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.

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

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.

(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!!!!

A new year has come....
And?

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?!!!!

Consistency

MERRY XMAS

The bus to tomorrow

picture from

Sit 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

Let there be peace in Hindustani....

The night before thanksgiving

pictures from

The 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.

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....

Hold my hand

I'm tired

And I'm falling

Hold my hand

I'm tired

And I'm falling

Hold my hand,

Master

I am tired

And I'm falling

Hold my hand

oh oh

I am tired

And I'm falling

Please hold my hand.

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.

FREE JONATHAN ELENDU

Nigerian Government,

When you fear criticism, then what is being said must be true. You are one of the most useless institutions out there and that is because you are populated with incompetent, corrupt and self serving individuals whose usefulness has expired and whose goals and objectives benefit no one but themselves.

As a citizen, I have the God given right to say all this and as a human being, I can do that also. If you are not going to do anything good with yourselves, at least don't do anything worse. Let the man go, if he has not said anything true, why are you worried? And if he did do something unconstitutional, there are the appropriate channels to bring him to justice.

Or are you planning to come for the rest of us too?

Farafina's latest issue out

Check out Farafina's latest issue online for free. You can download and print to your heart's desire....

It's the Year of Thanksgiving

Picture got from here

The new spiritual new year has begun and it is the Year of Thanksgiving. You have come a long way and I know that if you push aside the mist of challenges that might exist to obscure your vision of your life, you will find alot to be thankful for.

Thus, in the spirit of all things blogger (because asking you for something else might be intruding on your personal space) I would like to invite you to tell me:

1. One blog you are thankful for

2. One blogville sponsored event you are thanful for

3. One new thing that you learned on blogger that you are thankful for and

4. One blogger that you are thankful for.

Leadership by example dictates that I must say mine so I will list as follows;

Blog I am thankful for: Naijablog. I am there every day.

Blogville sponsored event: 14TH AND SERENITY. It was an experience on its own and allowed me to converse with some of the most interesting people on blogville. In the event that people argue that I can't plug my own event, then I say BLOGVILLE IDOLS; because it was the first one that I saw that gave me the idea for mine.

New thing I learned: To seperate the blog from the blogger. Not everything you read is as it presents itself and not all bloggers are as they present themselves online. Thus in real life, learn to look at whatever or whomever you are looking at from a higher point of view. You see more and are never dissappointed but always surprised.

One Blogger I am thankful for: I should have made this option plural because for me there are so many. I will say Rayo because she introduced me to blogging....and because she knows where I live so I don't want her to come smother me in my sleep...cos I really wanted to say...

And you?

A loud silence

Tomorrow, October 22nd, 2008, I am inviting you to join me in a move to

Break the Silence and support the Congo in her struggle for stability and freedom from an exploitative west. This week is Congo Week and this is a way for you to join hands to make your voice heard...through your silence.

From 11 am till 5pm, I implore you to join the CELL OUT!!!. Switch off your phones from 11 am till 5 pm in a boycott of the cell phone industry. Coltane which is used in the manufacture of cell phones and other electronic devices has been the motivating factor behind the exploitation and death of millions in the Congo. Congo has as one of its multitude of abundant resources, this mineral called Coltane.

There was a time when we did not have cell phones. You can make a difference. Join me in the CELL OUT.

You know some of your people have fucked up real bad when this conversation appears as part of the dialogue in a DISNEY cartoon:

BOY
Wha are you up to?

GIRL
I need to get money

BOY
What for?

GIRL
Someone has been sending me emails for investments in Nigeria. I need to get back to them

BOY
Uhh, I wouldn't do that if I were you....


So here's a big thank you to all you mother fuckers who ran this country to the ground and encouraged corruption and crime in all its forms. Nigeria is now a punchline for Disney's prepuberscent kids !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Is it true?

Catwalq: How come these porn stars have such great skin? Ehn, I want to look like one.

Catwalq's Aunty: Don't you know they say that sperm is good for the skin?

Catwalq: Haba! Aunty mi!!!!!!

Catwalq's Aunty: I am serious. Ask someone.

Catwalq: u mean sex? or you mean as lotion?

Catwalq's Aunty: Yes!!!

Catwalq: (rolling on the floor laughing her beautiful african derriere off)


So to you guys: Ngbo?!!!Is it true? Has anyone heard any such thing?

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Yeah, I said it...and...?

I was having a conversation today with a dear friend of mine and we were recounting experiences we had with fellow Nigerian women with regards to the following: sex, marriage and children (to have or not to have). I personally am fatigued from discussing this topic but I still find it fascinating because I find that I am in the minority with regards to how I address and analyse the above mentione topics.

I love sex. I think it is a natural function that can be used for both recreation and procreation. I do not entertain any guilt of any kind associated with it because I am an adult who chooses to responsible for my thought, words and actions. Thus, religious endorsements or lackthereof on me having sex outside of the oh-so-sacred institution of marriage is of no consequence to me. I think that with regards to sex, we all have to be honest with ourselves. In any decision regarding what you allow yourself to experience, it all boils down to you and what your comfort level is. If you won't do something, it's then not your place to impose upon others the same decision. Therefore, if you like sex and want to have it, that is your business and if you want to experience it only within marriage, that is your business too. The pervese comes into sex when the experience is either to someone's disadvantage or guilt gets involved.

I don't think marriage is sacred or any of that nonsense. It is a socio-economic partnership with emotional ties included. It is important only to whom it is important. If it does not work out, it--the contract--can be severed and another created. I refuse to compromise on my happiness because I think it is delusional to think that you can make someone else happy when you are not.


Children are also important to whom they are important. Having ovaries does not a good mother make. I was tickled pink by the many comments on Solomonsydelle's post about a woman (I am assuming she is an adult) who wrote in asking for advice on whether or not she should have an abortion. Me, if I don't want a pregnancy, I am getting rid of it but also I should be smart enough to use birth control if I am going to be sexually active. As a woman, you have to be in control of every decision that involves your life and your body. That is what makes you a woman: self responsibility. As much as people would like to spout religious text as the basis for why they would advise for one to keep a pregnancy, none of them would be there to experience with you the joys and PAINS of motherhood. And please don't imagine that because there is a father involved that he is obligated to share the experience. It would be ideal and props have to be given to committed and involved fathers--and I am not saying that men are so dispensable--but when you remember that should anything wrong happen with that child, society would ask for the mother's identity, you start to evaluate your role as a mother rather differently (or I would hope)
Anyone can be a mother and at any time they wish. It just depends on how you define motherhood. I have said this before and will say it again: Carrying a child inside of you for nine months does not mean that the child is obligated to love you. And I will add, that I think that should not be the maximum of your accomplishments. Unless that is how you choose to identify yourself: birther of another human being.

I feel that those who share my views don't get heard in the sea of stereotypical "traditional" opinions. It seems like the majority feel like views like mine are not deserving of being expressed. I think most of us are not corageous enough to say what we really feel in the face of opposing majority view. If I have offended anyone...I am not sure I care.

I am just someone who refuses to define myself along the lines of whether or not I am a virgin, whether or not I am married and how many full grown ovaries I am pushing out of my vagina. I am other things. And those things are much more important to my definition of womanhood.

Feel free to disagree. Or not.

Yesterday, my teacher wept as he recounted the tale of how the remains of enslaved Africans were laid to rest in lower Manhattan after having been exhumed in the early 90s by chance during thr construction of a major landmark in New York. He did not bawl. Tears simply ran down his face as he discussed ancestors for the Africans all over the world. He spoke with pride about how Howard University was selected to conduct the research and forensic study simply because it was the only school the supporters of the cause could think of with black scientists they felt they could trust to conduct the research without influence and tampering.

For many years, the bodies resided on the campus while undergraduate, graduate, faculty and visiting scholars painstakingly tried to piece together whatever history they could on the remains they had found. He described the interment ceremony with emotion and how the bodies journeyed through all the predominantly black states on the east coast in coffins handcarved from Ghana and lined with handwoven kente cloth. It was a wonderful tale. He ended by saying that one day, we--the students--will be called upon to stand for something and in that moment of decision we will realise what our training/education/degree had been for.

It got me thinking about my country whose birthday had just past. For the past four three years of my being here, I celebrated Nigeria's independence day with much more vigor and enthusiasm than I had done my whole life. I would put on my nicest African fabric, braving the fall weather to brand myself as someone in celebration of my countries efforts. I never really thought of those who might have died so I could have a country but I would think of those who continue the struggle because they have decided to stand for something. They stand for their country, their nation and their people. They know what their training is for and that is their lives calling.

This year, I did not carry my portable shrine of fabric on my skin. I did not show up at any of the many parties being thrown around the city (not that I ever went: there is just something not so appropriate about dry humping in the name of independence) and I did not sit painstakingly texting everyone in my phone book and wishing them a happy independence day. Funny enough, neither did they. I did not rush to my blog to put a post displaying my e-patriotism. It was just an ordinary day. Me, and all my issues trudging through the cycle of it, hoping to get to the next one not as bruised as one feared. And the situation at home unchanging.

We are 48. And so? What have we done to show that we remember those who fought so we wouldn't have to? What have we done to take the name forced on us and brand it a superior identity? Not much.

But still....it is home. A forty eight year old home whose foundations are still there but whose structure is bending in the wind.

Happy birthday old girl. Everything is going to be okay....