Thursday, December 24, 2009
Life's Experiences
Life is the sum of experiences that we encounter as go through life. Day to day struggles and triumphs are experienced by all of the world's creatures. As human beings, when we encounter a challenge, we have freedom to choose how to react. Every decision that we make leads us down another road. We will never come to exactly the same crossroads. Every decision that we make has significance. Even the tiniest choice that is made reverberates throughout the entire universe.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Purple Hibiscus
Please allow me to apologize in advance if I seem to ramble throughout this entry. That is not my intent. I can’t seem to stay focused on one topic for too long without some other thought fighting to take its place (like crabs in a bucket).
Last week I finally read Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Adichie.
Awesome! Amazing! Inspirational!
The unimaginable magnitude of those words do not deliver enough praise for this emotional story.
I came across Chimamanda Adichie this summer when I was looking for a book by Chinua Achebe, author of Things Fall Apart, and the search engine suggested Purple Hibiscus and The Thing Around Your Neck. Not giving it much attention, I decided to purchase something else. Then a couple of weeks ago, I received a video clip email displaying a remarkable woman telling of her experience being an Nigerian girl coming of age, The Danger of a Single Story. Adichie’s speech had an immediate effect on me and made me question the way I view people from different parts of the world. So I put her book back on my to-read list.
Not having studied Nigeria’s historical roots; Adichie’s words vividly set the stage in describing the complexity of political affairs and family life, I suppose for many Nigerian people during that particular time period (1980’s ?).
From the start, protagonist Kamili wins my heart. A fifteen year-old devout catholic girl whose family is of wealth and privilege works hard to garner her father’s love. Only to have her father scold her with hot tea, brutally beat her and God only knows what else to her mentally.
Most of the native Nigerian’s view Kamili’s father as the “Big Man” or Omelora. In my own opinion he is best characterized as a hypocrite. He undeniably gives large sums of money to the people of Nigeria, but at the same time is a cruel dictator towards his family, including his own father (Papa Nnukwu). Papa Nnukwu’s character is brilliantly fantastic. He definitely reminds me of my own paternal grandfather’s bizarre behavior. Being that he is a talented storyteller and wise man who keeps old traditions alive. You can’t help but to love him.
After much persuasion, Kamili’s father finally agrees to let his children visit his sister and her two children in the town of Nsukka. This is where Kamili’s life starts to transform for the better; however, her father’s ridiculous behavior becomes more outlandish. So outlandish it drives his wife to put poison in his tea.
Ameka is one other character that stood out in the story. Ameka is Kamili’s loud, opinionated, and sharp-mind cousin. Ameka’s upbringing is the total opposite of Kamili’s. Ameka’s mother is a single parent and teaches at the local college. Ameka’s mother is accused of encouraging students to revolt against the unjust practices of the Head of State. She is forced to quit her job and decides to move to America.
Adichie’s use of Igbo language sometimes is not translated well; nonetheless, it does not take away from the contextual meaning of the story. Her ability to create compelling characters is solidly crafted. Purple Hibiscus is a wonderful read.
I could go on forever about this great find, but I invite you to form your own opinion. Soon enough I will discuss in greater detail about how this book has truly helped me to find peace. I now look forward to reading Half a Yellow Sun and The Thing Around Your Neck.
On to other stuff….
I just forced myself to finish reading Maya Angelou’s Letter to My Daughter. Not at all what I expected. The first couple of letters held my attention, but after that it was quite boring. May be I think I know too much or just tired of conventional wisdom for the moment. What ever it is, I hope to gain knowledge from my own experiences.
Right now on my nightstand I have Reinventing the Woman by Patty Rice and What They Found Love on 145th Street, Walter Dean Myers. Neither title is of interest. So I will not ramble on any longer. The perfect song for a beautiful ending.
Working this thing called Life!
Last week I finally read Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Adichie.
Awesome! Amazing! Inspirational!
The unimaginable magnitude of those words do not deliver enough praise for this emotional story.
I came across Chimamanda Adichie this summer when I was looking for a book by Chinua Achebe, author of Things Fall Apart, and the search engine suggested Purple Hibiscus and The Thing Around Your Neck. Not giving it much attention, I decided to purchase something else. Then a couple of weeks ago, I received a video clip email displaying a remarkable woman telling of her experience being an Nigerian girl coming of age, The Danger of a Single Story. Adichie’s speech had an immediate effect on me and made me question the way I view people from different parts of the world. So I put her book back on my to-read list.
Not having studied Nigeria’s historical roots; Adichie’s words vividly set the stage in describing the complexity of political affairs and family life, I suppose for many Nigerian people during that particular time period (1980’s ?).
From the start, protagonist Kamili wins my heart. A fifteen year-old devout catholic girl whose family is of wealth and privilege works hard to garner her father’s love. Only to have her father scold her with hot tea, brutally beat her and God only knows what else to her mentally.
Most of the native Nigerian’s view Kamili’s father as the “Big Man” or Omelora. In my own opinion he is best characterized as a hypocrite. He undeniably gives large sums of money to the people of Nigeria, but at the same time is a cruel dictator towards his family, including his own father (Papa Nnukwu). Papa Nnukwu’s character is brilliantly fantastic. He definitely reminds me of my own paternal grandfather’s bizarre behavior. Being that he is a talented storyteller and wise man who keeps old traditions alive. You can’t help but to love him.
After much persuasion, Kamili’s father finally agrees to let his children visit his sister and her two children in the town of Nsukka. This is where Kamili’s life starts to transform for the better; however, her father’s ridiculous behavior becomes more outlandish. So outlandish it drives his wife to put poison in his tea.
Ameka is one other character that stood out in the story. Ameka is Kamili’s loud, opinionated, and sharp-mind cousin. Ameka’s upbringing is the total opposite of Kamili’s. Ameka’s mother is a single parent and teaches at the local college. Ameka’s mother is accused of encouraging students to revolt against the unjust practices of the Head of State. She is forced to quit her job and decides to move to America.
Adichie’s use of Igbo language sometimes is not translated well; nonetheless, it does not take away from the contextual meaning of the story. Her ability to create compelling characters is solidly crafted. Purple Hibiscus is a wonderful read.
I could go on forever about this great find, but I invite you to form your own opinion. Soon enough I will discuss in greater detail about how this book has truly helped me to find peace. I now look forward to reading Half a Yellow Sun and The Thing Around Your Neck.
On to other stuff….
I just forced myself to finish reading Maya Angelou’s Letter to My Daughter. Not at all what I expected. The first couple of letters held my attention, but after that it was quite boring. May be I think I know too much or just tired of conventional wisdom for the moment. What ever it is, I hope to gain knowledge from my own experiences.
Right now on my nightstand I have Reinventing the Woman by Patty Rice and What They Found Love on 145th Street, Walter Dean Myers. Neither title is of interest. So I will not ramble on any longer. The perfect song for a beautiful ending.
Working this thing called Life!
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Among Strangers
I came across this fascinating story and thought I should share it with those who sometimes follow this blog. Hopefully, you will receive it with an open mind and gain knowledge & wisdom from the underlining message of this well written story.
Shame on you!"
That was what she said, spitting on the dry ground at the same time. I only found out the meaning of what she said days later after I had forced my cousin to translate it for me. After I had had trouble sleeping because I could not erase the bitter look in her eyes from my mind or the sad pitying look that followed it.
"Shame on you!" She said so in Igbo.
They say that language unites a people. That was the common saying. That was why wherever you may find yourself in the world, no matter how remote the place is, when you find someone who speaks your tongue, you are immediately brothers or sisters. You are one because your language unites you. My language instead alienates me from my people. It has made me an outcast, a stranger to my kinsmen. It was long coming and some how I knew.
I remember when I was about five or six years old, mother was sitting in the veranda with two of her sisters and they were laughing with tears streaming from their eyes as they enjoyed their girly gossip. They were as animated with their gestures as they always were when they spoke in their language – Igala. I was always fascinated by their gatherings because I was acutely aware that I was an only child and also because they were so different from me. I was a male child. I wore my short knickers and singlet most of the time and was forever enthralled by mother's flowing skirts and traditional blouses and wrappers – lapas, which she wore sometimes. Many times I would stick my small head under her skirt to stare up at the darkness. I remember being shocked once when I had crawled under her legs just after she had taken a shower and to my horror when I looked up I saw she had only a turf of hair there and no penis like I did. I remember that also because she had screamed loudly, dragged me from beneath her and slapped me silly until I cried for hours. But this particular day when I was about five or six, I remembered picking out some words of what mother and her sisters had been saying and practising them over and over again that afternoon. The next time they were gathered together in their small laughing-weeping group I had surprised them all when I suddenly announced shyly:
"Oma Onekele…"
A grave silence followed after that. Three pairs of eyes stared hard at me. Three mouths dropped open in surprise almost all at once. Three pairs of eyes all looked back at one another and suddenly burst out laughing again with inevitable tears of joy in their eyes.
"What did you say?" Mother asked.
I looked around me in discomfort. They were all staring at me with muted interest and awe. I suddenly felt so small and insignificant in their presence. Three pairs of eyes gawked at me. Six arms folded in interest and my stomach sank in fear.
"Oma Onekele." I said again bravely.
"What does that mean?" Aunty Mercy asked deliberately.
Three pairs of eyes stared hard at me.
"It means boy!" I answered cautiously.
Three mouths dropped open in surprise almost all at once. Their eyes met each other and suddenly burst out laughing again.
"You mean you understand all we talk about?" Mother asked shrewdly.
I nodded even though I only understood a little of what they said, but I was too intimidated to say so.
"Oma Onekele," aunty Gold cooed. "Don't tell your father o!"
Three pairs of eyes stared hard at me. I acquiesced and they looked away to continue with what they were discussing. This time they switched to Hausa and I was forgotten.
I remembered that day so well because of what aunty Gold said. Don't tell your father o! You see my father was an Ibo man married to an Igala woman. My father spoke only English when he was at home with us because he believed strongly that his child should be well educated and must learn to speak English the queen's way. No vernacular was permitted at home whatsoever. I have heard him speak Igbo many times with his friends, relations and even with mother. My mother even though Igala was brought up in Kano with her sisters and thus could speak Hausa and over the years she had learnt how to speak Igbo and Yoruba to boot. She was a well-rounded Nigerian in my mind. But still I was never allowed to speak vernacular at home. I always wondered whether this rule was an attempt by my father to ensure that I do not take up my mother's tongue instead of his. Why else would aunty Gold make me promise not to let my father know that I understood what they said sometime?
I guess a part of me had always been curious about how my father came to marry my mother, a non-Igbo. From what I knew of my father then, he was a very proud man, some say a unique trait of the Igbo, but I believe each tribe has its own sense of self-importance. My father had been a young, handsome and very driven man in his days, so mother told me when I was still quite little and her eyes still shone lovingly when she spoke of him. A lot of people who knew him then at the University College Ibadan described him as the most promising young economist major in the Social Science Faculty. He was bright and he was proud and he believed he was better than the whites that thought them then. He mastered the English language and even dazzled his lecturers with the scope of his vocabulary. His friends mocked him jokingly, referring to him as; "Onye Ocha, Nna di Oji." White man, whose father is black.
Mother met father in those days. They fell in love and language united them. Inter-tribal unions were very rare then, mother used to say, but she had found a good man and language was not going to keep them apart. Those days, she spoke Igbo like an Ada Obi – an Igbo chief's first daughter. Not many men could resist her charms then, she often boasted, not the least father.
Years later when I was a little older and father had taken to coming home very late and very drunk; I shed many silent tears when I watched my mother worry about this 'Ononojo' – Stranger – who we no longer recognised. She still had group sessions with her sisters, but only this time, there was no laughter present in their gatherings, instead many, many tears. Icried silently too. Because by this time, I no longer understood her language nor did I understand the language of my father. I didn't know then, but I was lost.
Not long after father changed, after mother and her sisters called him Ononojo and after I had shed many silent tears, Grandma Nne came to live with us for a short while. She was very old and was suffering from a liver problem and as father was her eldest son, it was decided that she would move in with us. Old she may have been, but she still had her wits about her. And that old hatred for my mother, who was never her choice and who sacrilegiously was not Igbo.
Grandma Nne spoke only Igbo and all of a sudden my home was filled with the strange language. I was still not permitted to speak vernacular or broken English at home, yet I had to think up a way to communicate with Grandma Nne who regarded me with the same evil eye she cast on my mother most times.
No one could really blame me then for not knowing how to speak any of the languages of my parents for lack of trying. I tried. I tried every night before I fell asleep and in the morning when I woke up, but the words and meanings eluded me. Sometimes, I would feel the words coming to me, baiting me ever so seductively, but as soon as I opened my mouth to say something the words withdrew themselves back to their secret place in the corner of my mind – not quite hidden, just barely there, enough to tease and taunt me. Enough to make me give up trying eventually.
It was a harrowing experience the first time I witnessed my parents' fight. It rained that night. I remember it so clearly because I had been frightened by the claps of thunder outside and the cruel darkness the house was thrown into after the electricity tripped off. I got out of bed and made my way toward my parents' room. I stopped by their door. It was opened slightly and I could see mother standing with her hands on her hips, tears in her eyes as she shouted at father. Father glared at her and warned her to shut up. They both were speaking in English. I understood every word they exchanged; every abuse they hurled at each other. I watched father hit mother and the force of his blow pushed her face the other way and as mother crouched in pain, her eyes caught mine. I stood frozen to the spot. I watched mother approach me. When she got to the door, she slammed it shut in my face. Shutting me out.
Grandma Nne's moving in was the straw that finally broke the camel's back. Her fights with my mother were legendary. They ranged from the mundane to the totally bizarre. You see, there was that episode when she explicitly told mother that she could not eat meat due to her weak teeth and that mother should not bother putting any in her meals and as soon as mother carried out her instructions, she ran crying to father with her meatless meal, complaining to him that his wife "my mother" wanted to starve her in her son's house. Mundane! There was also that time she accused my mother of being a witch who was sucking her blood at night. Bizarre! Yes, their fights were legendary but Grandma Nne's coming played its part in destroying our family. As father's excesses grew, she encouraged him night after nights. On the night mother packed her bags and left with me in tow, she had overheard them talking of father's other wife in the village, father's true Igbo wife. He had another family that we knew nothing about. It seemed nothing then could save our family.
Mother had confronted them, but I knew nothing of what they all said. Grandma spoke rapidly in Igbo so did father. And mother, in her tears, responded in Igbo – even though she was not one of their own. Many times they all pointed at me and I just sat still, listening to all the strange words being hurled about and feeling so out of place and helpless. I didn't share their language with them. It was the language that bound them together; the same language that severed me from them. Even at that age, I worried that there was no place for me in their world or this world.
We left that night, mother and I. I remember we stayed with aunt Mercy for a little while and when her husband began to fidget we moved in with aunt Gold until mother found somewhere small for us to move into. It was tough afterwards, but we survived from year to year.
In those passing years, I could not shake off that old instruction from my old home about not speaking any form of vernacular and thus I grew up to be an adult who could speak no local language. I tried listening to mother and her sisters when they met, but it was no longer there, my ability to pick out their words and learn their meanings. It was as if one had erected a huge iroko tree to shield the sun from shining through. That was how it felt when I heard a local language; it was as if something was blocking me from deciphering its meaning.
So, that hot August afternoon as I stood in my father's compound in his village, waiting to see his dead body and pay my last respect, I felt like an alien among his kinsfolk. They spoke to me in their language, waiting for me to respond, but all I could do was offer an appeasing smile while I shook my head. I knew my discomfort was visible in my eyes and they all saw it. I was a full-grown man now and mother had told me to go for his burial, he was after all my father. I agreed and came, knowing that I was the one who had finally become a stranger. I was now the "Ononojo".
"Shame on you!" My stepmother said bitterly as she spat in front of me.
She said so in a language I had disassociated myself from. These days, it never occurs to me to think of myself as an Igbo man. In my subconscious I am a black man, an African man and finally a Nigerian man. For a long time now, there has not been room for any language to claim a part of my identity.
Looking at her brought back a flood of memories, most of them not so pleasant. She was after all the other woman, the Igbo woman who made it possible for my mother to raise me alone. She spoke of shame in a tone that exonerated her from any, yet she was the one who had the most to be ashamed of. Not once had my father made any attempt to find me after mother and I left all those years past. I remember I wrote him some letters and one in particular when I had finally gotten admission into Kings College. I thought he would be proud of me, but I heard nothing from him. I gave up then.
I feel no shame. Maybe some regrets, but no shame whatsoever. When the red cloud of dust rose as the vehicle taking me away from the village sped off I was glad somewhat that the link that tied me to my father and his people like an umbilical cord was finally severed by my father's death and burial. Now, they would always be strangers to me and I to them.
© Jude Dibia, 2006
Shame on you!"
That was what she said, spitting on the dry ground at the same time. I only found out the meaning of what she said days later after I had forced my cousin to translate it for me. After I had had trouble sleeping because I could not erase the bitter look in her eyes from my mind or the sad pitying look that followed it.
"Shame on you!" She said so in Igbo.
They say that language unites a people. That was the common saying. That was why wherever you may find yourself in the world, no matter how remote the place is, when you find someone who speaks your tongue, you are immediately brothers or sisters. You are one because your language unites you. My language instead alienates me from my people. It has made me an outcast, a stranger to my kinsmen. It was long coming and some how I knew.
I remember when I was about five or six years old, mother was sitting in the veranda with two of her sisters and they were laughing with tears streaming from their eyes as they enjoyed their girly gossip. They were as animated with their gestures as they always were when they spoke in their language – Igala. I was always fascinated by their gatherings because I was acutely aware that I was an only child and also because they were so different from me. I was a male child. I wore my short knickers and singlet most of the time and was forever enthralled by mother's flowing skirts and traditional blouses and wrappers – lapas, which she wore sometimes. Many times I would stick my small head under her skirt to stare up at the darkness. I remember being shocked once when I had crawled under her legs just after she had taken a shower and to my horror when I looked up I saw she had only a turf of hair there and no penis like I did. I remember that also because she had screamed loudly, dragged me from beneath her and slapped me silly until I cried for hours. But this particular day when I was about five or six, I remembered picking out some words of what mother and her sisters had been saying and practising them over and over again that afternoon. The next time they were gathered together in their small laughing-weeping group I had surprised them all when I suddenly announced shyly:
"Oma Onekele…"
A grave silence followed after that. Three pairs of eyes stared hard at me. Three mouths dropped open in surprise almost all at once. Three pairs of eyes all looked back at one another and suddenly burst out laughing again with inevitable tears of joy in their eyes.
"What did you say?" Mother asked.
I looked around me in discomfort. They were all staring at me with muted interest and awe. I suddenly felt so small and insignificant in their presence. Three pairs of eyes gawked at me. Six arms folded in interest and my stomach sank in fear.
"Oma Onekele." I said again bravely.
"What does that mean?" Aunty Mercy asked deliberately.
Three pairs of eyes stared hard at me.
"It means boy!" I answered cautiously.
Three mouths dropped open in surprise almost all at once. Their eyes met each other and suddenly burst out laughing again.
"You mean you understand all we talk about?" Mother asked shrewdly.
I nodded even though I only understood a little of what they said, but I was too intimidated to say so.
"Oma Onekele," aunty Gold cooed. "Don't tell your father o!"
Three pairs of eyes stared hard at me. I acquiesced and they looked away to continue with what they were discussing. This time they switched to Hausa and I was forgotten.
I remembered that day so well because of what aunty Gold said. Don't tell your father o! You see my father was an Ibo man married to an Igala woman. My father spoke only English when he was at home with us because he believed strongly that his child should be well educated and must learn to speak English the queen's way. No vernacular was permitted at home whatsoever. I have heard him speak Igbo many times with his friends, relations and even with mother. My mother even though Igala was brought up in Kano with her sisters and thus could speak Hausa and over the years she had learnt how to speak Igbo and Yoruba to boot. She was a well-rounded Nigerian in my mind. But still I was never allowed to speak vernacular at home. I always wondered whether this rule was an attempt by my father to ensure that I do not take up my mother's tongue instead of his. Why else would aunty Gold make me promise not to let my father know that I understood what they said sometime?
I guess a part of me had always been curious about how my father came to marry my mother, a non-Igbo. From what I knew of my father then, he was a very proud man, some say a unique trait of the Igbo, but I believe each tribe has its own sense of self-importance. My father had been a young, handsome and very driven man in his days, so mother told me when I was still quite little and her eyes still shone lovingly when she spoke of him. A lot of people who knew him then at the University College Ibadan described him as the most promising young economist major in the Social Science Faculty. He was bright and he was proud and he believed he was better than the whites that thought them then. He mastered the English language and even dazzled his lecturers with the scope of his vocabulary. His friends mocked him jokingly, referring to him as; "Onye Ocha, Nna di Oji." White man, whose father is black.
Mother met father in those days. They fell in love and language united them. Inter-tribal unions were very rare then, mother used to say, but she had found a good man and language was not going to keep them apart. Those days, she spoke Igbo like an Ada Obi – an Igbo chief's first daughter. Not many men could resist her charms then, she often boasted, not the least father.
Years later when I was a little older and father had taken to coming home very late and very drunk; I shed many silent tears when I watched my mother worry about this 'Ononojo' – Stranger – who we no longer recognised. She still had group sessions with her sisters, but only this time, there was no laughter present in their gatherings, instead many, many tears. Icried silently too. Because by this time, I no longer understood her language nor did I understand the language of my father. I didn't know then, but I was lost.
Not long after father changed, after mother and her sisters called him Ononojo and after I had shed many silent tears, Grandma Nne came to live with us for a short while. She was very old and was suffering from a liver problem and as father was her eldest son, it was decided that she would move in with us. Old she may have been, but she still had her wits about her. And that old hatred for my mother, who was never her choice and who sacrilegiously was not Igbo.
Grandma Nne spoke only Igbo and all of a sudden my home was filled with the strange language. I was still not permitted to speak vernacular or broken English at home, yet I had to think up a way to communicate with Grandma Nne who regarded me with the same evil eye she cast on my mother most times.
No one could really blame me then for not knowing how to speak any of the languages of my parents for lack of trying. I tried. I tried every night before I fell asleep and in the morning when I woke up, but the words and meanings eluded me. Sometimes, I would feel the words coming to me, baiting me ever so seductively, but as soon as I opened my mouth to say something the words withdrew themselves back to their secret place in the corner of my mind – not quite hidden, just barely there, enough to tease and taunt me. Enough to make me give up trying eventually.
It was a harrowing experience the first time I witnessed my parents' fight. It rained that night. I remember it so clearly because I had been frightened by the claps of thunder outside and the cruel darkness the house was thrown into after the electricity tripped off. I got out of bed and made my way toward my parents' room. I stopped by their door. It was opened slightly and I could see mother standing with her hands on her hips, tears in her eyes as she shouted at father. Father glared at her and warned her to shut up. They both were speaking in English. I understood every word they exchanged; every abuse they hurled at each other. I watched father hit mother and the force of his blow pushed her face the other way and as mother crouched in pain, her eyes caught mine. I stood frozen to the spot. I watched mother approach me. When she got to the door, she slammed it shut in my face. Shutting me out.
Grandma Nne's moving in was the straw that finally broke the camel's back. Her fights with my mother were legendary. They ranged from the mundane to the totally bizarre. You see, there was that episode when she explicitly told mother that she could not eat meat due to her weak teeth and that mother should not bother putting any in her meals and as soon as mother carried out her instructions, she ran crying to father with her meatless meal, complaining to him that his wife "my mother" wanted to starve her in her son's house. Mundane! There was also that time she accused my mother of being a witch who was sucking her blood at night. Bizarre! Yes, their fights were legendary but Grandma Nne's coming played its part in destroying our family. As father's excesses grew, she encouraged him night after nights. On the night mother packed her bags and left with me in tow, she had overheard them talking of father's other wife in the village, father's true Igbo wife. He had another family that we knew nothing about. It seemed nothing then could save our family.
Mother had confronted them, but I knew nothing of what they all said. Grandma spoke rapidly in Igbo so did father. And mother, in her tears, responded in Igbo – even though she was not one of their own. Many times they all pointed at me and I just sat still, listening to all the strange words being hurled about and feeling so out of place and helpless. I didn't share their language with them. It was the language that bound them together; the same language that severed me from them. Even at that age, I worried that there was no place for me in their world or this world.
We left that night, mother and I. I remember we stayed with aunt Mercy for a little while and when her husband began to fidget we moved in with aunt Gold until mother found somewhere small for us to move into. It was tough afterwards, but we survived from year to year.
In those passing years, I could not shake off that old instruction from my old home about not speaking any form of vernacular and thus I grew up to be an adult who could speak no local language. I tried listening to mother and her sisters when they met, but it was no longer there, my ability to pick out their words and learn their meanings. It was as if one had erected a huge iroko tree to shield the sun from shining through. That was how it felt when I heard a local language; it was as if something was blocking me from deciphering its meaning.
So, that hot August afternoon as I stood in my father's compound in his village, waiting to see his dead body and pay my last respect, I felt like an alien among his kinsfolk. They spoke to me in their language, waiting for me to respond, but all I could do was offer an appeasing smile while I shook my head. I knew my discomfort was visible in my eyes and they all saw it. I was a full-grown man now and mother had told me to go for his burial, he was after all my father. I agreed and came, knowing that I was the one who had finally become a stranger. I was now the "Ononojo".
"Shame on you!" My stepmother said bitterly as she spat in front of me.
She said so in a language I had disassociated myself from. These days, it never occurs to me to think of myself as an Igbo man. In my subconscious I am a black man, an African man and finally a Nigerian man. For a long time now, there has not been room for any language to claim a part of my identity.
Looking at her brought back a flood of memories, most of them not so pleasant. She was after all the other woman, the Igbo woman who made it possible for my mother to raise me alone. She spoke of shame in a tone that exonerated her from any, yet she was the one who had the most to be ashamed of. Not once had my father made any attempt to find me after mother and I left all those years past. I remember I wrote him some letters and one in particular when I had finally gotten admission into Kings College. I thought he would be proud of me, but I heard nothing from him. I gave up then.
I feel no shame. Maybe some regrets, but no shame whatsoever. When the red cloud of dust rose as the vehicle taking me away from the village sped off I was glad somewhat that the link that tied me to my father and his people like an umbilical cord was finally severed by my father's death and burial. Now, they would always be strangers to me and I to them.
© Jude Dibia, 2006
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Golden Life, Living!
Today I woke up feeling pretty darn good. Maybe because it's Friday, maybe because I went to bed feeling good. Whatever the case may be, I am in an awesome mood. Around 10 a.m. today this song pops into my head. I Am Living My Life Like It's Golden. That will be my theme song; right now, anyway. I pray that I am able to keep this new found spirit around because these last few weeks have been a bit challenging. I was talking with a co-worker who I consider to also be a friend and I was coming to talk to her about my problems that now seem small compared to what she is dealing with and going through. I once heard my pastor preach a sermon about receiving a blessing at someone else's expense. In my effort to tell my friend about my problem, she burst into tears about what was going on in her life. Wow! I wasn't expecting that. I was hoping she would be able to counsel me, but instead it ended up I had to counsel her. Anyway, from her sharing her major problem with me it helped me to realize that there is always someone dealing with more serious issues than myself. I have been blessed at the expense of someone else. I am living my life like it's golden. I have good health, no major financial constraints, drama free and best of all, I worship a God that loves me no matter what and no man will or shall come before him. Peace.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
An Ex-Mas Feast
An Ex-mas Feast
Now that my eldest sister, Maisha, was twelve, none of us knew how to relate to her anymore. She had never forgiven our parents for not being rich enough to send her to school. She had been behaving like a cat that was going feral: she came home less and less frequently, staying only to change her clothes and give me some money to pass on to our parents. When home, she avoided them as best she could, as if their presence reminded her of too many things in our lives that needed money. Though she would snap at Baba occasionally, she never said anything to Mama. Sometimes Mama went out of her way to provoke her. "Malaya! Whore! You don't even have breasts yet!" she'd say. Maisha would ignore her.
Maisha shared her thoughts with Naema, our ten-year-old sister, more than she did with the rest of us combined, mostly talking about the dos and don'ts of a street girl. Maisha let Naema try on her high heels, showed her how to doll up her face, how to use toothpaste and a brush. She told her to run away from any man who beat her, no matter how much money he offered her, and that she would treat Naema like Mama if she grew up to have too many children. She told Naema that it was better to starve to death than go out with any man without a condom.
When she was at work, though, she ignored Naema, perhaps because Naema reminded her of home or because she didn't want Naema to see that her big sister wasn't as cool and chic as she made herself out to be. She tolerated me more outside than inside. I could chat her up on the pavement no matter what rags I was wearing. An eight-year-old boy wouldn't get in the way when she was waiting for a customer. We knew how to pretend we were strangers—just a street kid and a prostitute talking.
Yet our machokosh family was lucky. Unlike most, our street family had stayed together—at least until that Ex-mas season.
The sun had gone down on Ex-mas eve ning. Bad weather had stormed the seasons out of order, and Nairobi sat in a low flood, the light December rain droning on our tarpaulin roof. I was sitting on the floor of our shack, which stood on a cement slab at the end of an alley, leaning against the back of an old brick shop. Occasional winds swelled the brown polythene walls. The floor was nested with cushions that I had scavenged from a dump on Biashara Street. At night, we rolled up the edge of the tarpaulin to let in the glow of the shop's security lights. A board, which served as our door, lay by the shop wall.
A clap of thunder woke Mama. She got up sluggishly, pulling her hands away from Maisha's trunk, which she had held on to while she slept. It was navy blue, with brass linings and rollers, and it took up a good part of our living space. Panicking, Mama groped her way from wall to wall, frisking my two-year-old twin brother and sister, Otieno and Atieno, and Baba; all three were sleeping, tangled together like puppies. She was looking for Baby. Mama's white T-shirt, which she had been given three months back, when she delivered Baby, had a pair of milk stains on the front. Then she must have remembered that he was with Maisha and Naema. She relaxed and stretched in a yawn, hitting a rafter of cork. One of the stones that weighted our roof fell down outside.
Now Mama put her hands under her shuka and retied the strings of the money purse around her waist; sleep and alcohol had swung it out of place. She dug through our family carton, scooping out clothes, shoes, and my new school uniform, wrapped in useless documents that Baba had picked from people's pockets. Mama dug on, and the contents of the carton piled up on Baba and the twins. Then she unearthed a tin of New Suntan shoe glue. The glue was our Ex-mas gift from the children of a machokosh that lived nearby.
Mama smiled at the glue and winked at me, pushing her tongue through the holes left by her missing teeth. She snapped the tin's top expertly, and the shack swelled with the smell of a shoemaker's stall. I watched her decant the kabire into my plastic "feeding bottle." It glowed warm and yellow in the dull light. Though she still appeared drunk from last night's party, her hands were so steady that her large tinsel Ex- mas bangles, a gift from a church Ex- mas party, did not even sway. When she had poured enough, she cut the flow of the glue by tilting the tin up. The last stream of the gum entering the bottle weakened and braided itself before tapering in midair like an icicle. She covered the plastic with her palm, to retain the glue's power. Sniffing it would kill my hunger in case Maisha did not return with an Ex- mas feast for us.
Mama turned to Baba, shoving his body with her foot. "Wake up, you never work for days!" Baba turned and groaned. His feet were poking outside the shack, under the waterproof wall. His toes had broken free of his wet tennis shoes. Mama shoved him again, and he began to wriggle his legs as if he were walking in his sleep.
Our dog growled outside. Mama snapped her fingers, and the dog came in, her ripe pregnancy swaying like heavy wash in the wind. For a month and a half, Mama, who was good at spotting dog pregnancies, had baited her with tenderness and food until she became ours; Mama hoped to sell the puppies to raise money for my textbooks. Now the dog licked Atieno's face. Mama probed the dog's stomach with crooked fingers, like a native midwife. "Oh, Simba, childbirth is chasing you," she whispered into her ears. "Like school is chasing my son." She pushed the dog outside. Simba lay down, covering Baba's feet with her warmth. Occasionally, she barked to keep the other dogs from tampering with our mobile kitchen, which was leaning against the wall of the store.
"Jigana, did you do well last night with Baby?" Mama asked me suddenly.
"I made a bit," I assured her, and passed her a handful of coins and notes. She pushed the money under her shuka; the zip of the purse released two crisp farts.
Though people were more generous to beggars at Ex- mas, our real bait was Baby. We took turns pushing him in the faces of passersby.
"Aii! Son, you never see Ex- mas like this year." Her face widened in a grin. "We shall pay school fees next year. No more randameandering around. No more chomaring your brain with glue, boy. You going back to school! Did the rain beat you and Baby?"
"Rain caught me here," I said.
"And Baby? Who is carrying him?"
"Naema," I said.
"And Maisha? Where is she to do her time with the child?"
"Mama, she is very angry."
"That gal is beat-beating my head. Three months now she is not greeting me. What insects are eating her brain?" Sometimes Mama's words came out like a yawn because the holes between her teeth were wide. "Eh, now that she shakes-shakes her body to moneymen, she thinks she has passed me? Tell me, why did she refuse to stay with Baby?"
"She says it's child abuse."
"Child abuse? Is she now NGO worker? She likes being a prostitute better than begging with Baby?"
"Me, I don't know. She just went with the ma-men tourists. Today, real white people, musungu. With monkey."
Mama spat through the doorway. "Puu, those ones are useless. I know them. They don't ever pay the Ex-mas rate—and then they even let their ma-monkey fuck her. Jigana, talk with that gal. Or don't you want to complete school? She can't just give you uniform only."
I nodded. I had already tried on the uniform eight times in two days, anxious to resume school. The green- and- white-checked shirt and olive-green shorts had become wrinkled. Now I reached into the carton and stroked a piece of the uniform that stuck out of the jumble.
"Why are you messing with this beautiful uniform?" Mama said. "Patience, boy. School is just around the corner." She dug to the bottom of the carton and buried the package. "Maisha likes your face," she whispered. "Please, Jigana, tell her you need more—shoes, PTA fee, prep fee. We must to save all Ex-mas rate to educate you, first son. Tell her she must stop buying those fuunny fuunny designer clothes, those clothes smelling of dead white people, and give us the money."
Now that my eldest sister, Maisha, was twelve, none of us knew how to relate to her anymore. She had never forgiven our parents for not being rich enough to send her to school. She had been behaving like a cat that was going feral: she came home less and less frequently, staying only to change her clothes and give me some money to pass on to our parents. When home, she avoided them as best she could, as if their presence reminded her of too many things in our lives that needed money. Though she would snap at Baba occasionally, she never said anything to Mama. Sometimes Mama went out of her way to provoke her. "Malaya! Whore! You don't even have breasts yet!" she'd say. Maisha would ignore her.
Maisha shared her thoughts with Naema, our ten-year-old sister, more than she did with the rest of us combined, mostly talking about the dos and don'ts of a street girl. Maisha let Naema try on her high heels, showed her how to doll up her face, how to use toothpaste and a brush. She told her to run away from any man who beat her, no matter how much money he offered her, and that she would treat Naema like Mama if she grew up to have too many children. She told Naema that it was better to starve to death than go out with any man without a condom.
When she was at work, though, she ignored Naema, perhaps because Naema reminded her of home or because she didn't want Naema to see that her big sister wasn't as cool and chic as she made herself out to be. She tolerated me more outside than inside. I could chat her up on the pavement no matter what rags I was wearing. An eight-year-old boy wouldn't get in the way when she was waiting for a customer. We knew how to pretend we were strangers—just a street kid and a prostitute talking.
Yet our machokosh family was lucky. Unlike most, our street family had stayed together—at least until that Ex-mas season.
The sun had gone down on Ex-mas eve ning. Bad weather had stormed the seasons out of order, and Nairobi sat in a low flood, the light December rain droning on our tarpaulin roof. I was sitting on the floor of our shack, which stood on a cement slab at the end of an alley, leaning against the back of an old brick shop. Occasional winds swelled the brown polythene walls. The floor was nested with cushions that I had scavenged from a dump on Biashara Street. At night, we rolled up the edge of the tarpaulin to let in the glow of the shop's security lights. A board, which served as our door, lay by the shop wall.
A clap of thunder woke Mama. She got up sluggishly, pulling her hands away from Maisha's trunk, which she had held on to while she slept. It was navy blue, with brass linings and rollers, and it took up a good part of our living space. Panicking, Mama groped her way from wall to wall, frisking my two-year-old twin brother and sister, Otieno and Atieno, and Baba; all three were sleeping, tangled together like puppies. She was looking for Baby. Mama's white T-shirt, which she had been given three months back, when she delivered Baby, had a pair of milk stains on the front. Then she must have remembered that he was with Maisha and Naema. She relaxed and stretched in a yawn, hitting a rafter of cork. One of the stones that weighted our roof fell down outside.
Now Mama put her hands under her shuka and retied the strings of the money purse around her waist; sleep and alcohol had swung it out of place. She dug through our family carton, scooping out clothes, shoes, and my new school uniform, wrapped in useless documents that Baba had picked from people's pockets. Mama dug on, and the contents of the carton piled up on Baba and the twins. Then she unearthed a tin of New Suntan shoe glue. The glue was our Ex-mas gift from the children of a machokosh that lived nearby.
Mama smiled at the glue and winked at me, pushing her tongue through the holes left by her missing teeth. She snapped the tin's top expertly, and the shack swelled with the smell of a shoemaker's stall. I watched her decant the kabire into my plastic "feeding bottle." It glowed warm and yellow in the dull light. Though she still appeared drunk from last night's party, her hands were so steady that her large tinsel Ex- mas bangles, a gift from a church Ex- mas party, did not even sway. When she had poured enough, she cut the flow of the glue by tilting the tin up. The last stream of the gum entering the bottle weakened and braided itself before tapering in midair like an icicle. She covered the plastic with her palm, to retain the glue's power. Sniffing it would kill my hunger in case Maisha did not return with an Ex- mas feast for us.
Mama turned to Baba, shoving his body with her foot. "Wake up, you never work for days!" Baba turned and groaned. His feet were poking outside the shack, under the waterproof wall. His toes had broken free of his wet tennis shoes. Mama shoved him again, and he began to wriggle his legs as if he were walking in his sleep.
Our dog growled outside. Mama snapped her fingers, and the dog came in, her ripe pregnancy swaying like heavy wash in the wind. For a month and a half, Mama, who was good at spotting dog pregnancies, had baited her with tenderness and food until she became ours; Mama hoped to sell the puppies to raise money for my textbooks. Now the dog licked Atieno's face. Mama probed the dog's stomach with crooked fingers, like a native midwife. "Oh, Simba, childbirth is chasing you," she whispered into her ears. "Like school is chasing my son." She pushed the dog outside. Simba lay down, covering Baba's feet with her warmth. Occasionally, she barked to keep the other dogs from tampering with our mobile kitchen, which was leaning against the wall of the store.
"Jigana, did you do well last night with Baby?" Mama asked me suddenly.
"I made a bit," I assured her, and passed her a handful of coins and notes. She pushed the money under her shuka; the zip of the purse released two crisp farts.
Though people were more generous to beggars at Ex- mas, our real bait was Baby. We took turns pushing him in the faces of passersby.
"Aii! Son, you never see Ex- mas like this year." Her face widened in a grin. "We shall pay school fees next year. No more randameandering around. No more chomaring your brain with glue, boy. You going back to school! Did the rain beat you and Baby?"
"Rain caught me here," I said.
"And Baby? Who is carrying him?"
"Naema," I said.
"And Maisha? Where is she to do her time with the child?"
"Mama, she is very angry."
"That gal is beat-beating my head. Three months now she is not greeting me. What insects are eating her brain?" Sometimes Mama's words came out like a yawn because the holes between her teeth were wide. "Eh, now that she shakes-shakes her body to moneymen, she thinks she has passed me? Tell me, why did she refuse to stay with Baby?"
"She says it's child abuse."
"Child abuse? Is she now NGO worker? She likes being a prostitute better than begging with Baby?"
"Me, I don't know. She just went with the ma-men tourists. Today, real white people, musungu. With monkey."
Mama spat through the doorway. "Puu, those ones are useless. I know them. They don't ever pay the Ex-mas rate—and then they even let their ma-monkey fuck her. Jigana, talk with that gal. Or don't you want to complete school? She can't just give you uniform only."
I nodded. I had already tried on the uniform eight times in two days, anxious to resume school. The green- and- white-checked shirt and olive-green shorts had become wrinkled. Now I reached into the carton and stroked a piece of the uniform that stuck out of the jumble.
"Why are you messing with this beautiful uniform?" Mama said. "Patience, boy. School is just around the corner." She dug to the bottom of the carton and buried the package. "Maisha likes your face," she whispered. "Please, Jigana, tell her you need more—shoes, PTA fee, prep fee. We must to save all Ex-mas rate to educate you, first son. Tell her she must stop buying those fuunny fuunny designer clothes, those clothes smelling of dead white people, and give us the money."
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Say You're One of Them
As an avid reader and supporter of Oprah's Book Club, I am savoring this month's selection Say You're One of Them by Uwem Akpan. This book is a collection of five short stories told from a child's unpretentious prospective. Each story's setting takes place in different countries of Africa, from the sandy beaches of Sierra Leone to jungles of Kenya. Ukem is from Nigeria and he is a Jesuit Priest; switch points out the readiness of biblical terminology and awareness.
Brilliantly authored, An Ex-Mas Feast is the first short story that captures my interest and compels me to want more out of life for Miasha. Miasha is the reason why I love this story, because her story touches my heart. Not only does she make me see things she goes through, she almost makes me feel them. Maisha is a twelve-year-old prostitute that sells her body to provide for her family's welfare. Approvingly, the family applauds the fact that Maisha is lending her body to rich white men who drive fancy cars and desire Maisha's body. Maisha's life's story is an amazing survey of prostitution in Africa and what it could mean for other women like her. In the end Maisha does finally decide to leave home; however, Ukem does not tell the specifics of her where-a-abouts after that. By ending the story this way Ukem has left me to delineate my own hopes and wishes for her future.
The second short story, Fattening for Gabon touched my soul. This story was very emotional and the realism gave new meaning to slavery and what it means to be family. It is not my intention to give the story away, so you must read it for yourself. I assure you, you will not be disappointed.
I am on to the third story, Luxurious Hearses. I am about twenty pages into this sensational story. It has definitely made me reevaluate my religious beliefs and be more considerate of others.
In addition to reading Ukem’s book, I recently completed an oldie but favorite American Classic, Native Son by Richard Wright. Native Son captured my interest like no other book that I have ever read. I strongly advise every person of color to read this book. Bigger Thomas is the main character and his story is something to behold. Set in Chicago during the 1940’s, Native Son shed a new light on me in the respect of what it must have been like to me an African American male during that time period. You will not be able to put this book down.
Okay people, I am getting tired. So until next time stay focused and let a book take you to unimaginable places. Live.
Brilliantly authored, An Ex-Mas Feast is the first short story that captures my interest and compels me to want more out of life for Miasha. Miasha is the reason why I love this story, because her story touches my heart. Not only does she make me see things she goes through, she almost makes me feel them. Maisha is a twelve-year-old prostitute that sells her body to provide for her family's welfare. Approvingly, the family applauds the fact that Maisha is lending her body to rich white men who drive fancy cars and desire Maisha's body. Maisha's life's story is an amazing survey of prostitution in Africa and what it could mean for other women like her. In the end Maisha does finally decide to leave home; however, Ukem does not tell the specifics of her where-a-abouts after that. By ending the story this way Ukem has left me to delineate my own hopes and wishes for her future.
The second short story, Fattening for Gabon touched my soul. This story was very emotional and the realism gave new meaning to slavery and what it means to be family. It is not my intention to give the story away, so you must read it for yourself. I assure you, you will not be disappointed.
I am on to the third story, Luxurious Hearses. I am about twenty pages into this sensational story. It has definitely made me reevaluate my religious beliefs and be more considerate of others.
In addition to reading Ukem’s book, I recently completed an oldie but favorite American Classic, Native Son by Richard Wright. Native Son captured my interest like no other book that I have ever read. I strongly advise every person of color to read this book. Bigger Thomas is the main character and his story is something to behold. Set in Chicago during the 1940’s, Native Son shed a new light on me in the respect of what it must have been like to me an African American male during that time period. You will not be able to put this book down.
Okay people, I am getting tired. So until next time stay focused and let a book take you to unimaginable places. Live.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Free Verse
Into everything that makes me me
Simple, sometimes deep and always strong.
Goodbye I could not foresee.
It reminds me of an Alicia Keys song,
‘You Don’t Know my Name.”
You about to miss a good thing
But it’s just the same old game.
I was hoping for an engagement ring.
Got me feeling crazy inside.
Too much pride will not let me decide.
Did I mention?
I will miss the attention.
Hello, Can I speak to, to_____?
You know his name, it hasn’t changed
Will you ever know it?
Simple, sometimes deep and always strong.
Goodbye I could not foresee.
It reminds me of an Alicia Keys song,
‘You Don’t Know my Name.”
You about to miss a good thing
But it’s just the same old game.
I was hoping for an engagement ring.
Got me feeling crazy inside.
Too much pride will not let me decide.
Did I mention?
I will miss the attention.
Hello, Can I speak to, to_____?
You know his name, it hasn’t changed
Will you ever know it?
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Lesson Learned
What then in love can woman do? If we grow fond they shun us. And when we fly them, they pursue: But leave us when they've won us.
-John Gay
-John Gay
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Random thoughts, thanks to my complicated life
Lately, I have not been able to stay focused on one thing for no great length of time. For that reason alone, it explains why this particular blog has received little or no attention.
It would be easy for me to place this bit of frustration on having too much time on my hands and at the same time not completing the many projects I have started. Or it could be linked to these stupid French-tip nails I have been sporting for about a month now, which I dislike because I can not type nor do the many things I am accustomed to doing because they get in the way. That can surely bring out looney behavior.
On to other thoughts….
I should be at a point in my life where decision-making should be relatively easy, not the case at all for me. I am caught in a world wind of chaotic nothings or should I say small some things. Being the ambitious person I have become, it is my curiosity for adventure that has driven me toward a path of self-fulfillment. I want to journey to exotic places, meet all types of people and experience their culture, sample foods of delicate rarities, and most importantly just live life without too many worries. I know all of these fantastic ideals may sound farfetched, but I use the saying, “where there is a will, there is a way.” I downright have the will power.
Some other thoughts….
Recently, I made a new friend from Cameroon (Africa). Note, just friends. In talking with him, he has a lot of wisdom to offer. His outlook on life is uncomplicated…very simple…”just live, but be sure to leave your mark.”
I have found myself reconnecting with friends from high school and just catching up on the here and now. Some people will never change or should I say grow up. One so- called girl-friend from high school let me know that she wasn’t a fan of mine. From her slick remarks and ill-favored glances, there was no questioning her thoughts about moi. It is funny how her negative behavior gives me a sense of accomplishment and beauty. It would be quite funny if she reads this….I wonder what her reaction would be. Anyway, the jokes on her…HA HA!
I hope to visit San Juan in December and hopefully spend this New Year’s with that special someone….it doesn’t even matter what we do or where we go, as long as we are together.
It would be easy for me to place this bit of frustration on having too much time on my hands and at the same time not completing the many projects I have started. Or it could be linked to these stupid French-tip nails I have been sporting for about a month now, which I dislike because I can not type nor do the many things I am accustomed to doing because they get in the way. That can surely bring out looney behavior.
On to other thoughts….
I should be at a point in my life where decision-making should be relatively easy, not the case at all for me. I am caught in a world wind of chaotic nothings or should I say small some things. Being the ambitious person I have become, it is my curiosity for adventure that has driven me toward a path of self-fulfillment. I want to journey to exotic places, meet all types of people and experience their culture, sample foods of delicate rarities, and most importantly just live life without too many worries. I know all of these fantastic ideals may sound farfetched, but I use the saying, “where there is a will, there is a way.” I downright have the will power.
Some other thoughts….
Recently, I made a new friend from Cameroon (Africa). Note, just friends. In talking with him, he has a lot of wisdom to offer. His outlook on life is uncomplicated…very simple…”just live, but be sure to leave your mark.”
I have found myself reconnecting with friends from high school and just catching up on the here and now. Some people will never change or should I say grow up. One so- called girl-friend from high school let me know that she wasn’t a fan of mine. From her slick remarks and ill-favored glances, there was no questioning her thoughts about moi. It is funny how her negative behavior gives me a sense of accomplishment and beauty. It would be quite funny if she reads this….I wonder what her reaction would be. Anyway, the jokes on her…HA HA!
I hope to visit San Juan in December and hopefully spend this New Year’s with that special someone….it doesn’t even matter what we do or where we go, as long as we are together.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
My Tribute to Michael Jackson
Life is so narrow, so big…so short, with so many things in it sometimes you wonder why some people get so little out of it and others find a way to get so much.
Michael was one of those people who made life do unimaginable things and he found ways to get as much out of life as possible.
One of my earliest memories of Michael Jackson would have to be when I came across a 1984 picture book of him wearing his trademark red leather motorcycle jacket, jheri-curl swept sides and that million-dollar smile on the cover. The book was on showcase at a book fair hosted by my elementary school. As soon as my eyes made contact with the cover, I had immediately rushed over to flip through the pages. At the time, I had to be no more than 8 years old, but something about the contents in that book made me feel internal emotions I now know no 8 year old should have been thinking about. My teacher had to ask me several times to put the book down as the class was leaving. Though I never met him in person, I hold the many times I’ve listened to his songs, watched his music videos or watched his life played out through the media, close to my heart.
Michael’s innovative lifestyle and character spoke a thousand words that showcased him as a true humanitarian. He has touched everyone’s life near and afar in some facet; whether if be through his musical talents and creativity or the lessons he has taught us all through his own ups and downs with life. He genuinely cared for his fellow man that sometimes did not always show him the same unquestionable truth. For this, I am honored to have had an opportunity to be apart of a whole generation that he has influenced.
Michael’s life is the true definition of what life is suppose to be all about…..LIFE!
Live A Lot.
Michael was one of those people who made life do unimaginable things and he found ways to get as much out of life as possible.
One of my earliest memories of Michael Jackson would have to be when I came across a 1984 picture book of him wearing his trademark red leather motorcycle jacket, jheri-curl swept sides and that million-dollar smile on the cover. The book was on showcase at a book fair hosted by my elementary school. As soon as my eyes made contact with the cover, I had immediately rushed over to flip through the pages. At the time, I had to be no more than 8 years old, but something about the contents in that book made me feel internal emotions I now know no 8 year old should have been thinking about. My teacher had to ask me several times to put the book down as the class was leaving. Though I never met him in person, I hold the many times I’ve listened to his songs, watched his music videos or watched his life played out through the media, close to my heart.
Michael’s innovative lifestyle and character spoke a thousand words that showcased him as a true humanitarian. He has touched everyone’s life near and afar in some facet; whether if be through his musical talents and creativity or the lessons he has taught us all through his own ups and downs with life. He genuinely cared for his fellow man that sometimes did not always show him the same unquestionable truth. For this, I am honored to have had an opportunity to be apart of a whole generation that he has influenced.
Michael’s life is the true definition of what life is suppose to be all about…..LIFE!
Live A Lot.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Real Drama, Part III
“Ring, Ring, Ring.”
Who could this be at 1:30 in the morning?
Oooh….I hope it’s my baby Danny.
Trying to wake up and reaching for the phone, I say “hellow” in the most pleasant apologetic tone I could muster up.
Before going to bed, I downed two sleeping pills to help me sleep (so I could take my mind off the events that occurred earlier).
“Hello,” I said softly.
Before I could get it out a voice on the other end interrupted me saying “Ms. Befoe.”
“I need to speak with Nicolette Befoe.”
“Speaking”
“Ms. Befoe, I am the nurse on call tonight at John Hopkins Smith Medical Center and I am calling you because Daniel Badell has been in an accident.”
“An Accident!”
“Is he alright?”
“What happened?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Immediately, my heart was filled with remorse as my stomach became nauseated and disgustedly jaded because I knew what ever had happened was my fault.
The nurse continued to explain that Daniel had suffered some major head trauma and that he was unconscious. They were running a number of tests on him. She also mentioned that his blood alcohol level was well above the legal driving limit.
They contacted me because I was the I.C.E (in case of emergency) number they got from his phone.
After hanging up the phone I got dressed and rushed to the hospital. When I got there, the nurse who had phoned me about the accident told me that the doctor was in with Daniel and no one would be allowed in the room until they could stabilize his blood pressure.
When the doctor finally came out the room, he told me that Daniel was in pretty bad shape and they would be doing everything to help him pull through; but it did not look promising.
I then asked the nurse for his personal belongings. I looked through his contacts list on his phone to get his mother’s phone number. I did not know how I was going to tell her about Daniel’s accident and that he was in critical condition. So I decided to have the nurse explain to his mother about the accident and the seriousness of his condition.
By this time, it was 3:30 A.M., the nurse told her that I was in the family waiting room and Mrs. Badell wanted to speak to me. I was a nervous wreck.
“Hello.”
“Nicolette what happened?” “Were you with him?” “Have you spoke with doctor?’
“No mame, I was not with him and I spoke with the doctor.”
“Well, what did the doctor say?” “Laud, Laud Jesus, please tell me he said Danny was going to be okay.”
“Well, Ms. Badell, he suffered some major head injuries and the doctors are trying to do everything they can for him, right now (crying), right now they don’t know whether he’ll pull out,” I explained.
“Laud, Naul, not my Danny, he is a good man, why did this have to happen to my baby?” “My Baby.” “Laud , Laud.”
I tried to assure Mrs. Badell that I would make sure the doctors would do everything possible and that I would call her as soon as I heard any updates from the doctor.
Finally, she calmed down and said she would be on the first plane in the morning.
Who could this be at 1:30 in the morning?
Oooh….I hope it’s my baby Danny.
Trying to wake up and reaching for the phone, I say “hellow” in the most pleasant apologetic tone I could muster up.
Before going to bed, I downed two sleeping pills to help me sleep (so I could take my mind off the events that occurred earlier).
“Hello,” I said softly.
Before I could get it out a voice on the other end interrupted me saying “Ms. Befoe.”
“I need to speak with Nicolette Befoe.”
“Speaking”
“Ms. Befoe, I am the nurse on call tonight at John Hopkins Smith Medical Center and I am calling you because Daniel Badell has been in an accident.”
“An Accident!”
“Is he alright?”
“What happened?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Immediately, my heart was filled with remorse as my stomach became nauseated and disgustedly jaded because I knew what ever had happened was my fault.
The nurse continued to explain that Daniel had suffered some major head trauma and that he was unconscious. They were running a number of tests on him. She also mentioned that his blood alcohol level was well above the legal driving limit.
They contacted me because I was the I.C.E (in case of emergency) number they got from his phone.
After hanging up the phone I got dressed and rushed to the hospital. When I got there, the nurse who had phoned me about the accident told me that the doctor was in with Daniel and no one would be allowed in the room until they could stabilize his blood pressure.
When the doctor finally came out the room, he told me that Daniel was in pretty bad shape and they would be doing everything to help him pull through; but it did not look promising.
I then asked the nurse for his personal belongings. I looked through his contacts list on his phone to get his mother’s phone number. I did not know how I was going to tell her about Daniel’s accident and that he was in critical condition. So I decided to have the nurse explain to his mother about the accident and the seriousness of his condition.
By this time, it was 3:30 A.M., the nurse told her that I was in the family waiting room and Mrs. Badell wanted to speak to me. I was a nervous wreck.
“Hello.”
“Nicolette what happened?” “Were you with him?” “Have you spoke with doctor?’
“No mame, I was not with him and I spoke with the doctor.”
“Well, what did the doctor say?” “Laud, Laud Jesus, please tell me he said Danny was going to be okay.”
“Well, Ms. Badell, he suffered some major head injuries and the doctors are trying to do everything they can for him, right now (crying), right now they don’t know whether he’ll pull out,” I explained.
“Laud, Naul, not my Danny, he is a good man, why did this have to happen to my baby?” “My Baby.” “Laud , Laud.”
I tried to assure Mrs. Badell that I would make sure the doctors would do everything possible and that I would call her as soon as I heard any updates from the doctor.
Finally, she calmed down and said she would be on the first plane in the morning.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
It Did Not Go As Planned
I had hoped to wake up to a day filled with excitement; instead, it was filled with gloom. It was one of those days when it seemed like everything I'd worked hard for and took great pride in didn't even matter. There is a combination of things that has triggered these feelings and emotions to surface. First, I was so stressed out about finding an inexpensive airline ticket for my summer vacation I had been planning since forever (my fault because I waited so late). Secondly,I am planning a reception this weekend for my daughter's piano recital, again I have not sent out proper invitations. In addition to all of that my privacy has been invaded. Now that is what I am most upset about. There are just somethings that do not need to be taken for granted (Life, family, respect and God). Well, I am not going to bore you any longer with my problems, hopefully things will look up. Actually they already are, I got the airlines tickets at a steal. I am on my way! Later people! My Life.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Real Drama, Part II
Daniel is a banker with the Bank of Albuquerque in New Mexico. He stands six feet two, smooth milk chocolaty skin, a slender masculine build, sports a razor sharp low cut fade, he has the sexiest set of eyes and lips you would ever want to meet and this man dresses to the nine. The brother is bad!
I met him in Chicago during a woman’s weekend retreat and he on bank business. He had been noticing me from afar and decided to send a Pomegranate Martini over to me.
After I gladly accepted the Martini, he made his way over introducing himself. I must admit I had been eyeing him from across the room when I first entered the sleek Drake hotel lounge. We made small talk for about two hours, all the while starring into each other’s eyes ignoring all others in the room.
It was about nine o’clock when he invited me to his room to watch the rest of the Chicago Bears game and to continue our conversation. Hesitantly, I accepted his invitation.
What a coincidence; His hotel room was two doors down the hallway from mine. Barely paying attention to the game; we continued to talk about our careers, family, faith and dreams. Daniel seemed to be in tuned with my ambitions and innermost desires.
It was getting late, so I made up in my mind that I had better retire to my room for the night. We made plans to meet for breakfast the next morning as he as opened the door and lightly embraced me as I left for my room.
Upon returning to my room I took a long steamy shower using my favorite Bath and Body Works shower gel, Sensual Amber.
Immediately, primping myself I massaged my entire body with Sensual Amber body cream. I then slid on a leopard print Victoria Secret backless, spaghetti-strap negligee with matching g-string.
Just as I was about to slide under the cover, there was a knock at my door. It was Daniel. As I opened the door, he grabbed me and began kissing me, stroking my hair and whispering sweet nothings as he made his way down to my neck sucking it. I tried to push him back, but I had no control. His body felt so good next to mine. He began caressing my breast and smoothly working his way down lower with his lips and tongue licking every inch of my body (girl, I guess it was that Amber). I began to moan, scream, and moisten; Damn! Daniel was putting it on me. My mind was telling me “no”, but my body, uh..…my body was screaming “yes.” With every kiss and touch of his well-manicured hands, they caused me to melt like ice cream in the sun. I wanted him to keep going; but my mind finally took over my body and out of nowhere I managed to push him off right before he reached the diamond.
His big brown eyes looking up connecting to mine. I told him I wasn’t ready for this and he gently stroked my arm saying he didn’t want to stop but would respect my wish.
The next morning at breakfast he greeted me with a kiss on the lips and told me he had been thinking of me all night; and I had to be honest and told him I was up most of the night thinking of him as well.
The rest is history
Life’s strange that way. Part III, will blow your mind!
I met him in Chicago during a woman’s weekend retreat and he on bank business. He had been noticing me from afar and decided to send a Pomegranate Martini over to me.
After I gladly accepted the Martini, he made his way over introducing himself. I must admit I had been eyeing him from across the room when I first entered the sleek Drake hotel lounge. We made small talk for about two hours, all the while starring into each other’s eyes ignoring all others in the room.
It was about nine o’clock when he invited me to his room to watch the rest of the Chicago Bears game and to continue our conversation. Hesitantly, I accepted his invitation.
What a coincidence; His hotel room was two doors down the hallway from mine. Barely paying attention to the game; we continued to talk about our careers, family, faith and dreams. Daniel seemed to be in tuned with my ambitions and innermost desires.
It was getting late, so I made up in my mind that I had better retire to my room for the night. We made plans to meet for breakfast the next morning as he as opened the door and lightly embraced me as I left for my room.
Upon returning to my room I took a long steamy shower using my favorite Bath and Body Works shower gel, Sensual Amber.
Immediately, primping myself I massaged my entire body with Sensual Amber body cream. I then slid on a leopard print Victoria Secret backless, spaghetti-strap negligee with matching g-string.
Just as I was about to slide under the cover, there was a knock at my door. It was Daniel. As I opened the door, he grabbed me and began kissing me, stroking my hair and whispering sweet nothings as he made his way down to my neck sucking it. I tried to push him back, but I had no control. His body felt so good next to mine. He began caressing my breast and smoothly working his way down lower with his lips and tongue licking every inch of my body (girl, I guess it was that Amber). I began to moan, scream, and moisten; Damn! Daniel was putting it on me. My mind was telling me “no”, but my body, uh..…my body was screaming “yes.” With every kiss and touch of his well-manicured hands, they caused me to melt like ice cream in the sun. I wanted him to keep going; but my mind finally took over my body and out of nowhere I managed to push him off right before he reached the diamond.
His big brown eyes looking up connecting to mine. I told him I wasn’t ready for this and he gently stroked my arm saying he didn’t want to stop but would respect my wish.
The next morning at breakfast he greeted me with a kiss on the lips and told me he had been thinking of me all night; and I had to be honest and told him I was up most of the night thinking of him as well.
The rest is history
Life’s strange that way. Part III, will blow your mind!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Real Drama, Part I
“Why didn't you tell me this before now?” he asked.
“I don't know. It....it... just never came up.”
Those were my exact words, when my man of 18 months asked me about my husband.
“Yeah, right,” Daniel mumbled.
“I am serious, Danny.”
“Well... maybe you should have thought of that before now,” Daniel suggested.
“But.”
I was just about to use the explanation I had practiced a million times over in my head. But he never gave me the chance. Which was probably good, because it would have required me to stretch the truth again.
“But, nothing;” “Do you realize the position you have put me in. You watch Oprah Winfrey. How could you do this? I am madly in love with you. But this changes things. I don't know if or when I'll ever be able to trust you again.”
“Dan, let me explain.”
I was going to attempt to explain to him how my husband left me without telling me where he was going and that I couldn't find him in order to get him to sign the divorce papers.
“Ex-Plain.” “Now you want to explain.” “Shoot!” “Oh, you should of thought of that 18 months ago.”
“Well, how could I?” “I didn't know that I was going to develop such feelings for you...baby. Oh, come on Danny-baby, let's not start fighting over this BS. You said that you love me, so that should be enough. You know, love conquers all. So let's change the subject,” I suggested.
“Change the subject(?)....change the subject!' “Baby the subject is just getting started. Why didn't you tell me this before now?”
“Like I said....Dan, It has not been easy for me to keep this little secret from you. It has been eating me up on the inside.”
“Eating you,” shouted Daniel.
“How can you say you love me and you are married to another man?”
“Dan, can I ask you something?”
Again, I was going to ask him did he really love me and suggest we try to work this out.
“I think I should be asking all the questions right now.”
“But.”
“But Nothing!” We are history, finish, done, over, finito. I don't ever want to see you again!”
“But you said you were in love with me,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, I thought I was. Boy how wrong was I. You made a complete fool of me. You toyed with my emotions, disrespected me, and I can no longer trust you. And to think, I was going to ask you to be my wife. Ha! I guess I am too late for that.”
“Oh, Dan,” I sighed.
I can't believe this is happening to me, those were the last words I said to him before he stormed out the door, hopping into his new 2010 sleek black Camaro and sped away into the night to who knows where.
If you like drama; and would like to see how this saga will unfold itself, check back for PART II, a surprising twist!
“I don't know. It....it... just never came up.”
Those were my exact words, when my man of 18 months asked me about my husband.
“Yeah, right,” Daniel mumbled.
“I am serious, Danny.”
“Well... maybe you should have thought of that before now,” Daniel suggested.
“But.”
I was just about to use the explanation I had practiced a million times over in my head. But he never gave me the chance. Which was probably good, because it would have required me to stretch the truth again.
“But, nothing;” “Do you realize the position you have put me in. You watch Oprah Winfrey. How could you do this? I am madly in love with you. But this changes things. I don't know if or when I'll ever be able to trust you again.”
“Dan, let me explain.”
I was going to attempt to explain to him how my husband left me without telling me where he was going and that I couldn't find him in order to get him to sign the divorce papers.
“Ex-Plain.” “Now you want to explain.” “Shoot!” “Oh, you should of thought of that 18 months ago.”
“Well, how could I?” “I didn't know that I was going to develop such feelings for you...baby. Oh, come on Danny-baby, let's not start fighting over this BS. You said that you love me, so that should be enough. You know, love conquers all. So let's change the subject,” I suggested.
“Change the subject(?)....change the subject!' “Baby the subject is just getting started. Why didn't you tell me this before now?”
“Like I said....Dan, It has not been easy for me to keep this little secret from you. It has been eating me up on the inside.”
“Eating you,” shouted Daniel.
“How can you say you love me and you are married to another man?”
“Dan, can I ask you something?”
Again, I was going to ask him did he really love me and suggest we try to work this out.
“I think I should be asking all the questions right now.”
“But.”
“But Nothing!” We are history, finish, done, over, finito. I don't ever want to see you again!”
“But you said you were in love with me,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, I thought I was. Boy how wrong was I. You made a complete fool of me. You toyed with my emotions, disrespected me, and I can no longer trust you. And to think, I was going to ask you to be my wife. Ha! I guess I am too late for that.”
“Oh, Dan,” I sighed.
I can't believe this is happening to me, those were the last words I said to him before he stormed out the door, hopping into his new 2010 sleek black Camaro and sped away into the night to who knows where.
If you like drama; and would like to see how this saga will unfold itself, check back for PART II, a surprising twist!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Something to feed my mind
I need something to feed my mind, because something ain’t right (no pun intended to Keith Sweat). So throughout this entry I will attempt to express in words the many things are going on in my life and things that I hope to happen.
It is late Sunday evening, just as I am settling in for bed; I can’t fall asleep because there are so many thoughts racing through my head. Have you ever felt like something was eating away at you and you know you should do something about it, but something in the back of your mind tells you to not take immediate action, to think things over a little bit more. Anyway, there is something eating away at me this very moment. I can’t exactly say right now, because it would truly hurt someone I care deeply about. Let’s just say I haven’t been completely honest about my feelings and I am having a hard time trying to maintain some sense and sensibility to a certain situation I need to deal with. However, when I do get this worked out I will post more about it. I hope all goes well for me.
Lately my past time has been consumed with reading novels and researching ways to better reach my career goals. I am still waiting to hear back from the University of Texas at Arlington graduate admission committee.
In one of my positngs, I spoke about going to South Africa for six weeks this summer, well that is not going to happen, at least not for right now. Hopefully my summer will consist of going to Washington DC, Philadelphia, New Orleans (?), New York, San Francisco (?), Hot Springs and possibly to Shreveport. Also, I am planning to attend my high school class reunion. So far the summer looks fulfilling.
Well, I am getting restless, though there are many feelings, emotions and thoughts that I am wrestling with I must get to bed and prepare myself for another day in this thing called Life. Life. Life.
It is late Sunday evening, just as I am settling in for bed; I can’t fall asleep because there are so many thoughts racing through my head. Have you ever felt like something was eating away at you and you know you should do something about it, but something in the back of your mind tells you to not take immediate action, to think things over a little bit more. Anyway, there is something eating away at me this very moment. I can’t exactly say right now, because it would truly hurt someone I care deeply about. Let’s just say I haven’t been completely honest about my feelings and I am having a hard time trying to maintain some sense and sensibility to a certain situation I need to deal with. However, when I do get this worked out I will post more about it. I hope all goes well for me.
Lately my past time has been consumed with reading novels and researching ways to better reach my career goals. I am still waiting to hear back from the University of Texas at Arlington graduate admission committee.
In one of my positngs, I spoke about going to South Africa for six weeks this summer, well that is not going to happen, at least not for right now. Hopefully my summer will consist of going to Washington DC, Philadelphia, New Orleans (?), New York, San Francisco (?), Hot Springs and possibly to Shreveport. Also, I am planning to attend my high school class reunion. So far the summer looks fulfilling.
Well, I am getting restless, though there are many feelings, emotions and thoughts that I am wrestling with I must get to bed and prepare myself for another day in this thing called Life. Life. Life.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Cedric the Entertainer
Cedric The Entertainer On Bush And Clinton - The best home videos are here
I had an opportunity to see Cedric the Entertainer live this weekend at Nokia Theatre in Grand Prairie, Texas. His show was awesome! He is very funny and his comedy relates to real life drama and politics.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
In the Mean Time
I have decided to keep a running journal of the books I have completed and wish to complete, thanks to online blogging. For the month of March thus far, I have completed Knowing by Rosalyn Mcmillan who happens to be the sister of Terri Mcmillan. Rosalyn has created a real page turner in Knowing; it is comprised of highs and lows of happiness and sadness that lends itself to the literary elements of suspense and tragedy. Knowing is Rosalyn's first published novel. Complicated is a poem dedicated to prescribe events to follow in the story's underlining plot. The main character, Ginger, makes you want to love her and cheer for her as she tries to find balance in being a good mother, loyal wife and career professional. Which in turn are the personal struggles that show definite parallelism between a fictional character and a real woman in America.
I have enjoyed the company of my all time favorite author J. California Cooper's Family. It took all of two days to read this 230 page slave story. It is not your typical slave story, however, it is a typical J.C.C. Down-home feel good slave story. It is filled with the hardships and kinships of slavery in the South. Cooper's imagination of slavery left me feeling like--- its' a wonder how we got ovah! It's a must read for those needing a reminder of the many African's that did not give in to the institution of slavery to make life as we now know it.
I just started Ida B. by Karen E. Quinones Miller; which is starting out to be a descent dramatized description of events that unfold in New York during the 1990's. Ida B. is an apartment building in Harlem that is rumored to be getting closed down. The author's use of NYC lingo makes for good humor and the understanding of what goes on in the Ida B. apartment homes. So far, I have grown attached to Brenda. She is striving to someday write a book. She keeps a notebook of the events in her life as they unfold. Somehow I feel Brenda is actually the author herself! I'll post more as I continue the story.
Yeah! I finished The Future of the Race, wow!, that was some heavy reading. While I agree and appreciate the many contributions of W.E.B Dubois; Cornell West gave me an an entirely different view of Dubois. West makes a good argument about Dubois's inability to relate to African American people experiences and views. West basically destroys his character and everything Dubois stood for. For all of my radical readers this book is definitely mind boggling and politically incorrect.
I am signing out for now. I got some reading to get to.
I have enjoyed the company of my all time favorite author J. California Cooper's Family. It took all of two days to read this 230 page slave story. It is not your typical slave story, however, it is a typical J.C.C. Down-home feel good slave story. It is filled with the hardships and kinships of slavery in the South. Cooper's imagination of slavery left me feeling like--- its' a wonder how we got ovah! It's a must read for those needing a reminder of the many African's that did not give in to the institution of slavery to make life as we now know it.
I just started Ida B. by Karen E. Quinones Miller; which is starting out to be a descent dramatized description of events that unfold in New York during the 1990's. Ida B. is an apartment building in Harlem that is rumored to be getting closed down. The author's use of NYC lingo makes for good humor and the understanding of what goes on in the Ida B. apartment homes. So far, I have grown attached to Brenda. She is striving to someday write a book. She keeps a notebook of the events in her life as they unfold. Somehow I feel Brenda is actually the author herself! I'll post more as I continue the story.
Yeah! I finished The Future of the Race, wow!, that was some heavy reading. While I agree and appreciate the many contributions of W.E.B Dubois; Cornell West gave me an an entirely different view of Dubois. West makes a good argument about Dubois's inability to relate to African American people experiences and views. West basically destroys his character and everything Dubois stood for. For all of my radical readers this book is definitely mind boggling and politically incorrect.
I am signing out for now. I got some reading to get to.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Becoming Wiser
The contents below are words of wisdom that I find helpful in making it through some of life's most challenging moments:
The person who leads others must have obeyed others in the past. The person who obeys others can be a leader.
-Cicero
Non-violence must not be put on and off like clothes. Non-violence must be in our hearts, and who we are.
-Mohandas Gandhi
How I use my life shows the kind of person I am.
-Ceaser Chavez
Nobody knows what they can do until they try.
-Publilus Syrus
The best food is food you eat out of your own hand.
-Mohammed
It is more important to have self-respect than to have the respect of others.
-Madeleine De Scudery
You should not be afraid to say you did something wrong. It is like saying you are wiser today than you were yesterday.
-Alexander Pope
It takes wisdom to listen to others.
-Wendell Holmes
Planting a field is just as important as writing a poem.
-Booker T. Washington
When spider webs comes together they can tie up a tiger.
-Ethiopian Proverb
It is easy to have a bad attitude and complain. Let us try to say nice things to others and not blame others.
-Desmond Tutu
I hope you will find these words of wisdom to be uplifting and encouraging in solving conflicts, being a good example, dependability, having self-respect and compassion for others.
Your Girl ,
Lady T.
The person who leads others must have obeyed others in the past. The person who obeys others can be a leader.
-Cicero
Non-violence must not be put on and off like clothes. Non-violence must be in our hearts, and who we are.
-Mohandas Gandhi
How I use my life shows the kind of person I am.
-Ceaser Chavez
Nobody knows what they can do until they try.
-Publilus Syrus
The best food is food you eat out of your own hand.
-Mohammed
It is more important to have self-respect than to have the respect of others.
-Madeleine De Scudery
You should not be afraid to say you did something wrong. It is like saying you are wiser today than you were yesterday.
-Alexander Pope
It takes wisdom to listen to others.
-Wendell Holmes
Planting a field is just as important as writing a poem.
-Booker T. Washington
When spider webs comes together they can tie up a tiger.
-Ethiopian Proverb
It is easy to have a bad attitude and complain. Let us try to say nice things to others and not blame others.
-Desmond Tutu
I hope you will find these words of wisdom to be uplifting and encouraging in solving conflicts, being a good example, dependability, having self-respect and compassion for others.
Your Girl ,
Lady T.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
2009 So Far
For starters the welcoming of 2009 has been interestingly brimmed with wonder and cheer. With the zooming of January's wintry mix, it seems as though it passed by in the blink of an eye.
The last time I posted, I made mention about traveling to South Africa
for a six week journey. By the way, I am still waiting to hear back from the selection committee. However, my completed and submitted application has left me feeling some-what promising.
The inauguration of Barack Obama was most exciting and memorable for
the month of January. His speech was poetically energizing and it left
me feeling hopeful for the future of this country. There were well over
one and a half million people in attendance, WOW!. In awe and disbelief, I
was glued to my television set as he was sworn into office. Speaking of
Barack Obama, Mr. Right sent me his commentary addressing some of the
many issues that he feels Barack should address in order to strenghten
America's Black economic crisis (below I have included my response to
his commentary, please accept my apology; I don’t think it would be very ethical to post his commentary w/o his consent).
“How wonderful it is to know that you respect (or even value) my
opinion whether I agree or disagree with you. In saying that, overall
your article was very sharp and insightful. However, in reading it I
have to admit I totally forgot the question (not saying it was not a
good title/question); Justifiably, I was engrossed with my own thoughts
and objections as I read yours. Hopefully, that was one aspiration for
writing the piece (to get people thinking for themselves).
I was almost convinced that there was no such thing as "Black America,"
( B.O: "there is only one America, the United States of America"),anyhow
just by reading the newspaper, watching television and working in a
predominantly white environment requires me to rethink that notion.
To the case in point. Personally, making a laundry list of the many
things Mr. Obama should/could address would be an awfully long list. In
a real sense, A.A men and women must first be held accountable for their
own success(es) and failures. It would be foolish of one to think that
just because you voted for Barack he should adhere to the numerous
problems faced in the A.A community. Personally, I do not think he
will/can address the "overaching problems" Black people in America face.
As you stated in your article, Barack is a symbol of inspiration for
black people, and it in itself should be a starting point for A.A. I am
in no way suggesting that we should not hold Barack accountable in the
aid of reforming the state of black America, simply put; the man has the
weight of the world on his shoulders. A new philosophy must be adopted
in the minds of the my people, one with patience, unity, tolerance and
how 'bout some understanding!
I can only elaborate on the topics/issues in which I am most familiar,
so I trust that you have thoroughly researched and given much thought to
all others. Nonetheless, I have reservations about the charter schools (
with good reason) and FBI appointments, (mixed feelings...I think you
were a little biased).
February for me has been a time of enlightenment and rumination
spending much of my free time reading and critiquing some of my favorite
authors as well as being introduced to some new talents. Halfprice
Books bookstore has been an absolute treasure trove of great novels that
have allowed my library to grow extensively. Also, my collection of J.
California Cooper's novels, she being my favorite mostly due to the
fact that we have very similar writing styles (reachable and personable)
is nearing completion.
Valentines day was incredible and one of the best I've had in a long
time; Mr. You Know Who made for an enchanting evening filled with lots
of surprises.... Gifts of chocolate and body creams & fragrances from
one of my favorite novelty shops; Fine dining at a Japanese
restaurant, Bennehanna's (magnificent food and display), a play ( The
Man who Saved New Orleans) and to end the night with some music and
dancing.
I am currently reading The Future of the Race by Henry Louis Gates, Jr. It is a very interesting and inspiring read. I will post more thoughts about this book when I have completed it.
Other books on the back burner are Knowing by Rosalyn McMillian , As I Am by E. Lynn Harris, and How to be an Nigerian by Peter Enhaoro.
The last time I posted, I made mention about traveling to South Africa
for a six week journey. By the way, I am still waiting to hear back from the selection committee. However, my completed and submitted application has left me feeling some-what promising.
The inauguration of Barack Obama was most exciting and memorable for
the month of January. His speech was poetically energizing and it left
me feeling hopeful for the future of this country. There were well over
one and a half million people in attendance, WOW!. In awe and disbelief, I
was glued to my television set as he was sworn into office. Speaking of
Barack Obama, Mr. Right sent me his commentary addressing some of the
many issues that he feels Barack should address in order to strenghten
America's Black economic crisis (below I have included my response to
his commentary, please accept my apology; I don’t think it would be very ethical to post his commentary w/o his consent).
“How wonderful it is to know that you respect (or even value) my
opinion whether I agree or disagree with you. In saying that, overall
your article was very sharp and insightful. However, in reading it I
have to admit I totally forgot the question (not saying it was not a
good title/question); Justifiably, I was engrossed with my own thoughts
and objections as I read yours. Hopefully, that was one aspiration for
writing the piece (to get people thinking for themselves).
I was almost convinced that there was no such thing as "Black America,"
( B.O: "there is only one America, the United States of America"),anyhow
just by reading the newspaper, watching television and working in a
predominantly white environment requires me to rethink that notion.
To the case in point. Personally, making a laundry list of the many
things Mr. Obama should/could address would be an awfully long list. In
a real sense, A.A men and women must first be held accountable for their
own success(es) and failures. It would be foolish of one to think that
just because you voted for Barack he should adhere to the numerous
problems faced in the A.A community. Personally, I do not think he
will/can address the "overaching problems" Black people in America face.
As you stated in your article, Barack is a symbol of inspiration for
black people, and it in itself should be a starting point for A.A. I am
in no way suggesting that we should not hold Barack accountable in the
aid of reforming the state of black America, simply put; the man has the
weight of the world on his shoulders. A new philosophy must be adopted
in the minds of the my people, one with patience, unity, tolerance and
how 'bout some understanding!
I can only elaborate on the topics/issues in which I am most familiar,
so I trust that you have thoroughly researched and given much thought to
all others. Nonetheless, I have reservations about the charter schools (
with good reason) and FBI appointments, (mixed feelings...I think you
were a little biased).
February for me has been a time of enlightenment and rumination
spending much of my free time reading and critiquing some of my favorite
authors as well as being introduced to some new talents. Halfprice
Books bookstore has been an absolute treasure trove of great novels that
have allowed my library to grow extensively. Also, my collection of J.
California Cooper's novels, she being my favorite mostly due to the
fact that we have very similar writing styles (reachable and personable)
is nearing completion.
Valentines day was incredible and one of the best I've had in a long
time; Mr. You Know Who made for an enchanting evening filled with lots
of surprises.... Gifts of chocolate and body creams & fragrances from
one of my favorite novelty shops; Fine dining at a Japanese
restaurant, Bennehanna's (magnificent food and display), a play ( The
Man who Saved New Orleans) and to end the night with some music and
dancing.
I am currently reading The Future of the Race by Henry Louis Gates, Jr. It is a very interesting and inspiring read. I will post more thoughts about this book when I have completed it.
Other books on the back burner are Knowing by Rosalyn McMillian , As I Am by E. Lynn Harris, and How to be an Nigerian by Peter Enhaoro.
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