurried path back to their trailers where they rip the clothes off each other, only to figure out six months after the movie has been released that that was all it was: a reaction and not a connection.
Then, there is the crew. They, avoiding your gaze and you, avoiding theirs. If you are established like Kunal and I, you can demand a closed set. But if you are just starting out, you can find yourself under the assessing stares of almost fifty people trying to make sure that you don't fuck up their work. Makeup needs you to remain dry and intact all through the shot; something I never quite understood when one is placed under such severe lighting. Wardrobe needs for the costumes to come off effortlessly and in such a way as to imply that if the audience purchased the same pieces, they might find themselves in similar embraces of passion. The Cinematographer, Lighting crew and Director, all pressed to make the shot as suggestive as possible without actually having to result in unsimulated sex. There would be stills; the most excruciating part. Taken by the photographer, they would run with promos and be leaked to blogs and buzz makers so as to create the illusion that your ticket at the cinemas would buy you audience to witness the forbidden. That is when you and your co-star have to hold contorted positions for minutes at a time.
I typically zone out during these takes. I go into auto pilot. With a body like mine, I have no hang ups about nudity, even though I never do full frontal. Sex sells and I get paid to suggest that I've got the kind that all men or some women want. With 15 mil a flick, I think I am quite convincing. And so far, I have not had to compromise my principles. That is not to say that I have not slept with some of my co stars. That is a story for another day. Today, it's all about this scene. This scene where Sajida and Qais steal a night of passion beneath the beautiful darkness of an Egyptian night. This scene shared between Kunal and I. This scene that would make or break the movie.
"Remember, you can keep it close lipped. All I need is the look in both your eyes. You kiss, pull away briefly and move into a hurried embrace, " Said, the director went on, "then you, Kunal, push here slowly back against the bed of discarded clothes. Remember to place your hands, here, here and here..." he directed, pointing at my neck, stomach and thighs. Kunal nods, his curly hair falling over one eye. He looks at me and winks. I wink back and chuckle at his attempt at being cavalier. I know he is nervous. I can feel it. I know because so am I.
Said gives us the thumbs up and pulls away to his highly coveted position behind the camera, in front of the preview screen. We are going for action in a minute. I lean into Kunal,
"You ready?" I whisper, impressed that I am able to still the trembling in my voice. He nods without looking at me. He can't anyway; make up is giving his sweaty brow, one last dab.
The AD takes control of the set. Everything dies down. Everyone is in their places. The crew and the cast: Kunal and I. It is cold, the coolness sweeping past on a soft breeze from the lake nearby. I can see the reflection of the night's moon on the still surface. We are on the river bank and it is the last shoot of the night.
"Silence on the set. Places everyone." No one moves. Said could throw a tantrum and whatever he has in his hand if he feels his shot is compromised by a crew member. He is holding a styrofoam of coffee that I know would be stiff, black, bitter and smoldering hot.
"Lights?"
Lighting crew nods
"Sound"
The poor boy holding the boom mike nods
"Camera"
There is a pause as the DOP looks at his camera.
"Rolling"
"Mark it"
A young production assistant, grateful to be on set hurries forward and marks the shot, "Sahara Rose. Scene thirty four, take one. By the riverside."
She moves away
"Action"
Kunal's lips are less than an inch from mine. I can feel his minty breath on my face, his cologne scented skin against mine. We have both been sprayed down with fake mist, simulating the pespiration that passion brings. The shot is simple, has been choreographed over and over. It would be a chaste kiss and a caressing embrace, from which my lover will ease me on my back and move between my thighs. Then we cut. A minute or two that would be edited to a three minute sequence justaposing close ups of skin, limbs and parted lips with soft suggestive music for what should be an erotic encounter. It has all been explained and defined in the contract.
I have other plans. I want this man and I am going in for the kill. I am going to give him something he did not see coming. I can feel the tenseness in his frame and know that he is politely arching his body to give me some space and avoid his pressing weight. I hear the signal and I do what I plan to do.
I rise so fast, he has no time to react. I push him off me and to a sitting position so that I can move to straddle him. I hear the collective gasp as the artfully placed piece of muslin fabric falls away from my naked bosom. Thrusting my hand in his full head of hair, I pull his head back and cover his lips, opened with the pain of my grip, with mine. He tries to pull away and I push into him, coaxing him to respond.
"Kiss me." I moan against his mouth,"Kiss me. Tonight is ours. No one can take this away. Tonight belongs to you and I. Kiss me"
I pull back and look into his eyes. Those lines were never in the script. He knows I mean them.
I can almost from the corner of my eye that Said's mouth, like most of the crew, is hanging open and his coffee is pouring slowly on the floor.
I move my hand slowly from Kunal's hair to cup his face, brushing his wet lower lip with my thumb.
"Kiss me, my love"
He does, crushing my mouth to his. I let go and he let's go and we fall into each other's arms, giving in to weeks of pent up emotion, stolen glances and suggestive conversation. I melt in the taste of his mouth and he, warm, wet, minty, fresh and suprisingly sweet, his tongue responds to mine.
It does not matter that the movie is initially banned. The censorship board feels that the kiss is a bit too much. The press takes the issue, lights a fire to it and runs it day in, day out. Advocates for the freedom of speech speak out in opposition to the ban. Conservatives cry out that we, Kunal and I have demoralised the future generation by exposing them to improper behaviour. A few bribes are paid under the table. The movie is giving an R rating. It is sold out in every theatres. Pirated copies are found on the internet. Youtube, blogs and chatrooms have us as their topic of discussions resulting in heated debates where insults and name calling become the fashion.
Said enters the film in an international film festival. We win an award. Kunal is nominated for his performance as the Best Male Performance. I am nominated for Best Performance in An Epic or Drama.
Said enters the film in an international film festival. We win an award. Kunal is nominated for his performance as the Best Male Performance. I am nominated for Best Performance in An Epic or Drama.
We arrive at the award ceremony at the same time. There is an amazing opening dance performance by a seasoned classical dance artist. The category wins pass by. Kunal's category comes up. He wins.
In his acceptance speech, he thanks God, the director, producers, cast and crew. He thanks me his co star for a professional working environment. Then he thanks his wife for her undying support
Friday, January 02, 2009
I had planned not to start the year with a rant but any case...
I was jeje-ly and rora-ly enjoying my New Year and trying to connect with my roots by staying glued to the poor audio-visual bumbling attempt that was NTA. On air was the traditional recap of events marking the entry to the new year (mostly in various churches as if non-Christians did not enter the new year) with a special focus on the annual visit of the nation's first lady to the newborn babies of the year.
After carrying the poor infants who were oddly enough clothed in winter gear, the first lady took some time to address the camera. When asked what her message was to Nigerian women, our lady responded (and I am going to try and remember the exact quote):
"Err, to the Nigerian women, in the new year, they should take care of their homes, obey their husbands......."
I must confess, at the last part of the statement, I was so stunned, I did not hear the rest. I was just too amazed that giving the opportunity to speak to 60% of the country's population,from diverse ethnicities, relgious backgrounds and personal pursuits, our first lady whom I had been told had a formal education could only see fit to advise all women to take care of their homes and obey their husbands.
She was saying...
To the single mothers: obey their husbands
To the lawyers, doctors, engineers, fashion designers, writers, editors, entrepreneurs, prosmiscous women, prudes,nuns, athletes, mothers, students, daughters,wives, sisters,nieces,aunts, grandmothers, architects, actresses, film producers, directors, chefs, drivers, inventors,readers, manufacturers, philanthropists, nurses,medical practitioners, scientists, researchers, shallow women, traders, kidnappers, child traffickers, preachers, religious zelots, religious leaders, bloggers, illiterates, singers, artistes, investors,sex workers, mistresses, bankers, 419ners, travellers, planners, lazy females, hardworking females, employed, unemployed, whatever-you-could-possibly be: obey your husband?!!!!
Apparently, the Nigerian woman is only a homemaker. She cleans the house, tends to her children, obeys her husband and that is the extent of her existence. It is no wonder why the Nigerian female consciousness is the same as it was in pre-historic times because even the woman--our first lady--who is the ultimate example of our identity cannot see herself outside of the definitions of a marital status. It is all she probably ever aspired to be and cannot even fathom a word of encouragement or inspiration for the woman coming after her that does not mirror her own private achievements.
After carrying the poor infants who were oddly enough clothed in winter gear, the first lady took some time to address the camera. When asked what her message was to Nigerian women, our lady responded (and I am going to try and remember the exact quote):
"Err, to the Nigerian women, in the new year, they should take care of their homes, obey their husbands......."
I must confess, at the last part of the statement, I was so stunned, I did not hear the rest. I was just too amazed that giving the opportunity to speak to 60% of the country's population,from diverse ethnicities, relgious backgrounds and personal pursuits, our first lady whom I had been told had a formal education could only see fit to advise all women to take care of their homes and obey their husbands.
She was saying...
To the single mothers: obey their husbands
To the lawyers, doctors, engineers, fashion designers, writers, editors, entrepreneurs, prosmiscous women, prudes,nuns, athletes, mothers, students, daughters,wives, sisters,nieces,aunts, grandmothers, architects, actresses, film producers, directors, chefs, drivers, inventors,readers, manufacturers, philanthropists, nurses,medical practitioners, scientists, researchers, shallow women, traders, kidnappers, child traffickers, preachers, religious zelots, religious leaders, bloggers, illiterates, singers, artistes, investors,sex workers, mistresses, bankers, 419ners, travellers, planners, lazy females, hardworking females, employed, unemployed, whatever-you-could-possibly be: obey your husband?!!!!
Apparently, the Nigerian woman is only a homemaker. She cleans the house, tends to her children, obeys her husband and that is the extent of her existence. It is no wonder why the Nigerian female consciousness is the same as it was in pre-historic times because even the woman--our first lady--who is the ultimate example of our identity cannot see herself outside of the definitions of a marital status. It is all she probably ever aspired to be and cannot even fathom a word of encouragement or inspiration for the woman coming after her that does not mirror her own private achievements.
(sorry i could not find a picture with a dutiful nigerian wife but you get the picture)I am sorry and not the least bit surprised to say that I have never been inspired whether in deed or words by any first lady my state or country has ever had. When I was little, I looked to Margaret Thatcher, Indira Ghandi, Benazir Bhutto, Winnie Mandela and until recently, Hilary Clinton. Right now, I am inspired by Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, president of Liberia because she represents a future that seems like it might never happen in my country: A woman who leads the people. I don't even know if she is married and frankly, I don't care. All I know is that she has taken some mantle of leadership and is doing what she can to repair a hurt nation.
These women were (and still are) doing things, making waves and changing lives as they led their people. I am not going to analyze whether or not they executed good governance, I am talking about the impression their attainment of their positions had on me.
In Nigeria, first ladies belong to a sorority whose accomplishments include supporting philandeering husbands who abuse power, setting up organisations that take more money from a society (CASE IN POINT: BETTER LIFE FOR ROYAL WOMEN and whatever other scheme there is out there) that needs it and becoming fashion icons. Titi Abubakar, was not first lady but I think she did in her own way make an attempt to do somethings with her position but even that was marred by the constant power struggle between her and her husband's second wife, Jennifer...we are not going to start on the mistresses...(to the Nigerian woman, they don't count abi?)
This is always the case. Nigerian women and their power struggles for positions defined by men. The men don't even have to degrade us. We already degrade ourselves and then wonder why they don't see us as anything other than what we defined ourselves to be.
So then, you might ask: What, dear Catwalq, after your long diatribe would be your message to the Nigerian woman?
To which I would answer( with the knowledge that the next time I go home to Nigeria, there might be a squad waiting for me at the airport as is the norm these days for Nigerian bloggers who criticise anyone in government/power):
Someone once said that there are only two very important days in your whole life. The day you are born and the day you figure out why you are born. To the Nigerian woman I say, figure out why you were born and make sure that you are the best of it or you can simply OBEY YOUR HUSBAND and call it day!!!!
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Sunday, December 28, 2008
This morning
1. I discussed the Arab-Isreali conflict and went over popular opinions that the Arabs were the descendants of the son of Abraham that he had by his female slave and the Isrealis are the descendants of the son of Sarah. I put forward that if that is the case, then I blame Abraham for using a woman for his own personal means and discarding her when he was through with her because he had found an alternative. I am not sure if it is written anywhere( as I don't read the bible) but it is quite possible that the slave girl was raped. Imagine that situation where you are so horribly violated, forced to bear a child only for you and your child to be cast away when something more favourable to your tormentors came about. I figured that was probably enough motive to want to casue trouble. However, that does not explain away generations of violence to one another--the Isrealis and Arabs I mean.
2. Which also brought up the topic of "the chosen ones". Who decides who are the chosen ones? And how do we know the "texts" advocating them as chosen ones were not solely written by them and part of propaganda masquerading as religious material
3. Then I thought about different scenarios that I had read( briefly) or learned about from the orthodox religious faiths that I could turn into satire for a stage performance. I have already come up with my version of the Nativity tale (that one always cracks me up when i imagine how it will be executed). I have one for the story of the Garden of Eden, where Adam is just a lecherous fool who thought with his stomach and his penis....and now, I have one that will be set in the House of Abraham....
4. Which now reminds me of the show House of Saddam; an awesome film project bringing together some of the best actors of middle Eastern descent. I am so in love withj Igal Naor. I don't care that he is 50 years old, we can always work something out.
5. Which brings me to my fascination with older men. Why can't I just gravitate towards someone at least six years older? What is it about a man in his forties or in some cases fifties (depending on what he looks like) that makes my knees water...? Someone said that women who move with older men are looking for a father figure. I disagree. I have a father. One that was always there and would possibly wring my neck if I brought home a man just nine years his junior. I like who I like. Shikena
6. Which caused me to think about sex and how long it had been since I had had any and how I was not even in the mood to take off my clothes on the account that I was not looking as I would want to look...so, i decided that I must once again, go on a diet and this time be consistent.
7. Then I thought of what it would mean to be consistent. I need discipline in my life. I thought of all the wasted time I had misused in the past year and all the projects that either had to be abandoned or shelved...
8. Then I thought of all my business ideas and how much money I need to do what I want to do
9. Then I thought about where I could get the money
10. Then I thought about money some more
11. And some more...
12. Then I said I would make another unending list of things to do so I could get organised. Then I chastised myself because I make those lists everyday and never seem to be able to get them done or keep to task
13. Then I wondered where the list I made for yesterday was
14. I couldn't find it.
15. I checked my handbag.
16. It was not there
17. Could it be on the table?
18. I think someone trashed it which would be ironic because I am the one always trashing pieces of paper that look like trash.
19. I think I have created a cleanliness monster.
20. I need my own place
21. Then I went online to look for affordable apartments.
22. I need money
23. So I thought about money some more
24. Then I thought about whether I would break rules to make money
25. I told myself: you have been in this country for five years (in a couple days) and you have not broken rules, why start now?
26. I couldn't be a prostitute.
27. Too much work.
28. I need a job. I have been looking for one for months, one that will allow me to work and be paid cash because the law says that I cannot work off campus and there are no jobs on campus.
29. Would working not be breaking the rules?
30. Aaaaaarrrrgggghhh!!!
31. You know what, I am not stressed.
32. I am going to go eat something.
33. First what is on TV?
34. Oooohhh, sexy Said Tamaghoui
35. *sigh*
36. It is 12:33 pm...what do I eat for breakfast sef?
37. Let me go take a shower.
38. Thank God no one is forcing me to do anything, like work in servitude or whatever
39. Not like Abraham's slave girl.
40. Which brings me back to the Arab-Isreali conflict...what would it take for us all to get along? ehn?!!!!
2. Which also brought up the topic of "the chosen ones". Who decides who are the chosen ones? And how do we know the "texts" advocating them as chosen ones were not solely written by them and part of propaganda masquerading as religious material
3. Then I thought about different scenarios that I had read( briefly) or learned about from the orthodox religious faiths that I could turn into satire for a stage performance. I have already come up with my version of the Nativity tale (that one always cracks me up when i imagine how it will be executed). I have one for the story of the Garden of Eden, where Adam is just a lecherous fool who thought with his stomach and his penis....and now, I have one that will be set in the House of Abraham....
4. Which now reminds me of the show House of Saddam; an awesome film project bringing together some of the best actors of middle Eastern descent. I am so in love withj Igal Naor. I don't care that he is 50 years old, we can always work something out.
5. Which brings me to my fascination with older men. Why can't I just gravitate towards someone at least six years older? What is it about a man in his forties or in some cases fifties (depending on what he looks like) that makes my knees water...? Someone said that women who move with older men are looking for a father figure. I disagree. I have a father. One that was always there and would possibly wring my neck if I brought home a man just nine years his junior. I like who I like. Shikena
6. Which caused me to think about sex and how long it had been since I had had any and how I was not even in the mood to take off my clothes on the account that I was not looking as I would want to look...so, i decided that I must once again, go on a diet and this time be consistent.
7. Then I thought of what it would mean to be consistent. I need discipline in my life. I thought of all the wasted time I had misused in the past year and all the projects that either had to be abandoned or shelved...
8. Then I thought of all my business ideas and how much money I need to do what I want to do
9. Then I thought about where I could get the money
10. Then I thought about money some more
11. And some more...
12. Then I said I would make another unending list of things to do so I could get organised. Then I chastised myself because I make those lists everyday and never seem to be able to get them done or keep to task
13. Then I wondered where the list I made for yesterday was
14. I couldn't find it.
15. I checked my handbag.
16. It was not there
17. Could it be on the table?
18. I think someone trashed it which would be ironic because I am the one always trashing pieces of paper that look like trash.
19. I think I have created a cleanliness monster.
20. I need my own place
21. Then I went online to look for affordable apartments.
22. I need money
23. So I thought about money some more
24. Then I thought about whether I would break rules to make money
25. I told myself: you have been in this country for five years (in a couple days) and you have not broken rules, why start now?
26. I couldn't be a prostitute.
27. Too much work.
28. I need a job. I have been looking for one for months, one that will allow me to work and be paid cash because the law says that I cannot work off campus and there are no jobs on campus.
29. Would working not be breaking the rules?
30. Aaaaaarrrrgggghhh!!!
31. You know what, I am not stressed.
32. I am going to go eat something.
33. First what is on TV?
34. Oooohhh, sexy Said Tamaghoui
35. *sigh*
36. It is 12:33 pm...what do I eat for breakfast sef?
37. Let me go take a shower.
38. Thank God no one is forcing me to do anything, like work in servitude or whatever
39. Not like Abraham's slave girl.
40. Which brings me back to the Arab-Isreali conflict...what would it take for us all to get along? ehn?!!!!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
The bus to tomorrow
picture fromSit here
With your bag of dreams
The bus to tomorrow has not yet come
If you like
You can begin the walk
If it stops to pick you
Then
Or else
you take longer
With a bag of so much
Don't think of the heat of the burning sun
There is water in the course of the sojourn
The bus to tomorrow has yet to come
In the distance, you should see its form
Its slow chug making you to breathe fast
Does not mean that it moves to meet the beat
Sit here
With your bag of dreams
The bus to tomorrow has not yet come
If you like
you can begin to walk
If it stops to pick you
Then
Or else
you take longer
With a bag of so much
Hahahahahahahahahaha
Hahahahahahahahahaha
I must laugh, the story is riddled with mirth.
You cannot return, The words were flung at you
With your bag of so much, telling you to take your foolish dreams
And leave the simplicity of their unimaginative peace
You spat your goodbye, you refused to cry
You have no time, you must catch your ride
So you hurried and hurried to the station
Where the dust had cloaked with a blanket so brown
Only to find that the bus was no where around
Sit here
With your bag of dreams
The bus to tomorrow is yet to come
If you like
you can begin to walk
If it stops to pick you
Then
Or else
you take longer
With a bag of so much
They can come up to you
And offer you a lift
Faster they will get there
and faster they will split
It is hot I know, but the cool they offer is not so
The ride so fast, it brings vomit up and out
Do you even arrive?
And how do you pay for this ride so fast that they offer?
Me thinks they have seen your bag of dreams
And that is why they know that you need to get somewhere
And that you must have been waiting awhile.
Sit here, joo
With your bag of dreams
The bus to tomorrow has not yet come
If you like
You can begin to walk
If it stops to pick you
Then
Or else
you take longer
With your bag of so much
Sit here
With your bag of dreams
Sit here
I will sit with you
I too, have my bag of dreams
The bus to tomorrow will soon come
Sit here
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The night before thanksgiving
pictures fromThe winds are brutal and unrelenting. They whip at my body with malicious glee, reminding me that I have to go through this gruelling journey everyday, twice a day. And at this time, everyday as I await the bus to take me home, I go through all the things that I find unsatisfactory with my life. I list all the things that I wish would end and all the things I would do, if given the chance. I look for all the things that aren't there and tell myself, "any day now, God please, any day now"
Then by happenstance, someone will come to stand by me. By the looks of them, he or she is also waiting. But not for the same thing. They are waiting for me and all others to leave. We are in their way. We are in the place where they call home. This uninsulated shed with a broken bench, pooly lit and inusfficiently sheltered. We are in the place where tonight, and most likely every other night, they will call bed.
We don't meet each other's eyes. I am a bit ashamed of my ingratitude but unrelenting in my ambitions. I can do better than I am now and I want the chance to do so. Yet, I know in that moment that I could be in so much more worse a situation.
It's okay though. For now, the wait ends and I continue on my way. I am paying my dues so that what comes next is much more appreciated and every action from now on must be done to ensure that it does not bring to another, difficulty and unneccessary strife.
For the ride home, I try to remember: Cat, dear, be grateful.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
XYLOPHONE IN G MINOR
Hair
No hair
Laugh
no laugh
cry
no cry
smile
no smile
slim
not slim
fat
not fat
dance
can't dance
me,
myselves
and I
Used
not used
tired
not tired
hungry
not hungry
dreamer
can't dream
sing
don't sing
please don't sing
me,
myselves
and I
sex
no sex
want
can't want
not wanted
won't want
move
no move
stop
don't stop
beg
don't beg
fear
oh dear
me,
myselves
and I
sounds
no sounds
music
no frowns
keys
beat
love
laughter
heat
me,
myselves
and I
who?
not who
what
yes, what
know
don't know
shake
shake
shake
me,
myselves
and I
It's me...
It's me....
It's me...
It's me, myselves and I....
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
Liquid symphony
The rains have come and with it, a liquid symphony. Water waltzes down from the skies and then breaks into a fox trot on the metal roofing sheets that cover the decaying urban sprawl that is Ajegunle. Where it can, this water finds its way to the ground and roughly drags the earth down the hill in an electric slide. This is the best part: watching refuse, sand and discarded bits make valiant attempts to resist the pull of their watery master; pretending like they either do not hear its music or that they do not wish to dance. In the end, water wins and they all dance along to its tune. When it is all over, all has been washed clean or at least moved from one place to another. We forget that the stench of rot remains and that the ground is now a vomit of mud. No, we say to each other: the rains have cleansed the land.
Why then do they not cleanse me? I, who sit here patiently waiting for this symphony. My ticket has been purchased through my homelessness and I have front row seats to the magnificence of the rain's dance. No, it will not cleanse me. It's not meant to. I am to sit here, chilled, hungry and alone. All of my eight years, this is all I have ever known. Still I wait to be cleansed, ignoring the sores on my spindly legs; hunger having long receded and its definition forgotten as there has been no otherwise.
One day however, the rain brought something else. A hand. It reached through the crack in the wall I had made for myself from old doors and forgotten panels from the market place. It dragged my screaming form out and enveloped me in an embrace so tight that I was certain to squeeze the air out of my being. I fought and railed at the hand, cursing the rain because it had deserted me. The rain laughed and continued on its own way.
The rains have returned and with it, liquid majesty. It has never been so beautiful. I watch it from my new seat on the window. The window that is by my little bed. My bed in this huge house where the hand has brought me. Here, no one worries that I don't speak. Here there is no cold. The hand has changed many times. Now it belongs to an old man who smells like baby powder. I now smell like baby powder too. Some other hands gave us alot of it and I have my very own bottle of blue. It is a nice place, this house. He is a nice man too. There are nice children here. And here, the rain is nicer.
The rain sings and with it, liquid orchestra.
Why then do they not cleanse me? I, who sit here patiently waiting for this symphony. My ticket has been purchased through my homelessness and I have front row seats to the magnificence of the rain's dance. No, it will not cleanse me. It's not meant to. I am to sit here, chilled, hungry and alone. All of my eight years, this is all I have ever known. Still I wait to be cleansed, ignoring the sores on my spindly legs; hunger having long receded and its definition forgotten as there has been no otherwise.
One day however, the rain brought something else. A hand. It reached through the crack in the wall I had made for myself from old doors and forgotten panels from the market place. It dragged my screaming form out and enveloped me in an embrace so tight that I was certain to squeeze the air out of my being. I fought and railed at the hand, cursing the rain because it had deserted me. The rain laughed and continued on its own way.
The rains have returned and with it, liquid majesty. It has never been so beautiful. I watch it from my new seat on the window. The window that is by my little bed. My bed in this huge house where the hand has brought me. Here, no one worries that I don't speak. Here there is no cold. The hand has changed many times. Now it belongs to an old man who smells like baby powder. I now smell like baby powder too. Some other hands gave us alot of it and I have my very own bottle of blue. It is a nice place, this house. He is a nice man too. There are nice children here. And here, the rain is nicer.
The rain sings and with it, liquid orchestra.
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