I was invited so kindly by Kulutempa to attend the free screening of the award winning documentary film, This is My Africa; a project released in 2009 as part of a trilogy to introduce the rest of the world to Africa by Africans who have an accurate understanding and awareness of the continent's true identity.
The 50 minute fare presented commentary from UK based Africans like Yinka Shonibare, Mpho Skeef, Nana o Anyim, Chiweitel Ejiofor and Mazzi Binaisa; just to name a few. The participants answered questions in attempts to describe what Africa meant to them.
As an introduction, the film served its purpose but would not be sufficient to stand as an encompassing portrait of Africa, possibly because the voices are incomplete or that the continent itself is so diverse and complex that such an attempt might be impossible. Still, being that This is My Africa was described by the filmmaker, Zina Saro-Wiwa as part of an intended series, I am excited at the prospect of projects that celebrate the continent continuously as Africa's image is dynamic.
Borrowing from the handouts that were given at the screening, I will tell you some things that represent Africa to me...
Books:
1. Eze goes to school
2. Koku Baboni
3. Mine Boy
4. Sugar Girl
5. Purple Hibiscus
6. Violence
Blogs/Sites:
1. Naijablog
2. Bella Naija
3. 234next
4. Timbuktuchronicles
5. SABC Africa
Art:
1. Any African fabric
Music:
1. Hugh Masekela
2. Eldee
3. Tiny
4. Koffi Olomide
5. Awilo
6. Kaysha
7. Femi Kuti
8. Sunny Ade
Film:
1. A reasonable man
2. We are together (Children of Agape Choir)
3. Beauty
4. White waters
5. Owo Blow
6. Ti Oluwa Nile
7. Tsotsi
Fashion
1. Tailors
2. Tiffany Amber
3. Mudi
4. Sofisticat
5. Idia
6. Headties
What is your Africa?
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Places
She speaks of places
my heart desires
my imagination torments
I smile and I nod
She thinks I am quiet
She does not know that I am not there
I went away a long long time ago
The line was too thin
The thread to bare
To preserve
I had to go
covered in silence
awaiting
She does not know that I am not there
I went away a long long time ago.
Where?
Why?
Do you want to know?
Even if you did
You cannot change
I have tried to do so
I have tried to find proof
It eludes
That is why I am not there
I went away a long time ago.
I went away a long time ago
my heart desires
my imagination torments
I smile and I nod
She thinks I am quiet
She does not know that I am not there
I went away a long long time ago
The line was too thin
The thread to bare
To preserve
I had to go
covered in silence
awaiting
She does not know that I am not there
I went away a long long time ago.
Where?
Why?
Do you want to know?
Even if you did
You cannot change
I have tried to do so
I have tried to find proof
It eludes
That is why I am not there
I went away a long time ago.
I went away a long time ago
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday meetings
I met my father's mistress on a Thursday. Contrary to what my mother had so bitterly said, Fouzia was not an ugly, spineless witch with a face pockmarked like a diseased gourd. She was tall, pretty and with skin so smooth, it almost looked like settled dark dust. Her smile was small but pleasant. She was on her guard and so was I.
"I don't want to go with her." I said simply. No, I did not think she was the evil woman that my mother said she was, but the fact was that she was not his wife. That woman was probably curled up in her bed, sick with worry of what similar poison her youngest child was being fed against her. That woman was my mother. And she was very unhappy.
Rekiya, my older sister had slapped me when I told her I would make the trip.
"Fool" she spat in my face, "how can you betray Mama?"
I did not cry, even as the stars swam before my eyes and the pain ricocheted across my face.
"He told me I should come", I said proudly. She was jealous. Papa had told me to come and not her. And I had. And he was passing me off on Fouzia.
"What did you say?" he asked in his soft quiet voice, a voice I remembered being read to with which now dripped with disappointment. I tried not to flinch.
"I will not go with her. I will not go with your whore." I told him.
He slapped me. For the first time in my thirteen years, he raised his hand against me and slapped me. Right there, on the front steps of the balcony where he lived with his mistress. My head was knocked aside and I held it there, lolling to the side, resting on my left shoulder while he stood over me, his hand raised as if to strike again. He didn't.
"You can go back to your mother." he said simply. Years later, I would marvel at how his voice remained steady. I couldn't speak. My heart was racing so fast that had I opened my mouth, my tears would have washed it out of me.
He left me there, hurting, his mistress only a few feet away, standing outside infront of the house. The sun was suddenly so hot that my skin prickled.
"Come out of the sun, " Fouzia said, simply.
I looked up then from the place on the sand where my tears had fallen and immediately disappeared within its heat.
"This is your fault." I said to her. I tried to spit but all my saliva had fled with the slap and my mouth was dry.
Fouzia chuckled. It was a slow and mirthless sound.
"Of course. It was me that slapped you ba?"
It could have been mocking but for some reason, it wasn't.
Then I started to cry.
"I don't want to go with her." I said simply. No, I did not think she was the evil woman that my mother said she was, but the fact was that she was not his wife. That woman was probably curled up in her bed, sick with worry of what similar poison her youngest child was being fed against her. That woman was my mother. And she was very unhappy.
Rekiya, my older sister had slapped me when I told her I would make the trip.
"Fool" she spat in my face, "how can you betray Mama?"
I did not cry, even as the stars swam before my eyes and the pain ricocheted across my face.
"He told me I should come", I said proudly. She was jealous. Papa had told me to come and not her. And I had. And he was passing me off on Fouzia.
"What did you say?" he asked in his soft quiet voice, a voice I remembered being read to with which now dripped with disappointment. I tried not to flinch.
"I will not go with her. I will not go with your whore." I told him.
He slapped me. For the first time in my thirteen years, he raised his hand against me and slapped me. Right there, on the front steps of the balcony where he lived with his mistress. My head was knocked aside and I held it there, lolling to the side, resting on my left shoulder while he stood over me, his hand raised as if to strike again. He didn't.
"You can go back to your mother." he said simply. Years later, I would marvel at how his voice remained steady. I couldn't speak. My heart was racing so fast that had I opened my mouth, my tears would have washed it out of me.
He left me there, hurting, his mistress only a few feet away, standing outside infront of the house. The sun was suddenly so hot that my skin prickled.
"Come out of the sun, " Fouzia said, simply.
I looked up then from the place on the sand where my tears had fallen and immediately disappeared within its heat.
"This is your fault." I said to her. I tried to spit but all my saliva had fled with the slap and my mouth was dry.
Fouzia chuckled. It was a slow and mirthless sound.
"Of course. It was me that slapped you ba?"
It could have been mocking but for some reason, it wasn't.
Then I started to cry.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Nnena Okore's first exhibition in Nigeria
http://banibaraje.blogspot.com/
http://saheeda.blogspot.com/
Friday, June 12, 2009
What dark nights bring
I reached out of my cloud of depressed gloom, set off by the exhaustion of a less than convincing performance, to lift the curtains I had borrowed from my aunt's house to let in some of the last rays of the evening's sun into my dark room and there he was. Black as night. Skin shining and with eyes so grey, they shone like flints of light. Eyes that were now focused on me with an intensity that was almost unnerving.
He did not move and neither did I. I wondered what he was doing there and if in some way he had been sent by forces unbeknown to me to send a message. I wondered if I should let him in and immediately chastised the lack of wisdom in that idea. What was I to say to this dark stranger, resident to the back streets and dark alleys of the neighbourhood. I had seen many times, skulking away with graceful strides.
I blinked and then he was gone. Just like he had come. His stay was brief. His presence much more lasting. I was left to wonder.
His name, his history and his destiny.
My alley visitor.
He did not move and neither did I. I wondered what he was doing there and if in some way he had been sent by forces unbeknown to me to send a message. I wondered if I should let him in and immediately chastised the lack of wisdom in that idea. What was I to say to this dark stranger, resident to the back streets and dark alleys of the neighbourhood. I had seen many times, skulking away with graceful strides.
I blinked and then he was gone. Just like he had come. His stay was brief. His presence much more lasting. I was left to wonder.
His name, his history and his destiny.
My alley visitor.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Funke Akindele, you and I need to have a talk!!!!!!!!
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.
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.
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.
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