Nine forty-three, eighth of March 2013.

Some time ago I started to observe a school of thought rapidly gaining traction amongst my peers and initially, I allowed myself to be buoyed along with this trend, without querying its nuances or consequences. After a short while, however, I began to look outside of my privileges – and yes, as a black woman I still have many privileges, for example, being raised in the West, educated, employed and free – and started to scrutinize the validity, implications and completeness of this trend.

This trend, or popular principle, I suppose can best be summarized as:

“If you work hard you will succeed.

If you don’t work hard you won’t succeed.

Therefore, if you’re not succeeding it’s because you’re not working hard.”

To me, this is an invalid syllogism on all counts; from experience we all know that the hardest worker does not always prosper, hence why the concept of ‘working smart’ sometimes proves more appropriate, and we all know at least one person from school who hardly ever studied and yet came out with near perfect grades (or perhaps, you were that person!). Finally, it is just not true that if someone is not basking in what the majority believe is success (which is usually material wealth), it means they are not working hard enough.

And yet,  we are fed these messages daily, through every means, be it via formal educational channels, or the social media outlets (and inputs) we choose for ourselves. We see it in the endless tweets from people either announcing that they are simultaneously ‘rising and grinding’, or intriguingly, boasting about sleep deprivation due to this ever-mysterious labour of creativity. We see it in the images we feed ourselves on Instagram and Facebook: images taken with ‘celebrities’ at ‘celebrity events’ in clothes and shoes previously reserved for only said celebrities (which, if you are not au fait with current social media culture, is supposed to be directly proportional to the degree of success you have attained). These ‘successful’ people we see are the ones who have supposedly worked hard, ergo, the ones who are not living similar lifestyles must obviously be lazy and not working to their true potential.

I find this culture somewhat disturbing because it is deeply narcissistic and Western-centric, and it perturbs me even more that the culture as it is, steeped in all its godlessness, has become an important part of modern doctrine in our churches. It presents success as an entitlement, whereas I believe it is actually a privilege.

I recently got accepted into three medical schools, with one interview pending, after two previously failed attempts. Friends congratulating me kindly remarked on how hard I had worked and how I therefore deserved this success. I graciously thanked them, for it was the right thing to do, but I knew there was an understanding between them and I that any success I had attained was not really down to me.

Indeed, I had worked ambitiously for over two years to get the required work experience and sufficiently high medical school entry exam scores. Before I was even sent an invite to an interview, I had scoured the Internet for every interview preparation resource available. When I opened my exam results and saw that I had placed in the top 10% of thousands of candidates, and as I wrote my personal statement outlining all the things I had achieved over the years, I was pleasantly surprised, proud and immensely grateful for the opportunities and experiences I’d had. From the time I started to prepare my application to the days before I received my offers, I’d had faith that this time around I would be accepted, but this faith was not predicated upon any of my accomplishments.

I have known people with better degrees from better schools, better entry exam results, better resumes, better personal statements, who were more personable and articulate, and yet have been repeatedly unsuccessful in their applications for medicine and have subsequently changed their career goals. My faith that I would be starting medical school in September 2013 was not based on my ability or merit, for I knew that I could have everything perfectly prepared and still be unsuccessful like so many before me. No, my faith that I would be starting medical school in September 2013 was based on a belief that that was where God wanted me to be at that specific time.

In this time of applying for school I’ve journeyed many meanders and I have witnessed many, if not all, of the people who enthusiastically started this voyage with me disembark wearily halfway in pursuit of, arguably, more palatable and ‘age-appropriate’ goals. At any point in time I could and should have joined them, especially after my previous failures and increasing age. I’ve been engaged in many conversations where my company has entertained me with stories of more accomplished – more suitable – candidates who, in all their suitability, did not achieve the dreams upon which I had set my heart.

This is not to say that working hard doesn’t put you in a better position to achieve, of course it does. And I desperately detest laziness. My point is that there is a great element of success that is totally outside of ourselves and out of our control, and is purely down to God, to favour, to luck. Scoring highly in the exam and doing well in the interviews did not guarantee me a place on the course. The purpose that God has for me, and my life, however, is the defining factor in all of this.

It might also be worth noting that throughout the whole process, even though I had worked hard to prepare, I did not perform spectacularly at any stage. After preparing for months with much discipline, and also promising myself that I would get 8 hours sleep the night before, upon which I reneged, I ended up having to lay my head down and take a 20 minute nap during the exam! And at my interviews, more than once I zoned out of the conversation and admitted I could not answer the question and had to ask them to move on to the next one. If we are honest with ourselves, every accomplishment we have had in our lives has been catalysed by some degree of luck or favour – after all, if that was not the case, why would we act so surprised when we receive the fruits of our supposed labour? When a seed is planted in fertile ground and is  watered , no one is surprised at or celebrates its germination.

As I write all this, I am conscious that it may seem like I am calling for all to diminish their achievements. No – and this is not contradictory – I believe strongly in self-love, and part of self-love is appreciating your efforts and dedication and perseverance, and affording yourself that much praise and celebration. What I do think, however, is if we stopped seeing success as an entitlement, and more as a privilege, we would in fact be more loving towards ourselves and less self-punishing and self-deprecating. We would become infinitely more grateful, and most importantly we would start to become more accommodating and supportive of each other, practising that love for others of which Jesus spoke so frequently. And that seemingly elusive trait called ‘humility’ would become less of a burden in our journey along maturity, and more of an honour, as we allowed God to do the work of bringing us into our purposes.

Je t’embrasse, x

The first of August, 2012. Eleven nineteen.

My interest in race and black history goes back as far as primary school, where, sat in a truly multicultural class of African, Asian, Kosovan, English and Caribbean children, we learnt about the Benin Bronzes, the Egyptian mummies, the Bermuda Triangle, Nelson Mandela and Anansi, the spider. Some of my most significant school crushes have been on boys of Somali, Iranian and Filipino descent, as well as the obligatory crushes on popular Caribbean boys.

I have always been thankful for the exposure to different cultures, languages and religions from such a young age, and I believe that it greatly helped to shape my open-mindedness, sensitivities and inclusive approach when it comes to things pertaining to race and culture.

So a few weeks ago, imagine my own surprise when I found myself asking a minicab driver, “So what are you then, a fucking Paki?”

***

It was a Friday afternoon and I was getting ready to go to a wedding. I decided to get a cab, and so I called a cab company that was near my house. After a five-minute argument about their pricing system, during which I maintained that it was ridiculous to be charged for the driver’s mileage to the pick-up point (my house), we settled on the agreement that I would not be charged for pick-up and a car was sent to my house within a few minutes.

If you’ve taken minicabs regularly in London over the past few years, you will be aware of two things: 1. Minicab drivers often do not know the London roads, and will even ask you for directions if they don’t have a navigator and, 2. They are often chatty, which can be a source of either entertainment or irritation on your journey. I was in the mood where I didn’t want to engage in conversation, so I was thankful that my driver seemed to be of like minds.  So, to avoid the first ‘London cab driver issue’, I did something I regularly do: I gave him a nearby landmark for my intended destination, as opposed to the specific address.

As we neared the landmark, I started to give him the specific directions to the wedding, which was just a few hundred metres away, much to his apparent annoyance. Clearly agitated, he began reciting to me the extra costs to the customer per mile, and bemoaned how my destination was inconvenient to him. Quite confident in my skills in charming irate service providers, I smiled and kept calm as I tried to assure him that the situation was actually quite the opposite: my destination was nearer to where we were than the landmark, and it would actually be easier for him to re-join the main road to go back to his cab office. He was adamant in his disagreement. Giving up, I then said he was being ridiculous. Naturally, he was offended.

Pulling into the road of the Church, I told him he could stop close to the mouth of the road so it would be easier for him to turn around. He was so consumed in his angry muttering and complaints that he didn’t hear me, and ended up going further than he needed to (my feet braced in six-inch heels did not complain about the reduced walking distance, however). When he finally stopped the car, I told him I would only be paying him the pre-agreed price. He started to contest, but then quickly gave up and instead, as I handed him the note in payment, he demanded that, as a fucking black nigger, I give him the money and get the fuck out of his car.

Yes. He said, “Just give me the money and get the fuck out of my car, you fucking black nigger!”

By this time the money was already in his hand – I think he was already giving me the coins in change – so withholding payment was not an option. And even if I hadn’t already given him the money, I think I would have still paid because I was literally stunned and had momentarily lost all my assertiveness.

I started laughing, because at that moment I could think of nothing else to do, and I think this made him even more irate. After what seemed like an eternity, but I’m sure was only a few milliseconds, I retorted, “Yes, I will get the fuck out of your car. [And if I’m a nigger,] what are you then, a fucking Paki?”

***

The episode went on for just a minute or two more. *

I exited the car to find myself outside this grand Church staring at me accusingly, for dismally failing what seemed like some painfully ironical exam. In a matter of seconds, I had lost all sensibilities. I had lost the years of education in race and culture and ethnicity, in equality. I had lost all my self-education and conditioning on issues of racism, the ideals of solidarity amongst once-colonized peoples, on explicit and implicit racist language and dialogue. In just a few seconds I found myself so easily using profanity, words that I reserve only for establishing a point in my written work, words which I never use in my daily speech. In a matter of seconds I undid twenty or more years of learning about Jesus and Christianity.

Incidents of public racist attacks and implicit racism have been the topic du jour on social networks over the past year or so. From the murder of Mark Duggan and the London riots, the Stephen Lawrence murder convictions, the crazed woman filmed shouting racist abuse on the tube, racism in football, the John Terry trial and the never-ending Metropolitan Police stop-and-search race politics, it seems that the young, increasingly cosmopolitan British public are becoming more aware of the racist attitudes that linger in our institutions.

We are more vocal now, and especially the case for young black people, we are more politicized and less apologetic for pointing out the inconsistencies and inequalities that we identify in our daily lives and in the media.

Personally, I’ve moved from just reading about African, African-American and Caribbean history, to reading more critical essays and watching and listening to more evaluative videos and lectures deconstructing issues on race and inequality. At this point in my life I would say I am probably the most aware and open-minded and unapologetic that I have ever been.

So how is it that I was able to spout such disgusting things at another person (of colour), language that is supposed to belong solely in the lexicon of racist bigots, and not of someone as ‘clued-up’ and ‘open-minded’ and ‘progressive’ as me?

Whenever there has been a discussion on race on Twitter for example, I have found myself reading, absorbing and analyzing the discussions, rarely chipping in but learning from the different points of view nonetheless. Reading some books by bell hooks, Cheikh Anta Diop and Frantz Fanon have given me more critical insight. However, it was only a book by Paulo Freire that I found addressed an issue I’d been having with all the dialogue that was taking place: where does faith, namely our personal Christianity, sit in the experience and consciousness of one who resists racism?

The first thing I did when I sobered from the experience was repent and ask God for forgiveness (the imposing Church in front of me would have reminded me if I dared to forget to do so). I called the cab company and reported the driver, and admitted what I had said in retaliation.

In the days after, I spent a little time contemplating how and why I found it so easy to use racist and profane language to insult someone else.  I’ve told a few people about this incident, and they were all shocked at my behaviour but nearly all gave the defense that I had been provoked. And each time my response has been in the vein that there is no context to justify what I said.

I learnt so much from this experience. As a Christian, no matter how many critical anthropological books or essays I read, no matter how many lectures I listen to, if I’m not renewing my mind and spirit in God as much as, and more than, I am indulging in these activities, then my efforts are futile and I remain a possession of the world, increasingly susceptible to behavior that is un-Christlike but entirely ‘natural’.

In all my life I have never called anyone a ‘Paki’ or a ‘nigger’ or a ‘cracker’ or any other (known) racially derogatory word. I’m even careful to avoid calling someone Indian, preferring to say South Asian unless I’m sure that they are indeed from India. If I ever cuss someone (God forgive me) I always use their actions, or what I perceive to be their ignorance or incompetence, as a basis for my insult.

But whilst I had never personally used those words, like most people raised in the Western world, I have heard the words used around me at various points in my life, and somehow I managed to draw the word ‘Paki’ from my unconscious memory to launch it at this man in attack. It’s clear then, that we are indeed susceptible to influence from the things we see and hear, even if we aren’t paying attention to them, or intending to remember them.

This experience really challenged me to examine myself; am I racist? What else am I capable of doing or saying under pressure? Is it possible to use racist language and not be a racist? I’ve said in previous posts that in an ideal world, my natural reaction would be what one would expect of someone in whom the Holy Spirit is meant to reside. I could be being too hard on myself, but it has reminded me of the fallibility of mankind, and how being educated or learned does not make you wise or more progressed than the next person. It’s important that as future leaders, parents, employers, pastors and teachers, we continue to search ourselves with honesty and weed out learned partiality and renew ourselves in the love of Christ.

This brings me back to The SWC motto, which is the foundation of both this site and my ability to reason and empathise: Everyone is Capable of Everything and Anything can Happen to Anyone.

Je t’embrasse, x

* Continuation of the episode

Probably the angriest he had been in the whole tirade, the driver shouted,  “I’m not even a fucking Paki, I’m Cypriot!”

And the words, “Same difference,” rolled so sweetly and so appallingly easily off my tongue as I stepped out of the car.

Stumped and apparently depleted of arsenal with which to insult me, the driver must have then noticed my generous west African figure and carefully selected his last words to me: “Shut up and get the fuck out of my car with your fuckingfat arse!”

You can’t make this stuff up.

My WTT Experience:

What the Church can learn from Jay-Z

The eleventh of June, 2011. Eight forty-nine.

A few weeks ago I attended the highly anticipated Watch The Throne (WTT) concert of Kanye West and Jay-Z at the London O2 Arena.

As someone who is admittedly not the biggest fan of the product of this collaboration, when tickets were released I somewhat uncontrollably found myself a part of the masses desperately clicking ‘Refresh’ on the Ticketweb site, squinting and cocking my head slightly to the right trying to decipher the Captcha hieroglyphics required to complete the transaction.

I am a major fan of Kanye West, and my other half is an equally major fan of Jay-Z, so even though neither of us would have named the WTT album as either Jay-Z or Kanye’s best work, being at this concert with these two hip-hop greats seemed an unmissable opportunity.

Now, as a Christian woman, I am acutely aware of the contra-Christianity and sexist musical track record of Kanye West, Jay-Z, and most hip-hop artists. I am not ignorant of these facts and I do acknowledge (and for the most part, agree with) the argument vehemently upheld by some Christians and feminists that my membership in these groups should naturally result in a rejection of the music these artists produce. And admittedly, the night before the concert I was conflicted as to whether I should even go. With shame I also admit that I tried not to think too deeply on this issue, lulled into a state of curious anticipation after hearing how successful the previous night of the tour had been. This conflict was further relegated to the back of my mind when just half an hour after we arrived at the arena, Kanye and Jay-Z took to the stage and I was settled on the fact that I was about to experience something-kinda-amazing.

At various points in the concert I stopped reciting [shouting] the often paradoxically misogynistic, hedonistic and yet inspirational lyrics, and surveyed my surroundings. Here I stood amongst thousands of people (male and female) from different walks of life, different ethnicities and different ages. There were black men in suits, white boys in trainers and caps, Asian girls in heels, and black girls in shorts and crop tops. People came with friends, partners, colleagues and even their parents, to gawk at the duo and hear songs they had already heard hundreds of times already. When certain songs were performed from the rappers’ back catalogues, and fans, including myself, started jumping up and down and bopping like hooligans, all reticence and maintenance of ‘personal space’ were thrown to the wind. People bumped into each other and smiled huge forgiving grins. Toes were trodden, chests were elbowed and hair from one head smacked the face of another as the intro for ‘All of the Lights’ reverberated throughout the arena. People were illogically happy and engaged in a surreal mass fraternity.

When the concert finally ended hours later, I was left speechless. In fact, I searched my entire vocabulary and could find only one word to describe the experience: epic.

For me, it wasn’t even about the songs performed from the Watch The Throne album. As I’ve stated before, the album for various reasons didn’t particularly impress me, though I find it entertaining. And as much as I love most of Kanye’s previous work and some of Jay-Z’s old songs, nostalgia was not the reason for the depth of the feelings I had regarding this concert either. There were hardly any theatrics or elaborate costume changes; apart from the clips projected on screen, flashing lights and balls of fire blown vertically from the ceiling and the floor, the set-up of the stage was unremarkable and simple and you could barely see Jay-Z and Kanye on the podiums in the middle of the arena that they stood on at various times during the concert.

Having resolved that the cause of my loss for words was not solely in the music or drama of the concert, I realized I was impressed by some of the more latent qualities of the WTT tour. It intrigued me how it was possible that on this whopping 57-date tour, Kanye West and Jay-Z could manage to draw and unite so many people from myriad backgrounds, most interestingly, including many professing Christians who were unapologetic about their attendance and enjoyment of the concert. It was during this contemplation that the title for this article came to mind.

Now, this post is not intended to adulate or excessively aggrandize the duo. I’m not naïve and I am honest enough to say that the content of much of their work is unjustifiable. However, I did want to posit that despite the controversy that surrounds Kanye West and Jay-Z and their lifestyles, there are lessons that can be learntfrom the rappers and their tour.

Firstly, the pair’s commitment to excellence and self-improvement is undeniably exemplary. They have both had their failures and have made mistakes in their careers (with Kanye being a bit more candid about these shortcomings), but both have a dedication to being the best amongst their peers and pushing themselves beyond what is familiar.

Furthermore, their high self-confidence and self-belief often results in them aggressively defending and protecting anything associated with their name. There was a point in the concert, in fact two points, where Kanye briefly lost his temper with the behind-the-scenes production staff for not getting parts of his set right. Although his complaints were over very small things that no one in the audience would have noticed anyway, it was interesting to see someone so determined to give the ‘perfect show’, so protective over the portrayal of his art.

I started to compare this attitude with the one I have towards the things I supposedly love and hold dear to me, and I noticed a huge disparity. Whether it is about the work I do in my place of employment, my writing, my dreams or the pursuit of my goals, I realized that frequently I have lacked that level of passion and protectiveness, which has greatly impacted my thirst for excellence. On a number of occasions I have allowed the fear of failure to beat my innate perfectionist into an apathetic submission. And ironically, even when it comes to things pertaining to God, I have found myself compromising and lacking the zeal of someone who claims to love Him.

This relates to another aspect of the pair that made me reflect – their consistency. It can be argued that Jay-Z has been more consistent in his message than Kanye West has over the years, however, when a person decides to listen to a Jay-Z or Kanye record they mostly know what to expect. There will be profanity. There were will be references to debauchery. There will be a glamourizing of instant gratification. But they are consistent so you know what you can expect. I thought, then, about my own life and how consistent I am in what I do and say. And I thought about all the times I have been loving to a friend in one moment and said something out of anger to my sister in the next, the times when I’ve stood for half an hour singing wonderful worship songs about how much I love Jesus and early the next morning put my earphones in to happily run to the latest Azealia Banks or Drake song. Having to consider whether I am a consistent Christian has led to some serious self-scrutinizing (a process which I am still undergoing), including the consideration of whether a half-hearted Christian is actually any better than a consistent non-Christian. I think not.

So having briefly looked at Kanye and Jay-Z’s commitment to excellence and their consistency, I considered the general atmosphere of the arena. I am sure that everyone who attended the concert on any of the tour days will have had unique experiences each in some way. I am also sure, however, that one aspect of the tour that every concertgoer would agree on, would be the diverse demography of those in attendance. It was beautiful to see so many people from such different backgrounds come together in one accord and participate in such exquisite camaraderie. For those few hours, we all understood each other, we all had the same history and desires, and we were colour-blind, sexless, living as immortals in those very transient moments.

As much as I’ve tried not to romanticize the whole thing, if you’ve read The SuperWoman Chronicles from the early days you will know that unity within the Church is something I care deeply about. Coming from a Catholic background and transitioning into the Protestant (specifically, Pentecostal) church in my late teens, I have seen the strengths and weaknesses of both sides and have longed for the unification of the two strands (and even the strands within the Protestant church). I find diversity and difference such wonderful privileges of the human race but it saddens me when we allow these to divide us, and as supposed members of ‘one Body’, I find it even more disappointing.

So here were two black American men in 2012 on stage in various countries, bringing together thousands of different people, Christians and non-Christians alike, to share in those moments together. I was in awe. And I pondered on the amount of time Christians spend disagreeing with each other on topics ranging from the banal to the fundamental, and how much discord and disdain there is within denominations, let alone between them, and I thought of how we, the Christians should be setting the tone for unity and peace and fraternity, and not Jay-Z and Kanye West (or their fanbase).

This is probably not my most articulate post, but those were just a few of the things I learnt from the concert (others things I learnt include professionalism, punctuality, the art of simplicity and more), and after more reflection, the WTT tour reminded me of how we (I) need to be more set apart from the ‘world’ if we are (I am) to remain on this Christian path.

In relation to whether or not I regret attending the concert or whether or not I will continue to listen to this type of music, I have to say that at this point, I have no regrets and will probably still rely on ‘N****s in Paris’ to get me through the last few hundred metres of my 5K runs. However – and this is a digression – I do find it quite sinister that despite the provocative content of this concert (and the many more concerts taking place this year) most of the people I know that bought tickets were active Christians, who would in all other circumstances preach against some of the things Kanye and Jay say in their songs. After the onslaught of the extremely dubious claims from what I call TBHHE, ‘The Truth Behind Hip-Hip Era’, I think that young [black] Christians became disillusioned with the restraints they perceived ‘Christianity’ was placing on them, and this led to a liberatory revolution where people began to critically analyse the sensationalist information they were being fed. This is a most amazing and necessary process, however, now, I wonder if we are coming full circle on ourselves and losing our Christian sensibilities.

On a personal note, I am still on a journey of deconstructing the things I take pleasure in, and the beliefs I hold regarding society and culture and how these intersect with faith.

Je t’embrasse, x

What Happens WhenYou Find Love?

Twenty-eighth of April, 2012. Two oh one.

I think I have written and deleted this post about five or six times now over the past few months, each time deciding that what I had written was either too emotional or too clinical, or just plain incoherent.

So, in my umpteenth attempt at this article, I’ve decided to just write organically, although this is a subject that is deeply personal!

Two weeks ago, I became the fiancée of a man I can only describe as something-kinda-amazing and when I finally did the obligatory status updates on the social networking sites, I was completely overwhelmed by the response. Within hours, I received hundreds of well-wishing comments, tweets, messages, texts, calls and ‘Likes’, and it was astounding (and incredibly humbling) how happy people were, some even reporting being moved to tears by the news!

And suddenly, my engaged status elevated me to a rather fun and interesting role of Love Guru, with people asking me for advice on a myriad of relationship subjects, most of which I actually knew nothing about! But there was a question one of my friends asked, that gave me much joy to answer, particularly because no one had ever asked me something like that before. She wanted to know how I got to that place of peace where I knew that the man I was dating was going to be my future husband.

And as I said I would be less reserved in this blog, below I’ve inserted my reply to her question verbatim.

“I knew he was my future husband at the point when, if I thought about my future, all I could see was him in it (him, our children, our home). I dunno how to explain it better than that, but he became my only option – anybody else just didn’t make sense.

“When Beyonce sang, ‘I’d rather die young than live my life without you,’ I did think, ‘She’s a bit gassed!’ LOL but I understood. Ages ago, I told [a friend] that if [my boyfriend] and I ever broke up, I would accept a life of singledom; I’d rather be single forever (I’d go off to Africa or the Caribbean and fight disease and poverty!!!) than be without him.

“I even teared up yesterday because I thought, [WHAT THE HELL] WOULD I DO IF HE EVER DIES ON ME? Lol imagine – instead of just being happy I was doing melodrama! LOL.

“Even with all his flaws and my concerns, when I began to take on his flaws as my own, I knew that he was no longer just one of my options – he was my only option.

“I don’t know if any of that makes sense and I don’t mean it in a subservient kinda way… [To be honest] I’ve only [allowed myself to get] to this point with him because he has loved me so sincerely and so completely first. So it’s a reciprocated decision/choice. He [accepted and] took on all my flaws a long time ago, I only got here a few months ago.”

Over the past year or so, I have learnt so much about myself. Before I got into this relationship, I thought I had learnt all there was to know about dating and courting. But it wasn’t long before I realized that I still had unresolved issues to deal with in myself, particularly around self-worth, that were preventing me from being vulnerable and enjoying this wonderful man in full.

For some time in the relationship I struggled with the idea that someone could love me so sincerely. His love was that biblical kind of love, long-suffering and patient and kind, and totally revolutionary. And I did not think I was worthy to be loved like this, worthy to be in such an amazing, peaceful and fruitful relationship; worthy to finally have what I’ve always wanted and have always prayed for.

This feeling of unworthiness manifested itself in several ways, including allowing myself to be distracted by other people and their expectations and ideals of relationships. And when people, especially single friends, would ask me how things were going, finding myself, for the first time ever, with no colourful or dramatic stories to tell of betrayal or hurt or insecurity, I would fill in the space – not with boasts of how happy I was (because it was more important to me not to appear prideful than to appear happy!) but with destructive, self-deprecating anecdotes, all in an attempt to appear ‘modest’. I even remember complaining at some point that things were ‘too perfect’.

What a fool I was.

I have always been quite an objective and realistic person, but I soon found my pragmatism was becoming choked by cynicism, and I began to psychologically punish myself for being happy, convincing myself that I did not deserve to be in a functional and loving partnership.

And not only that, a fear of hypocrisy swamped me. I would hold myself back from expressing my love for him out of fear that I would become one of those people I had previously condemned – crazy and so stupidly consumed by love that it became all I spoke about, thought about, and consequently, all I was. I tried so desperately to maintain my numerous friendships, because I didn’t want to become that other type of person I had once condemned – the one who no longer kept in contact with friends because they were in a relationship.

So this love has been hard.

It’s been hard because I have had a lot of growing up and self-loving to do.

So what happens when you find love?

First of all, I didn’t find love in the conventional sense. I found a man with broad shoulders, inexplicably perfect bone structure, clear skin and eyes that widened like a child at surprising information, his long eyelashes brushing the crease of his lids.

I found a man who I would later discover shared so many similarities with me, including our heritage, background, principles, beliefs, values, entertainment choices, sense of humour, thirst for knowledge and drive.

I found a man who, at some point, despite all my flaws, idiosyncrasies, and insecurities, decided that he wanted to love me. And so he did, unreservedly and self-sacrificially.

And when I found this man, I held onto him and I chose to love him, and I slowly allowed myself to enjoy his love. I transformed the feelings of unworthiness into a deep sense of joy and peace. I disconnected myself from the distractions, and began to revel in this most amazing man, and began to invest myself in him fearlessly.

And somewhere along the line he decided that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. And so he amassed all the finance and courage needed for a man to ask a woman that four-word question, and he did it. And after a few moments of ecstatically stunned silence, I said, “Yes”.

Everyone’s story is different but one thing I would say is that, in your search for love, find someone that loves you in spite of you. It’s easy to find someone who will love you for all the great things you are, but rarely are they able to love you for your ineptitudes and imperfections. Find the person who will not only love you despite all your ‘ugly’ but whose love will cover all your flaws. And when you find that person, be bold in your decision, guard it fiercely, and do not allow yourself to get distracted by extraneous things that don’t really matter.

And finally, when you find love, allow yourself to be happy in it.

Je t’embrasse, x

Second of April, 2012. Twelve thirty-four.

And because I’m always asked this, I thought I’d do an updated list of books I’ve read and enjoyed (or yet to read but certain I will enjoy), and therefore would recommend. I’ve included ten non-fiction and ten fiction books.

Non-Fiction

- The Road Less Travelled – M. Scott Peck

- The Pedagogy of the Oppressed – Paulo Freire

- The Wretched of the Earth – Frantz Fanon

- The Autobiography of Malcolm X, as told to Alex Haley

- I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings – Maya Angelou

- Anything We Love Can Be Saved – Alice Walker

- Yearning: Race, Gender and Cultural Politics – Bell Hooks

- How to Win Friends and Influence People – Dale Carnegie

- Civilisation and its Discontents – Sigmund Freud

- The Lucifer Effect – Philip Zimbardo

Fiction

- Half of a Yellow Sun – Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

- Their Eyes Were Watching God – Zora Neale Hurston

- Another Country – James Baldwin

- A Tale of Two Cities – Charles Dickens

- I Do Not Come To You By Chance – Adaobi Nwaubani

- Things Fall Apart – Chinua Achebe

- Roll of Thunder Hear my Cry – Mildred D. Taylor

- One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez

- A Thousand Splendid Suns – Khaled Hosseini

- On Black Sisters Street – Chika Unigwe

There are so more I could include, but I thought ten would be enough for anyone looking for something new to read.

Je t’embrasse, x

Second of April, 2012. Eleven fifty-four.

This weekend I watched The Hunger Games. Can I just say that this was the best film I’ve watched in the cinema since Black Swan!

I’ve never really been into Sci-fi or fantasy films (although I did love Fifth Element, The Matrix and Lord of the Rings). But I do love dark films with twists, so Hunger Games totally had me in love.

For those who are yet to watch it, I would really recommend. In short, it is Big Brother-meets-Gladiator, with costume from The Jetsons. It is a brilliant concept with incredibly bloodthirsty, voyeuristic and sadistic themes, which are cleverly and elegantly portrayed.

It is also a book series, but I have no intention of reading the books. I hate reading the books of films after I’ve watched the film; I find it a pointless exercise especially when there are so many other books to read in the world! The only book I have ever read after watching the film was ‘For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf’ by Ntozake Shange, and it was not an immediately enjoyable experience.

However, I have heard some good things about the books, so if you’re not like me, I would say it’s one to add to the ‘To Read’ list.

Other films I’ve watched recently and loved are Amelie and 500 Days of Summer. Both were so different from what I was expecting, and that was indeed a pleasant surprise.

So, with the new additions, my top twenty films now stands at:

1. Hunger Games
2. Amelie
3. 500 Days of Summer
4. The Usual Suspects
5. City of God
6. Breakfast at Tiffany’s
7. No Country for Old Men
8. Training Day
9. Hero
10. Boyz in the Hood
11. The Reader
12. Scarface
13. Goodfellas
14. Schindlers List
15. Black Swan
16. Million Dollar Baby
17. Set It Off
18. American History X
19. House of Flying Daggers
20. The Prestige

I forgot P.S. I Love You, My Girl, Boys Don’t Cry and Little Women. So that makes 24.

Feel free to post your recommendations!

Je t’embrasse, x

The thirtieth of March, 2012. Ten thirty-two.

Recently I’ve had to routinely purge myself of social networks, and not because of that fear of excessive public self-exposure that many Tumblr, Twitter and Facebook users often have. No, I’ve become very conservative with the personal information I put out there in cyberspace because I know that once that picture is uploaded, that tweet is posted or that entry is tumblrd, it no longer belongs to you – it belongs to every single person that has access to your space.

I regularly emancipate myself from social networks, particularly Twitter, for days to weeks at a time, because of the obstinate experts, theorists and philosophers that seem to be ubiquitous on my timeline – either because my unconscious desire to be infuriated to the point of apathy prevents me from unfollowing them, or because their inane rants are always retweeted onto my timeline.

The main types of Tweeters I have particular gripe with are:

1. The ones whose boasts about how wonderful life is for them and how wonderfully wise or rich they are, is actually in direct conflict with their off-line reality.
2. The ones who never reply to your ‘Good morning’ tweets or your ‘I have an emergency, can one of you help please?’ tweets, but always seem to remember your Twitter handle when they want to tweet you links to their latest product.
3. The ones who tweet that they can’t believe how much time people spend on Twitter, but they either don’t say anything very interesting anyway, or you can find them uploading pictures and commenting on links on their Facebook or Tumblr page every other minute.
4. The silent Tweeters, who don’t have a Twitter account, or if they do, they never tweet anyway, yet they know what you tweeted when Lord Alan Sugar fired Maria on Wednesday night’s Apprentice.
5. And finally, the ones who launch into Twitter essays on their often newly Wikipedia-acquired information on religion, race relations, international development or politics,  human rights, or romantic relationships, and belligerently refuse to listen to anyone else’s point of view.

Now, I have no problem with people sharing information that they’ve learnt, as well as their point of view – this is actually one of the main reasons why I love Twitter, the broad spectrum of opinions and the wealth of information is amazing. If something happens in the news, I can be sure to obtain a range of evaluative commentary on the subject on Twitter, which is bound to be significantly richer than anything journalists on television or the papers can provide.

However, it’s when this commentary begins to denigrate other people’s opinions, or worse, experiences, that I get agitated. And this is particularly rife when issues of race, religion, money or relationships are discussed.

Instead of the conversation being a space of debate, critical analysis and information sharing, it becomes a space of hostility and one-upmanship where the essence of the discussion is lost, and ego and emotions become replacements. The popular or, conversely, most dissenting or controversial  opinion (which oft becomes the most popular anyway) is automatically deemed the most valid, and every other minority voice is regarded irrelevant.

Particularly, I hate when people are telling me how I’m supposed to feel about certain things because I’m: a) black, b) female, c) under the age of 30, d) a Londoner, e) in a relationship or f) a British Igbo Nigerian African*. And sadly people use social networks to do this didactically, because social media is, in essence, that space for people to declare their view of the world, to the world.

Recently I joined a book club and the first book we read was Malcolm X’s Autobiography, as told to Alex Haley. Now, you may remember the blog from the first time I read this book, and how much the book moved me. My second time reading it was just as emotional and insightful. What intrigued me, however, were the book club discussions on racism, race relations, religion, patriarchy and feminism, and Black Britishness that inevitably ensued. Here I was, sat with incredibly well-educated and articulate women, from different walks of life, and there were very different opinions shared and some points where no consensus was reached, but the dialogue was unfailingly respectful and understanding, without losing any of the passion or critical analysis. At times, even, a response offered to a question would be, “You know what, I don’t know.”(!)

This is not the environment you get on Twitter sometimes and I regret that.

Instead of people using their knowledge to respectfully and lovingly encourage people to learn new things or challenge themselves, people with less knowledge, less eloquence or who have not had a certain experience, are dismissed as ‘myopic’ or ‘ignorant’, by the same people who ironically display more of these traits than the people they accuse. You will almost never see these kinds of people answer a question that contests their point of view with, “You know what, I don’t know.” Instead, their response will be, “You know what, 140 characters will not let me go into the detail I want,” or, “This is not the space to discuss this kind of issue.” (Which begs the question, why tweet about it in the first place?)

Some reading this will say, why don’t you just unfollow the people who annoy you in this way? But the point is, I don’t want to. I love that these people have this wealth of knowledge and I admire their intellect and the fact that they dare to not only have an opinion, but share it with their followers. However, I do wish they would use the space they have created with their tweets to encourage discussion and edify the people who do not know as much as they do (and also LEARN from others who do not agree with them!), rather than to condemn and undermine. I’m acutely aware that this post may be quite self-contradictory, but from following the tweets of the people I have described above,  I have become more enlightened and more critical myself, which makes me increasingly critical of their methods of information.

“If there is not a mutual exchange between the cultural subjects… that are written about and the critics who write about them, a political domination is easily reproduced wherein intellectual elites assume an old colonizing role, that of privileged interpreter – cultural overseers.” – Bell Hooks

Je t’embrasse, x

NOTE:

If you’re looking for people to follow who give diplomatic and edifying, yet critical and insightful commentary on different issues, I’ve found the following have helped expand my knowledge and perception of things and encourage my own critical thinking:

- @RukayahSarumi – for everything from politics to health and science to race

- @IAmNicholeBlack – for commentary on race and feminist issues

- @FaithJegede – for politics and media discussion

- @Disgeneration, @KrystleLai and @ToluOgunlesi – for some critical discourse on Africa and international development

- @IfyAniebo and @AfricanHealth – for public health and science commentary

- @BrotherAyo – for critical and challenging perspectives on Christianity.

* I left out ‘Christian’ from the categories above regarding my identities because I believe that as a Christian, you should expect people (Christian and non-Christian) to tell you how a Christian should feel about things, especially when corroborated by the Bible.

“Men should find their wives whilst the woman is still young… As a woman gets older and more experienced, she is more likely to be dealing with the effects of bad relationships gathered over time…”

Weeks ago, I was pondering on reasons why older women who want to get married find it more difficult to do so than, say, their younger counterparts (and yes, contrary to popular belief, not every woman wants to get married!). In addition to the obvious reasons usually cited, like a lack of eligible and single older men, I thought of another popular explanation – that as a woman gets older, she accumulates more baggage.

It is expected that as a person, not just a woman, gets older, they will become more experienced in issues of life, however when it comes to women specifically, experience is often seen as synonymous with ‘baggage’. But for men, not so much.

Keeping with the common idea of women with ‘baggage’ (which, in this context, would be experience that has had a negative effect on one’s character), I thought about the reasons why a woman might acquire, or be seen to have acquired, more baggage than either her partner or other, younger women; it’s dangerous and unhelpful to lay blame solely on women for [what is superficially seen as] the failure of relationships and/or the consequences of these failed relationships.

The Church community is one that I am part of and one with which I’ve made myself familiar. But I find the popular teachings on – or rather interpretations of – relationships to be a little problematic at times, and often it can be difficult trying to discern how much of the teachings are based on Scripture and how much is an infiltration of the Hollywood-love ethic!

Specifically, as I hear more and more stories of women, especially within the Church, being heartbroken by men who cajoled them with sweet-somethings and possibilities of a future adorned with children, a house and arguments about whose family to spend Christmas day with, I’ve become increasingly weary of the classic model of women waiting for their husbands and men finding their wives.

In the old days when Commitment and Obligation and Duty and Sacrifice were not offensive words or words to be frightened of, I can see how this model could work. But in modern times, I question its viability… Or rather, I think the classic model is perfect; it is just the way it is taught and interpreted that has perverted it a little.

These days, I worry that insisting women wait for that man who will find her, will deny women agency before and during a relationship, due to much of the responsibility of relationship initiation being implicitly being automatically delegated to the man.

The way the concept is currently taught, I think, encourages women to be more receptive to the man (or any man) that approaches her correctly – not that this is a bad thing, but one of the implications of this is that, because the women are arguably more invested in the relationship, especially in the initial stages, they tend to be more compromising and committed to the ‘goal’ of marriage, so they are more likely to put up with frankly, a lot of nonsense.

Not to mention the consequential fear of never being found…

But for men it’s different. The process of ‘finding’ a wife is taken by many to imply the use of the ‘trial and error’ method. Have you ever read the ‘Where’s Spot?’ children’s books?

The narrative usually goes something like, “Where’s Spot? Is Spot under the rug? Let’s look and see – no, he’s not under the rug. Is he in the basket? No. Is he hiding behind the curtain? No. There he is, he’s under the bed!”

Some men take a similar approach to ‘finding’ their wife – Is Sara my wife? Let me approach her, see how she reacts to my sweet words, court her, and try her out. But if Sara doesn’t do something I like, then, no, Sara is not my wife. Ok, so how about Chinyere? Is Chinyere my wife?

And so on and so forth. Leaving a string of potentially broken women, until Tolani, the one he actually weds, is found.

And that fear of never being found is non-existent among men, seeing as the power of finding – of marriage – has technically been placed in their hands.

Women are told subliminally that once your [potential] ‘husband’ finds you, then that’s it, stick with him and make it work. And single women are usually corrected by other Christians for saying, ‘I’m looking for a man,” instead of the accepted, “I’m waiting for the man that God intends for me.”

But for men, if you’re not completely satisfied in a relationship, it must mean you haven’t found the ‘wife’ yet, so the next recommended action is to move on and continue the search.

This leaves so many women dealing with feelings of hurt, rejection and an increasing number of ex-boyfriends, and for many, a regret that the secession was not even instigated by them, where in hindsight it probably should have been. Not to say that men don’t feel this too, but compared to men, it is less socially favourable for a woman to have a ‘high’ number of exes. And as a woman gets older, the more likely she is to have been in more relationships that may have ended on terms that were not her own.

I’m not sure what the solution would be – maybe more focus on teaching women about discernment and being agents of their own future, rather than flaccid, helpless beings waiting to be ‘got’. And for the classic model to work again in our society, more teaching for men needs to be done on commitment, integrity, intentional dating or courtship, and most importantly, respect for women.

Thankfully, I know an increasing number of men, especially my own, who understand and even teach me more on these concepts. To these men: you know who you are, and I am ever-grateful for you all.

Je t’embrasse, x

Seventeenth of February, 2012. Eleven forty.

I’m a bit of a creature of habit when it comes to music – I listen to pretty much the same artists over and over again. I generally avoid bandwagons and only listen to new artists well after the hype around them has died down, just so  I can make an objective decision on whether I actually like their music or not.

On the little time I have on my daily commute to work, I’ve been trying to read more and not waste time listening to the same music I’ve heard a thousand times, and playing Temple Run. So I rarely get to explore new artists and the only times I really get to listen to music are when I’m cleaning or running.

And, especially when I’m cleaning, I find myself playing the same old songs: 90s RnB classics with some Common, Kanye West and Rihanna thrown in to mix it up. Yeah, I know. So diverse(!)

So recently I decided to take a break from the usuals and venture into dance and alternative music…. And I love it! The kind of music that makes you dance so carelessly like Christina and Meredith in Grey’s Anatomy! The kind that gets you through that last 500m on your 5km run!

Here are some of my faves at the moment:

- Sbtrkt – Hold on

- Metronomy – The Bay

- Leona Lewis & Avicii – Collide

- Metronomy – The Look

- Little Dragon – Little Man

- Theophilus & Jesse Boykins III – Enjoy the Sun

- David Guetta & Sia – Titanium

- Little Dragon – Ritual Union

Enjoy. And feel free to send me some recommendations for my playlist.

Je t’embrasse, x

Seventeenth of February, 2012. Nine oh seven.

I’m lucky to have lots of people around me who believe in health living and fitness. Last year I started caring more for my hair, and thanks to www.loveyourtresses.com (and recently discovered www.cfyh.co.uk) my natural growth has been softer and more lustrous than ever.

Last year I also started watching what I ate more. A new job located out of the city made it easier to avoid eating out – the high salt and sugar content of some of the so-called healthier options were concerning, as were the portion sizes as I slowly came to a realisation that I wouldn’t usually eat such large portions at home as I do when I go out. Also, this was when my love affair with natural yoghurt began, although it’s difficult to find a low-fat brand that actually tastes nice and doesn’t look curdled! The best low fat natural yoghurt I’ve tasted so far is Tesco’s brand, and for full fat, I do love Yeo Valley.

But this year I’ve been inspired to pay even more attention to my body. So I’ve started a new regime of taking multivitamins and eating more wholegrain. I’m even on the verge of forcing myself to like fish and training my body not to convulse after ingesting milk… Yeah ok so I’ve got a long way to go with that!

Anyway, part of this regime is to run more (and faster), and to swim at least once a week. It’s weird because only two years ago I was allergic/scared of running more than 100m and could only go 2-3 minutes before I gave up and convinced myself I was going to have a heart attack if I continued! But these days it’s the 10km run that scares me, as my body has got used to running 5km regularly.

I can’t say I feel significantly different from these recent changes yet (the additions of multivitamins and swimming to my regime) but over the past couple of years that I’ve been working on getting healthier and fitter, I have seen major improvements.

And it is wonderful seeing other young women getting on the case of their health: Nikky and Wande doing the Insanity programme, Fiona and Dolly with the all-round healthy lifestyle tips, Isha with her healthy weight gain programme, Christiana Mbakwe clocking up the miles with her runs, and Bangs & a Bun and Angela Simmons who are like my ultimate role models when it comes to fitness and pushing yourself!

And I specify young women because the idea of fitness for young men is mandatory, like some sort of weekly performed rite of passage, yet when a woman decides to be proactive about her health, it’s assumed that it’s only to lose weight! Which is very patronising and annoying! (However, I did see this on someone’s Facebook wall and it made me giggle: “You are not a dog; do not reward yourself with food.”)

I’ve always been on the case for health, but more on the remedial and therapeutic aspect, rather than preventative. And as our parents would say, prevention is always better than cure! It feels good to know that I’m not contributing to the thousands of things that can randomly go wrong with my body. The body is so complicated that eating healthily and working out regularly will not guarantee that you won’t get sick – after all, I was completely healthy when I somehow got pneumonia last year! But it does make you feel better about yourself, especially when you start to see positive changes to your body.

There is no real point to this blog but if you are thinking about taking better care of your health, don’t start on March 1^st, or Monday, or next week or tomorrow. Start now.

Je t’embrasse, x

P.s. And if you’re a healthy one already, feel free to share some tips please… I need them!

Seventh of February, 2012. Four ten.

Right now the ‘buzz’ word is ‘homosexuality’. It’s everywhere I look: on forms, on Facebook, Youtube, Twitter, newspapers, the Bible(!) and even The Economist. Everyone’s talking about homosexuality.

Personally I find homosexuality – sexuality in general – fascinating. Not the practice of it, but more the social and historical struggle of it. It astounds me how hard gay people (and non-gay people) have fought to be accepted, to not be discriminated against or killed – how hard they have fought to be treated like humans. It is this struggle for ‘re-humanisation’ that fascinates me.

My interest in the gay rights struggle began when I discovered writer James Baldwin. I started reading Another Country and became enamoured with – and jealous of – his raconteur talent and skill.

My goodness was that book revolutionary! I had read loads of African American authors’ work, but I had never been exposed to such powerful and controversial themes. It was the first time I had read about any sort of non-heterosexual relationships, and to be written by a gay black man in the 50s at that!

I will forever love Mr Baldwin for his boldness.

But my recent thoughts on homosexuality have been on its relation to Christianity.

I read critical articles and comments describing Christianity as hostile towards homosexuality, and there are debates on whether the Church should marry gay couples. There are never-ending discussions attempting to define homophobia, the origin of homosexuality, even homosexual neurobiology and endocrinology.

It is all mind-boggling. I believe in liberty, and I also believe in Christianity (which to me, is not a dichotomy). But in the case of homosexuality, does it indeed reflect a conflict of interests?

Nowadays it is rare to attend a Church service where the teacher explicitly condemns homosexuality (at least, not in London). Everyone is afraid of appearing bigoted, yet at the same time heads are shaken at the Church of England for being too lax and comprising. So the more popular action, it seems, is to avoid talking about the topic altogether, even though it is estimated that ‘2% to 13% of the [modern West] population is homosexual or has had some form of same-sex sexual contact within his or her lifetime’ and one in five people surveyed admitted to they’d had homosexual feelings before (both stats from Wikipedia – very scientific I know!).

And where do I stand on it? I don’t know. But I do think that as a Church we should encourage more open discussion about it; it’s not enough to just behave like a Piagetian, egocentric child lacking an understanding of object permanence, i.e. putting a blanket over the subject and pretending it doesn’t exist.

On Sunday at Church, in a completely unrelated sermon, the pastor said something like, “Don’t compromise the Gospel to satiate the flesh.”

It struck chords within me. But I can’t quite make out what song it’s playing.

Je t’embrasse, x

*************************

16/02/12

I’ve been reading and pondering on the comments below. Really interesting, looking at the different perspectives and analyses. Everyone has made such key points. (Oh how I wish even more that churches encouraged more of this dialogue!)

And after all that, I still have no answers, but more questions.

The comments made me think more about:

Nature vs. Nurture:

- Whether homosexuality is a choice or if it’s biological/genetic, and whether knowing the answer to this makes a difference to how we should perceive it

Church acceptance of Homosexuality:

- The implications of ‘accepting’ homosexuality as a Church, and the implications of condemning it.

- What constitutes an ‘acceptance’, and what this would mean for modern interpretations of the Bible.

What is a sin, and are they all equal?

- If we use the argument that ‘a sin is a sin’ and that there is no sin worse than the other, then the same approach we use to deal with people who lie, or thieve, or murder, we should then use for homosexuality. Which, in some churches would be prayer, counselling etc. but legally could mean criminal prosecution. And then doesn’t that mean we’re right back to square one?

- How does moralising sexual orientation progress society? Drugs are illegal, but people still do them. Prostitution is illegal but people still solicit. Sex with minors is illegal but it still happens. Moralising homosexuality will make the religious more comfortable, but it doesn’t do much more than that. People will still be gay. So for Christians, what is the aim – to eradicate homosexuality or to suppress the prevalence of it? And the implications of both are severe.

- Also, the Bible talks about forbidding homosexual acts (in general), as well as heterosexual acts outside of marriage. It also talks about lustful thoughts. So if a person is homosexual, and isn’t sexually active, and doesn’t entertain lustful thoughts, does the Bible still condemn them?

I think the conversation about homosexuality and Christianity is a valuable discussion that is necessary. Often it is portrayed that there is this war going on, with gay people and Christians on opposing sides. But what about the gay people who are Christians too?

And for those who are in positions of influence, where do moral inclinations sit when it comes to governance? Your duty is to your people, but to which people?

Fifteenth of February, 2012. One twenty-nine.

So I’m sitting here on my… extended lunch break… and next to me are two women discussing… Two guesses… Ok, just one… Yes, discussing men.

Well, they are discussing one man in particular. Woman A’s boyfriend has just broken up with her, and Woman B is trying to console her. I’m listening and I’m feeling everything Woman B is saying. She’s not saying anything new or revolutionary – you know the usuals: “It will take time to heal. Put yourself first. Give him space.” Etc. etc. Typical friend responses (what else can you say??).

But it’s Woman A’s responses (which are more like monologues) that are irritating me.

“You know I blame my friends. They’re the ones who pushed me to ask him questions about where he was going, who he was speaking to. If it wasn’t for them, he wouldn’t have told me about that other woman, and he wouldn’t have dumped me.”

And then later in her soliloquy she says, “I’m gonna go out there and just be amazing so he can see that I’m doing great and then he’ll miss me!”

Women, why are we like this?

Je t’embrasse, x

Fifteenth of February, 2012. One twenty-nine.

I’ve had so many things I’ve wanted to discuss on The SuperWoman Chronicles, but I’ve found it so difficult to write on here. One of the reasons is that I’ve been working on my story-telling skills, which require a whole different type of writing arsenal so it’s been difficult switching between the two styles. Also, I’m working on various other things at the moment, including making The SWC a little better, so that’s taking a lot of my time.

And I guess the other reason is that I’ve felt a little under pressure to restrain my views so that I don’t write articles too polarising.

I’m slowly returning to that place where I don’t really care anymore (but at the same time I do care). So hopefully I will have more eloquent, thoughtful articles on various subjects written for you soon. Hopefully.

But for now, I thought I would share some nuggets of my thoughts. They’re random. But bear with me.

Jusque la, x

Twenty-third of January, 2012. Ten oh eight.

I turned 25 today, and celebrated this transition into adulthood over the weekend with a family dinner and a games night. I don’t have the words to adequately capture how phenomenal these past few days have been, but I can definitely say that this has been the best birthday yet.

One of the things I have always been thankful for is the fact that I have never been short of amazing friends and family. This weekend I understood a little more about the meaning of God’s grace. The love, well-wishes, blessings and prayers were so overwhelming that at random points in the day I burst into tears thinking about all the things that had been said about and done for me since Saturday. And it was mainly because I could not believe that so many people would go out of their way to make me feel so special. I thought of all my flaws, all my sins, all the times I’ve failed as a friend, daughter, sister, cousin, mentor, and even writer, and yet these people had decided I was still worth loving and celebrating on such a grande, yet intimate, scale. And I thought, this is an example of God’s grace; these people had chosen to love me, in spite of myself. And that is humbling.

So I just want to say, thank you.

Thank you to my biological family – my mum, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. Thank you Frank, Ronke, Dolly and Abena for tirelessly serving and loving me this weekend and the build up to it. I have no words, just a heart full of grateful tears.

Thank you to my adopted family that came to dinner on Saturday. The sacrifice of your time, efforts and money, will never be forgotten. To everyone that attended on Sunday, wrote me card, sent me a message or called me… Thank you.

And everyone that contributed to the video, or wanted to, my limited vocabulary cannot express how much I love you.

I’ll stop here before I permanently lose all street credibility, but I am grateful and incredibly humbled.

If you ever need more clarity on the concept of God’s grace, or His love, think about all your failings: the times you’ve been angry, rude, jealous, stolen, lusted, lied, cheated, gossiped… And then think of all those that love you. Even if it’s just one person, if they can love you despite all your deficiencies, ponder on how much more potent God’s love and grace must be. 

One more thank you – I started this blog when I was 22. Thank you for sharing this journey with me.

Je t’embrasse, x

Part Three

Thirtieth of December, 2011. Eleven twenty-eight

“Christian! Christopher!”

She shouted again. If there was any area that both her boys had shown little improvement, it was responding promptly when she called them, and neither had mastered the concept of waking up before 11 am. She had made akara and akamu for breakfast and had spent the past hour calling for them to wake up to come and eat.

Growing tired of shouting, Hilda climbed the stairs and walked first to Christopher’s room. She was surprised to find his room empty and his bed made. Checking that he wasn’t in the bathroom, she walked over to Christian’s room, expecting to find them both in there, though they hardly spent any time together these days.

Alarm overcame her as she found Christian’s room just as empty as Christopher’s, and her heart began to throb in her throat. Fleeing downstairs to the phone, she frantically dialled Christopher’s and Christian’s numbers alternatively, each time meeting a generic voicemail greeting. Hilda was too anxious to cry. She gave up calling, and slumped on the settee. Lugubriously she cried out to God, knowing that something bad had happened.

The shrill sound of the doorbell woke her up several hours later. Hilda jolted upright and ran to open the door. Even though she knew that something terrible had happened, she hoped that she would find her twins behind the door, apologetic for causing her to worry and for forgetting their keys at home. She would pretend to be angry, and would insult them in Igbo, but inside she would be rejoicing for their safe return.

Her hopes were met with despair as she opened the door to two policemen, one black and the other Asian. They made solemn introductions and invited themselves into her living room.

Sitting on the edge of their seats, they looked up to Hilda who stood tentatively in the doorway and then they explained the reason for their visit.

************************************

Hilda’s friend, Nwaka, had sat cradling Hilda’s head in her arms for almost two hours. Apart from Hilda’s quiet whimpers and Nwaka’s occasional, “Ndo, oh. Ndo, nwannem,” the house was silent. Nothing moved except for Nwaka’s free arm when she stroked Hilda’s face and hair. Her other arm locked under Hilda’s head, was soaked with a mixture of mucus and tears.

“Nwannem nwanyi, let me make you something to eat, biko. Please. You haven’t eaten anything for the past three days, biko,” Nwaka pleaded.

Hilda freed herself from Nwaka’s embrace, sat up and shook her head violently. “Mba! No! If it was you, Nwaka, if it was you, tell me, would you be thinking about food? Gbo, tell me!”

Nwaka hung her head in silence. She had tried to be patient, tried to be compassionate, but her beleaguered friend was right.

Hilda stood up and began pacing the room with agitation.

“Nwaka, please, if you want to do something for me, ask God why. Ask God why me. Why Kenneth, my own husband? Why did it have to be my own son that nearly killed a boy? Why must it be my own daughter to have a teenage pregnancy? Hmm. Why not yours? Why?”

Nwaka watched her friend pace up and down, arms flailing hopelessly.  

“Nwaka, tell me why? What was in my womb that made every single child to come out of it so evil? Nwaka, biko, I beg of you to ask God. Ask God why a grown man should be the reason why his brother is killed?

“Nwaka!” she screamed. “Please ask your God, why He would allow Christopher to die, and not Christian?” And she collapsed on the floor in a veil of tears and heartbreak.

************************************

Chiemelu was excited when he was told he had received a letter. After almost five years in prison, he had received no visitors and no correspondence, and for the most part he had preferred it that way. But when he had finally mustered up the courage to follow Pastor Ian’s advice and write to his mother, he had expected at least an acknowledgement or a visit. When days became weeks and weeks became months of nothing, he gave up any hope of hearing from anyone in his family.

So when he slid his finger through the fold of the envelope to open it, and unfolded the sheets of paper to find his mother’s beautiful cursive packed tightly into every space on the sheets, he was overwhelmed with joy. She had forgiven him after all.

As he read, however, he found his happiness was short-lived.  

“Chiemelu m, Thank you for your letter. It was good to hear that you are ok. As far as I am aware, Mary and her baby are fine – I haven’t spoken to her since she moved out of the house five years ago. I have enclosed the last address I had for her. You should try and write to her when you have time.

“Chiemelu. I am sad. I am heartbroken. I am sad that all of my children could despise me so much, that all of my children could hate God so much. I tried. Only God knows that I tried. Was I that bad of a mother? Chiemelu, your brothers are finished. Christopher is dead. Your brother killed him. Chiemelu, Christopher is dead, and Christian is in prison.

“Christopher was always better than all of you. He was just misguided by you all and your bad ways. I threw both him and Christian out of the house, and a year later, Christopher found God and convinced Christian to come home with him. I didn’t even mind that they broke into the house – I was just happy to see my babies home.

“But of course, you and Christian are one and the same. Whilst Christopher was coming to Church, praying, genuinely trying to turn his life around, Christian was falling deeper and deeper into drugs and criminality. He stole £10,000 worth of drugs from a drug dealer in Willesden, and the man was looking for him up and down. And one day, early in the morning, Christopher had gone to Harlesden to buy some bread for the house. I didn’t even know he had gone, he had wanted to surprise me. And the man’s friends (the man that Christian stole from) spotted him at Willesden Junction station on his way home, and thinking it was Christian, they stabbed him more than twenty times. I don’t even know how he managed to have the strength to bring out his phone and call anyone, but he called Christian, but by the time Christian got there, Christopher was already dead.

“Chiemelu, or Paul, whatever you want to call yourself these days, Christopher is dead, and both you and Christian have killed him. So, no, Chiemelu m, my dear Chiemelu, there is no home for you here when you get out. I have no more children left. Take care, Hilda Ukwu.”

Je t’embrasse, x

***************************************************************

Happy new year to all my readers!

I hope 2012 is filled with love, and more love for you all.

If you enjoy literature, poetry and excellent song-writing like I do, please do come by to Writers’ Lounge, on the 7th Jan 2012. 

( Writers’ Lounge at The Pipeline Bar, 94 Middlesex Street, London, E1 7DA. Doors open 6.30pm.)

Part Two

Thirtieth of December, 2011. Eleven twenty-eight

Months had passed since she had evicted her sons from the house. That night she barely slept. The coldness of the blade of the knife she had stashed under her pillow penetrated the polyester filling and kept her awake. She was afraid that the twins, in a fit of vengeful rage, would break into the house and attack her, as revenge for throwing them out on the street. She wasn’t sure that if they did burst into her room, she could bring herself to brandish the kitchen knife she used to chop onions and okra, but she kept one hand under her pillow anyway, clasped firmly on the knife’s wooden handle. Enough is enough, she had whispered to herself.

Loneliness clung to her like a shadow. After weeks of hearing nothing, the fear that one day she would return home to find her house had been ransacked, dissipated. She was actually alone. The twins never called her and she never tried to contact them. At first, she forgot her solitude and cooked huge pots of rice and stew and tray-loads of chicken. But as time passed, the large pots were replaced with the smallest ones, and ambitious meals were replaced with simple soups and pastas. Friends visited and praised her for finally doing what she ‘needed to do’, but none of them noticed the emptiness that swelled within her like a vacuum. She smiled and made tea until they left, preferring the silence of loneliness to the arrogant chattering of insensitivity.

Almost a year passed, and Hilda received a letter from Chiemelu. In the four years he had been incarcerated, she had not once had any communication with him. She heard through the grapevine that he had been in a few fights in prison, but had recently become born again. She was surprised that the news of his salvation did not interest nor impress her.

“Dear mum,” it read. “Sorry I haven’t been in contact with you all these years. How is everyone? Mary’s baby must be big now. Did she have a boy or girl? And Christopher and Christian must be big men now! I hope you are ok. I’ve been spending more time with the Chaplain, and he said I should forgive myself and write to you. I hope when I’m released I can come home. God bless you, Paul (Chiemelu).”

Hilda folded the paper back along its original creases, and slid the letter back into its envelope and then into her bag. She went to bed early that night, her face and pillow wet with tears.

The noise of a window being smashed downstairs awoke her. She had long since stopped sleeping with the knife under her pillow, and at that moment she wished she had been less naive and had more foresight. Unplugging the lamp from the wall socket, she armed herself with it as she stepped out into the hallway and crept down the stairs.

“Who is there!” she shouted. There was a startled shuffling as the intruder tried to hide. “I said, who is there!” she shrieked, louder and more panicked this time.  She spotted the intruder huddled in the corner of the hallway, underneath the gaping hole in the window through which he had entered.

She leapt to the light switch and the intruder shielded himself from the light. As Hilda was about to take advantage of his apparent weakness, and begin beating him with the lamp in her hand, another figure emerged from the kitchen. She froze.

“Mum, it’s me,” the figure from the kitchen said in a gruff voice as it drew nearer to her. “It’s us, Christopher and Christian.”

The figure on the floor slowly lowered his arms that had risen to shield his head from her attack.

Hilda held her breath apprehensively, and fixed her arms at her sides as the tall figure from the kitchen engulfed her in his embrace, and the person in the corner unfolded his long body and stood before her. Christian took her hand.  Christopher held Hilda tighter, his back arched and head nestled in her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of Elizabeth Arden’s Sunflower.

“Mum,” Christian said, his voice quivering. “We’re sorry. We’re so sorry.”

Tears dropped onto her neck and rolled down to her collarbone. She looked into the face of Christian, and as his eyes began to glaze with water, she unravelled the cord of the lamp still in her hand, and dropped it on the floor. She opened her arms and embraced her twins as they whimpered quietly on each of her shoulders.

************************************

Christopher and Christian began to tell Hilda of the trouble they had been in, but Hilda warned them that she did not want to know. “What my heart doesn’t know, my heart heart can’t bleed,” she told them. So they complied, and sitting in the kitchen where they had once shared many family breakfasts, Christopher led the narration of what brought them to realise the error of their ways, what brought them to repentance, what brought them home.  

“It was crazy, like. Man dem were getting arrested, shot, stabbed – it was mad. And one of our guys, Joel – one day we were chilling at his yard, and some guys just surrounded his flat. Banging on the door asking for their money and me and Christian, we didn’t even know what was going on. Everything that we got – dough, food, girls, weed, everything – we shared with Joel.” Hilda winced, but continued to listen as Christopher retreated to another time and place outside of their small three-bedroom house in Sudbury. His eyes were vacant as he told their story. Hilda glanced at Christian. Even after all the hardship they had been through, Hilda marvelled at how they still looked indistinguishable to the unfamiliar eye. Christian stared out through the window, his eyes present, but cold and disengaged.

“We didn’t know that whilst me and Christian were out there hustling sharing our goods, Joel was thieving and shotting for some other guy and keeping it to himself. We were pissed. And the dudes outside his flat, Mum, I swear, they had knives and hammers and bats and everything, so we were shook -”

“I wasn’t scared,” Christian interrupted, suddenly alert. “I would have taken them man out one by one, even if it killed me. I wasn’t scared. You’re the pussy, not me.”

Hilda was shocked at Christian’s admission. Christopher brushed it off and continued.

“Anyway, it was mad. Joel went outside to speak to them, and swear down, we thought they would batter him there and then, but like, twenty minutes later, he came back in the flat just cool and everyone outside was gone. We had one big argument and Christian and I just left. A couple days later, Joel’s mum was ringing off our phones, telling us about how Joel’s been beat up and stabbed in the flat. He was dead.

“She was always nice to us, you know, Mum. Always cooking us food, letting us stay the night when we had nowhere to go. Always trying to speak to us about Jesus and that, but we weren’t trying to hear any of that, you know. But she was crying on the phone and she was telling us that she wanted to see us so we said cool. Well, Christian didn’t want to go, so I made him.

“And when we got there, she pulled us into her room, and she just started telling us about Joel’s baby mother and son. We didn’t even know Joel had a yout’. She was telling us that he was stupid, but he was trying to get more money for his family, he wanted to get out of the game, move to Milton Keynes or somewhere. And she told us about Joel’s dad, and how he had been stabbed to death too. We were just shocked. Then she started talking about you, Mum, started asking us about you. And then she started talking about Jesus again, but this time it was just like, maybe we should listen.

“And she brought us to her church. Everyone was nice, and she got her pastor to come pray with us. I gave my life to Christ straight away because for real, I don’t want to die yet. I want a family like Joel. I want to have my own place you know, Mum?”

“And you, Christian. What about you?” Hilda asked. Christian looked up at her slowly, and the disdainful glint in his eyes chilled her.

“That man was chatting shit.” Pushing out his seat, he stood up and flung open the door to leave the room. “It’s Christopher that’s into all that God stuff, not me. I just came back home with him because I wanted to make sure you were ok. Joel was a soldier. I don’t know why I got stuck with such a weak brother, man.”

Christian went upstairs to his room. Christopher’s hand reached out to meet Hilda’s, and he sat with her for what seemed like a lifetime, warding off tears and shaking his head in silence.  

************************************

PART THREE up soon.

Je t’embrasse, x

Part One

Thirtieth of December, 2011. Eleven twenty-eight

“Christian! Christopher!”

Hilda had been hopelessly shouting the names of her youngest sons intermittently for the past forty-five minutes. Decades ago, when she first came to London with her oldest son and daughter, Chiemelu and Mary, she would never have had to call her children’s names more than once, before they came bounding anxiously into whichever room from where her voice resounded. The quiet presence of her husband, their father, produced an unquestioning and consistent obedience from not just the children, but Hilda, herself. She had come to London bright-eyed, skin smooth from a young lifetime in Nigerian sun, and radiating naive optimism and ignorance. But in all her ignorance, Kenneth made her feel safe. Older than her by several years, he kept his promises to her of a home, sufficient money so she would not have to work, and children. And she often wondered if she had also made him promise never to leave her, maybe he would not have had that heart attack and left her so soon, after only seven years together.

And unknowing to her at the time, the grave that malevolently welcomed the body of her husband in December 1998, also stole all the respect and fear she had spent  years instilling in her children –  the attitude of reverence for parenthood and authority, culture and normality. Kenneth’s death had not only stolen his presence, his salary, his life, but had also pilfered her children’s sense of morality and affect. Hilda often knelt at her lonely bed at night, crying for God to forgive the trespasses of her ancestors. It was the only explanation she could find; she could not fathom what she could have possibly done that was so bad, to have rendered her deserved of being widowed at 32 and to have four malefic children that possessed a flagrant disregard for order and anything divine.

Chiemelu was the first to surrender to fecklessness. When Kenneth died, Hilda was forced to take on not one, but two jobs, as a cleaner for an office block in Waterloo late at night, and as a carer in a nursing home during the day. Her shift pattern meant that she was never at home when, at age thirteen, Chiemelu began inviting myriad girls in years nine and ten to the house at night. He began by bribing his sister Mary, then only eleven years old, to put the eight year old twins to bed, and then to retire herself, so that he would not be disturbed as he explored the body of the latest strange girl to lay naked on the living room settee. But when Mary herself turned thirteen, Chiemelu’s bribery was no longer required; together they connived to keep each others’ sexual visitors a secret from their gossiping little brothers and their gullible, aging mother.

By the time Hilda noticed her children’s descent into waywardness it was too late. After months of protesting her son’s innocence,  Hilda sat bemused in the pews of the courtroom, next to a pregnant Mary, as she saw for herself the smallish, timid, white boy, that 6’4” Chiemelu had insisted threatened to attack him in the depths of the night. As the boy gave his stuttered testimony of how Chiemelu Ukwu had approached him in an alleyway in Sudbury, demanded his mobile phone, and when refused, had taken out a pair of (what turned out to be) pliers from the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and had begun stabbing at his pink flesh relentlessly in the dark, Hilda sat immobilised by a cocktail of disgust, anger, and disbelief. Finally generating the courage to glance over at her son, and back at her daughter Mary beside her, she suddenly became aware of the identical stoic, listless expressions they both shared. Her son had nearly killed a boy half his size, and he did not even care. And her daughter was hardly interested.

When they got home that day, Hilda, a devout Christian, decided that despite her broken heart, she would continue her regimen of fasting and prayer for the release of her son. Friends and family called everyday that week for updates on the trial, and Hilda maintained Chiemelu’s innocence and mimicked the tone of the sighs and ‘Chineke me’s the well-wishers uttered down the phone line at appropriate intervals. She told them everything, but omitted the question that had plagued her mind since she saw the small boy testify: why had no one told her that her children had become demons and that she would suffer like this?

Chiemelu turned twenty years old whilst on remand, and on his first day of being twenty, he was convicted of grievous bodily harm, and sentenced to fifteen years in prison. His hollow eyes barely blinked as his sentence was announced. Instead he let out a loud sigh and muttered, “C’mon, man,” to hasten the guards to escort him from the courtroom. He never looked back to see his mother sat in the back, the only person in the room crying.

As soon as her boy was born, eighteen year old Mary moved out to live with her new boyfriend Bonez, the twenty-six year old who had agreed to take on her child as his own. Hilda was suspicious of his intentions, but the time when Mary listened to her mother’s advice had long since passed, so there was nothing Hilda could do or say to keep her at home. Hilda was left at home with the twin boys, Christian and Christopher, who, at fifteen years old, had already been exposed to too much.

They followed in the example of their brother, robbing people, starting numerous fights, and eventually got expelled from school. Hilda hardly ever knew their whereabouts, and their phones, which were always ringing on the rare occasions she saw them in the house, never seemed to receive her calls, texts or voicemails. After a while, her friends’ didactic husbands grew tired of lecturing the despondent pair, and resigned from any paternal duties.

“Hopeless,” they said. “Sochukwu ge nyere ha aka. Only God can help them now.”

And soon, even her friends deserted her, as she stubbornly refused to demand her sons move out of the family home. She pleaded with them to understand; these were her last two children left. If she kicked them out now she would be left with nothing, no one. But her friends saw how her troubled heart had prematurely aged her, and though she had given up the cleaning job years ago, they insisted that her body and mind were suffering more stress than necessary. Hilda was soon left to deal with the deterioration of her twins alone.

It was the night that she came home early from work for the first time in ten years, eager to make pepper soup and moin-moin for the boys (whenever they would next be home), that she had been forced to make a stand.

She heard rhythmic rumbling of furniture from Christopher’s room upstairs, and as she climbed the stairs to investigate, she prepared herself to meet Christopher naked in bed with Shantelle, his current girlfriend, who she had found sleeping naked in Christopher’s bed on a previous occasion. When she reached the landing, she crept slowly and silently to his door, the gasping and sucking noises emanating from the room growing louder with each step.

“Christopher, I love you, you know,” a girl’s voice said breathlessly.

Pressing down on the handle and hitting the door open swiftly, her heart fluttered as her eyes communicated what they saw to her brain.

“Christian?”

Christian stilled his bare hips, and looked up at his mother with contempt. He lay atop of Shantelle, who froze, unmoved by the fact that her boyfriend’s mother had now caught her naked in her house twice now, but horrified at the fact that her boyfriend’s identical twin brother could have tricked her into having sex with him.

Pushing him off her frantically, she grabbed her clothes and dressed haphazardly, swearing and cursing, wilfully ignoring the presence of Hilda. She pushed past Hilda standing in the doorway, and vowed to make Christian pay for his deception.

Hilda had stood unwavering for the six minutes it took Shantelle to get dressed and leave. Her eyes remained fixed on Christian, even as he reclined in his brother’s bed, limp manhood exposed, and nonchalantly rolled a cigarette with tobacco and Rizla he had retrieved from Christopher’s bedside drawer. Rage circulated through Hilda’s bloodstream, filling every element of her being, and she began to tremble. Words evaded her, and what she thought was sweat, but was in fact tears, fell heavy on to the laminate flooring.

Breaking the silence, Christian, his voice laced with spite, said, “See what you’ve done now?”

Before Hilda could spout any coherent insult in either English or Igbo, Christian got up from the bed, and walked naked to the door, brushing his bare skin against his mother’s shoulder as he ushered her out of his way.

“Look at me all you want,” he said with his back to her as he walked to his room across the hallway. “I didn’t trick her. I told Christopher I wanted her so he told me I could have her if I just pretend to be him. We do it all the time.”

He entered his room, slamming the door behind him.

Hilda stood for a few moments, staring at the rustled sheets on the bed. Hearing Christian on the phone in his room, she walked with composure downstairs to the kitchen, made a quick phone call and then separated four black bags from the roll.

Returning to Christopher’s room just as calmly as she had left, she began filling the bags with his possessions. And she didn’t stop until every personal artefact was buried in a sack. She didnt stop when she found used condoms yellowing under the bed. Nor did she stop when she discovered the clear plastic bag of marijuana stuffed inside a pillowcase. Everything she knew Christopher had purchased or used frequently, she dumped into the bag. Every pair of expensive trainers, every unused mobile phone, every roll of money held together by an elastic band. And when she was finished, she went to sit in her room, patiently waiting for Christian to leave the house. As she had predicted, she didn’t have to wait for long. She visited the kitchen once more, and silently cleared Christian’s room until the walls, shelves and wardrobes were bare. It took her a few minutes to transfer all eight packed black bags to the pavement outside the house. And moments later Mr Kingston arrived to change the locks on the front door.

Enough is enough, she thought, as Mr Kingston began drilling.

************************************

PART TWO up soon.

Je t’embrasse, x

Part One

Twenty-eighth of December 2011. One eleven.

Last week I eagerly awaited the delivery of the latest copy of The Economist, and even before I unwrapped its plastic covering, I was thrilled to find that this edition was thicker and weightier than usual. Inside, I found the annual article, ‘The World This Year’, in which The Economist lists some of the major events of the past twelve months. I have always enjoyed reading this article in previous years because it has served to be a poignant reminder of how much can happen in a year, and consequently, how much can be forgotten.

Below I’ve listed 40 things that happened in 2011. What else can you remember from 2011?

1. The Arab spring
2. Libya and the death of Muammar Gaddafi
3. The death of Osama bin Laden
4. The death of Troy Davis
5. The deaths of Heavy D, Amy Winehouse, Steve Jobs, Gil Scott-Heron, Elizabeth Taylor, Christopher Hitchens, Socrates, Joe Frazier, Kim Jong-il, Nate Dogg,
6. The Occupy movement
7. The Eurozone crisis
8. Crisis in the DR Congo & media blackout
9. The London riots
10. Jane Norman went into administration
11. The couple that won £101 million
12. The Dominique Strauss-Kahn saga
13. The end to the war in Iraq declared
14. The Norway bombing & shootings
15. The secession of South Sudan
16. The famine in the horn of Africa
17. Kweku Adoboli and the UBS trades
18. The fall of News of the World
19. The world population reached 7 billion
20. America’s credit rating downgrade
21. Japan’s 9.1 earthquake and tsunami
22. End of The Oprah Winfrey Show
23. The racist tram video
24. The birth of Victoria and David Beckham’s daughter
25. The Wikileaks saga with Julian Assange extradition decision upheld by courts
26. Amanda Knox conviction overturned
27. Dr Conrad Murray conviction for Michael Jackson’s death
28. Beyonce pregnancy announcement
29. Herman Cain’s beleaguered run for president
30. The Psychology Today article about black women by Dr Satoshi Kanazawa
31. Goodluck Jonathan elected President of Nigeria
32. Phone hacking investigation
33. The death of Mark Duggan
34. The birth of President Sarkozy & Carla Bruni’s baby
35. The revelation of Arnold Schwarznegger’s secret child
36. The David Starkey interview
37. The Royal Wedding and best bank holiday season ever!
38. Nobel Peace Prize awarded to  Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Leymah Gbowee and Tawakel Karman
39. Cote d’Ivoire President Laurent Gbagbo arrested
40. Public sector strikes in the UK

Je t’embrasse, x

I loved once and it was coloured red

It was fierce, and it was passionate

And it wasn’t going to listen to what anybody said to it.

It was fun and it was hopeful, but it burned me up so bad on the inside

And when I was out in public I had to mix it with some blue

So people would think I wasn’t that into it

So people would think that I was cool.

I loved once and it was a yellow type of love

A free type of love, dare I say, the purest type of love.

And it listened to me and it made me laugh

It sat back and it watched me in the moments when I wasn’t looking

And when I caught it, it turned its face shyly away

And because I didn’t put any red in it, it grew tired of me

So when it withdrew and guarded its brightness from me, I decided I didn’t really love it anyway.

I thought my love was blue once

A cool, laidback, sky light kind of blue.

It was decisive, it was purposeful and it was a self-sacrificial kind of blue.

But it was confused.

It was, by nature, strong and bold and had the potential to be the greatest kind of love of them all

But it was a fearful and unstable shade of love, so I mixed in some white

Because I thought it would soften it and make it last longer.

But I mixed in too much and it forgot who it was.

So now I love in multicolour

A pretty, assorted, emotional kind of kaleidoscope

And my love is confident, and jealous, and possessive, and red.

And it’s daring, and insecure and overwhelming and blue.

It’s yellow: patient, thoughtful and distant, but loyal

It’s all kinds of fuscias, and oranges, teals, violets and torquoise

And it’s mauve, magenta and it’s deep coloured midnight.

I’m learning to love in every hue, every shade and every tint.

I’m learning to love loving all of it.

The Day I Quit My Job