When vengeance isn't so sweet...

"Holding onto something" was another prompt author Nancy Peacock assigned in our writing class. The following is what I came out with.

The news of the accident hit Antah like lightening, except that she was still standing on her two feet and he wasn't. So why wasn't she overjoyed, or perhaps, just a bit happy?

This moment was forcing her to reevaluate her life. In her mind, it had been normal - a childhood full of joyous incessant banter with her siblings, an excellent education, a great marriage, a pair of loving children, and a house in the suburbs - safe for those moments when she felt rage crawling up her throat and her neck muscles tightening up, shooting pain into her jaws and temples, then to her head. She felt the pain again.

So yes, she should be elated to hear that he'd been beheaded in that early morning accident, but she wasn't. Instead she was sobbing uncontrollably. All her life, he'd remained near, in her mind. She cursed him day in and day out, wished him the worst things imaginable and there it was. It happened, a violent, painful death so why was she just sitting there, unable to jump to her feet and begin dancing?

Her fingers crawled for her cell phone on the small computer desk she occupied in the corner office. She dialed a number, the one to the only person she'd ever come close to confiding into.

"Summer, do you remember years ago when you told me about the priest who molested you?" Summer began to say something, so she rushed her words to drown the voice on the other line. She feared hearing something that would stop her momentum and keep this secret entombed within her. "Well, that day, I wanted to tell you that weren't alone but I couldn't. I was ashamed."
"Why, Babe?"
"Well, I, too, was molested. One of my dad's friends...I just got a call. He's dead, and I can't stop crying. Why, Summer? Why?"
"You tell me. Why do you think you're crying?"
"I don't know, Alice." She lamented. Her forearm slid across her eyes. When she thought she had her tears under control, two fresh streams began coursing down along her nose. Their salty sting in the corners of her mouth made her quiver momentarily. "I'm 45. I spent all my life, raging inside. Didn't even notice it until my dentist told me that I grind my teeth in my sleep and I realized that I grind them alright, but with my eyes wide open, every time I think of this man, his hands in places I didn't want them. I thought if he died I would...."
"be celebrating?"
"Yes, celebrating," Antah murmured. "I felt dirty but I went back and back again...Now he's dead."
"Shush! Antah. Listen. The shame is his, not yours. He's met his maker - and that too isn't your fault. You, Antah, now need to accept that you did nothing wrong. You were just a child. You need to travel to that place within you and root out that shame. It's not yours."

Abandoned...Not!

Abandoned, like thousands of blogs every day. No, this one wasn't and is not. See, professional life has tightened its dizzying choke hold around my days, squeezing itself in every spare minute that seems to open up. In the evening, it delivers me to an even mightier choke hold, parenthood, this one even more enslaving but fortunately rewarding.
Abandoned, not. The tale of the lives of millions of African women need not be abandoned by the ones of us who had the privilege to learn to read and take pencil to lay words on paper.
It is my humble mission to be their voice. So, no I won't abandon this blog. Regardless of the dizzying pace of western life, I will make time to use that voice.
So please, visit often and be amazed by the lives of these courageous women.

Letter to my son...(THE TALK sec. Part)

April 2, 2012

Dear Mohamed,

We spoke about this the other day when you came home. I wanted you to have my words in writing too because of the timely importance of this subject.

Son, this conversation should have taken place a long time ago when you stepped out of the cuteness of childhood to become the fine young man you are. It’s never too late to save a life.

This is not to disclaim anything your dad and I taught you to-date. America is still a wonderful country where you can achieve anything if you put your mind to it. The world is still a place full of wonderful people. But son, for some you have reached the age when a black man is often unfairly perceived or suspected to be threatening or dangerous.

Don’t just rely on your clean cut appearance, your pants sitting at your waist right where they belong, and the limpid, proper words streaming out of your well-mannered lips to blind them from the only thing you’ll always be in their eyes – a black man – never good enough for their daughters, their neighborhoods or the position you’ll someday ascend to through sheer hard work that demands of you more than it will ever demand of others.

It may be a little while more before prejudiced minds cease to judge you based on the color of your skin, the hoodie on your head and the white sneakers on your feet.

Until then, baby, watch your steps, mind your tongue and be aware of your surroundings.

Love,

Mommy

The TALK

Two weeks ago one of my student soldiers told me that a black teenager carrying only a packet of Skittles his hand had been shot dead by a white male who thought he was suspicious.

Right there, I told the young man the following:

“If you look closer, you’ll find that this adolescent is from a middle class family. It wouldn’t even dawn on him that he was doing something wrong walking in his own neighborhood. A lower class black kid knows better and wouldn’t do that, unless he’s up to no good.”

I suddenly felt a punch in the gut. The naïve kid I was talking about represented my own sons, and also the soldier in front of me. He was born and raised in the US from African parents, academics. Just like this soldier at some point in his life and most middle and upper class black boys throughout the country, my sons are growing up, moving comfortably in their environment and interacting with their friends and neighbors, oblivious of yet another insidious danger to their well-being.

I felt guilty. Throughout their lives, my children have heard their father and I parrot motivational speeches to success, blistering criticisms – of course laced with love – and veiled warnings about lurking predators. “Never play at Johnny’s house when he’s not there,” I’d often say when I really meant “beware of Johnny’s dad, even if he’s Johnny’s dad. Who knows if he is a dirty mind?” But I didn’t realize that our children and us, never had what a black mother on NPR today called “The Talk,” a conversation African-American parents have been having with their sons since way back, to warn them of the dangers of being black men in America.

 

Like this soldier’s parents, having been born and raised elsewhere in the world made me either oblivious or dismissive of certain undeniable realities. I was going to have the talk with my sons, to begin with, with my seventeen year old, exactly Trayvon Martin’s age. I decided to handwrite him a letter first, in case I trip over my word during the conversation and lose some of the crucial words streaming through my brain right this moment. 

Read letter next...

How To Get Rid Off GOOGLE CHROME

Allow me to address a subject that has nothing to do with Life in Africa for a moment. This can help save you precious time.

I spent a couple hours yesterday trying to get rid of Chrome. I love Chrome but for a reason irrelevant to my post, I had to momentarily uninstall it. If you ever have to, know that the usual Start Menu ~ Control Panel ~ Add and Remove Program does not work and doing so can throw your computer out of wack.

There are many suggestions online but most are either too complicated or simply won't work. Here is what worked for me easy and simple. Just make sure that toward the end of the process when you're entering the command for Windows XP or Vista that USERPROFILE OR LOCALAPPDATA is in lower case. 

I hope it helps you too.

Children belong to the father...or do they? Part 4

"Hey people, can you see that I stuck my finger in my own eye the day I pulled this bright girl from school and gave her in marriage?" Sirima snarled as he pointed to his daughter.
"Sirima, your blood pressure. Please, calm down," one of his wives advised.
"Sirima, God recompenses each one of us for our deeds. You did a good thing," Madinah said. "Marriage is a woman's dignity and you did what any good father would --."
"Nonsense," Sirima interrupted her. "The girl was smarter than all the boys in her classroom. Maybe all girls are not meant for smoky kitchen. Don't you all go to the maternity ward? Who is the nurse practitioner there? I thought it was a woman, hum? Maybe I should have listened to Hawah's teachers not you people. My daughter would be a nurse today, with everybody respectfully calling her Madame."
"Sirima, God has a different plan for everyone."
"Madinah, don't add to my pain. You people always invoke God to excuse your failures. You all got me into this."
"Okay, but there is no reason to despair. Let's send a delegation to Tandja. I'll join it so we can apologize to Tandja for Hawah's shortcomings and she will reenter her marriage," Madinah offered.
"No way. She is not going. Not back to a marriage to that halfwit. I was the one who disregarded talks about their son's mental unfitness. Look how they pay me back. My daughter is going nowhere."
On that, Sirima rose from his seat and stormed out of the room.

Children belong to the father...or do they? Part 3

Hawah began reading.


"Dear Sirima,


I pray that this letter finds your family and you in peace. I wanted to bring to your attention the event that took place here in my home. It is about Hawah and Manda's marriage.


It has been nine years since we brought the kola nuts and since Hawah has been here. After all of that time, she hasn't been able to assimilate into our family. According to Bakaro, none of the other women in the house can claim her as a friend. When it comes to Bakaro herself, she has been abused all that time by Hawah, day in, day out through that time. If it weren't for the kindness of our three other daughters-in-law, she would have died of chagrin a long time ago.


Now, Manda, my poor son. There is no husband and wife relationship between him and Hawah in the bedroom. I won't go beyond that except to say that Sedi being the only child they've had all this time is proof, if you need it.


My in-law, before I continue, know that my respect goes out to you. At this time however I regret to have to say that we're returning your daughter to you. She is released from the binds of matrimony we had placed on her. 


God's will is our will, and yours.


Sincerely, 


Djegui Tandja."

Each word drifting off Hawah's lips dissociated her further from the person on the yellowed notebook paper she held between her fingers. For a minute, it felt as if she was reading for one of the many neighbors who routinely enlisted her help when they received a letter. She looked at the words again. This couldn't be her they were talking about but she had no power against accusing in-laws, she thought. She took a deep breath, exhaled and clinched her jaws, readying herself for her father. Slowly she raised her head, blinking repeatedly to push away the tension in her temples.

Children belong to the father...or do they? Part 2

Before sundown that day, the dust-covered minivan carrying Hawah pulled into a swarming auto station in the town of Kani, toward the northern edge of Cote d'Ivoire. She climbed down and hung her luggage straps to her shoulder. It was a single satchel containing all she now owned in this world, two sets of clean clothes, an additional pair of shoes, her national identity card and a CFA 500 francs bill safely tucked in the folds of a weathered clutch. In the clutch, she also carried a folded envelop, a letter from her in-laws - ex in-laws - to her parents.

She walked the three mile distance to her parents' home where her unexpected arrival sparked a joyous clamor quickly followed by concerns. She showered, ate and remained in the room she once shared with her sisters. It now served as a storage and occasional guests room. Right after sunset prayer her father sent for her. She reached for the letter in her clutch and inserted it into her bras. 

Outside, a small assembly had already formed. Her mother and her sister wife - her father's other wife - sat side by side, a similarly afflicted demeanor on both their faces. Beside them, Madinah, one of Hawah's aunts mouthed a greeting and invited her to the stool near hers. Her paternal uncle was present along with another man from the community. 

"I invited you people here today as family and also as witnesses because I think something grave has happened," Sirima, Hawah's father began. 

"May God protect us," his brother replied. 

"Ameen!"

"Hawah has arrived here earlier today. I haven't heard from our in-laws ahead of time and none of us has called for her. So something is going on." Sirima paused and turning to his daughter, he asked, "Hawah, did they commission you with a message?"

"Yes," Hawah mouthed. Slowly, she reached for her camisole and pulled the envelop out.

"You are the literate one, so read it!" her uncle said.  

Hawah's arm folded reluctantly back toward her. Her trembling fingers fumbled and scrunched the paper until it finally opened. She cleared her throat, planted her elbows into her lap to gain control over her tremors, then she began. 

Children belong to the father...or do they?

Note: The following is a short story I'll deliver in a couple of short posts. It needs no special foreword only that I'm interested in your comments and your opinion on who children belong to should it come to picking one parent over the other. How is this matter decided in your culture? Stay tuned!

"I'm prepared to leave but I need my son," Hawah murmured.
"Who? Your son? Sedi is going nowhere," Bakoro, her mother-in-law cried out.
"But I can't leave him behind."
"Oh, you sure will. You're being divorced. Sedi is staying with his family."
"But I'm his mother, Bakoro."
"My son is his father." Bakaro's words fell, blunt like the open palm she raised and dropped down like a hatchet.
Hawah's eyes puddled with tears. From the wooden stool she crouched on, she had a profile view of her husband, Manda, languid as always. Never spoken up for himself since she'd known him. He sat there without a word even at his own divorce hearing. He was the epitome of the submissive child, now submissive man. He grew up in his parents shadow, especially his mother's. He toed the line even when she blinked. She decided what he needed and obeyed. He was debilitated by his self abandon to her that most people thought he was mentally handicapped. So when his parents found him a wife, he went along. Hawah showed up, tall, light skinned with a finely sculpted facial structure, freshly pull out of school by parents who believed that the dignity of a woman was in marriage. He was so intimidated that he always acted clumsily with her but somehow he managed to have a son by her, throwing one more being under Bakoro's rule. His hunched back remained of stone as his mother ranted on.
"My grandson isn't budging. Did you bring a child with you when you came?"
"Bakaro, please, calm down." The man who spoke was one of three elders who came to settle the divorce. They shared the divan with Hawah's uncle. Across from them, sitting beside his father on a bench, Manda still gawked at the ground beneath his feet. "Ndeh, my daughter, everything has an end but Almighty God's reign. It is the conclusion of this assembly that it is the end of your marriage to Manda. You'll have to return to your parents' house. The boy will stay here," the man added, caressing his short salt-and-pepper beard. His words were calm and serious.
"Eh, Bah, please beg them not to do this to me," Hawah wailed.
"Ndeh, children belong to their father. That's our custom," he said - his voice slightly cracking in the face of her pain.
Hawah slid to the ground. She moaned the sound of a wounded soul. Her pleading eyes ran to Bakaro sitting by the living room exit. This woman she had cooked and cleaned for day and night sat, lips curved in despise. Beyond her, she could see other women in the midst of their usual conjectures by the well outside in the courtyard. Her world was crumbling around her. She crawled toward her mother-in-law.
"Ndeh, there is no point in this. God's will is greater. You need to accept it," another one of the elders said. "Get ready, a taxi will transport you to the bus station."

Strength

Being strong is having one's feet firmly planted in the soil beneath us, our values, mores and customs. Hence, the sky becomes the limit.

AT THE OTHER END OF THE STREET

The above was the prompt in our class a few weeks ago. My piece went like this:

At the end of the street was a narrow alleyway. We were not allowed there as children. Most adults didn't go there and none wanted to be seen in the vicinities. Some did venture behind the formerly white cement wall now rendered ochre by the flying dust from the unpaved road nearby.

They were men. Oftentimes, they went there at night but sometimes they did in bright daylight. They all acted the same way. They'd appear to wander past the compound, with no mind to the dusty walls and what bellies behind it. But you could always tell by the way they casted furtive glances to their surroundings. Then they'd suddenly turn into the gateless courtyard through a small entrance.

I knew it. I saw them. Like most children I watched the comings and goings of those men and I giggled. My mom hated them. She said that they needed to learn to control their pants. I wasn't sure what she meant but I think I knew. The mini skirts behind the mysterious dusty wall were telling.

Male Ear Piercing in Africa

A woman without ear piercing doesn't exist in my culture. Perhaps I need to be less categorical. Members of my ethnic group, the Soninke, have spread to far reaching corners of the world. I have cousins in Szechuan China, Sydney Australia and God knows where. I heard of a relative in Norway. I wonder how he survives; our roots are in the sweltering Sahel Desert and it's hard enough for me to survive the "play-winter" in North Carolina.

Back to our subject, ear piercing is a must for women in my culture. By their seventh day of life, every little girl takes a trip to the mean lady who runs needles through their fleshy lobes  and the ones of rare little boys too.

So yes, I lied to fend off repeated request from one of my sons. I told him piercings are forbidden for boys in our culture. He knows the truth now and understands it. Boys' piercings have special meanings and are generally a single hole to one ear. They do not wear a ring in it.

The only pierced man in my family was my father's oldest brother. Sometime during early childhood, he was said to have been struck by a deadly disease. His ear was pierced as a ritual to cast maleficent spirits away. He lived well into his eighties sporting a pierced right lobe envied by the males in our family's younger generations.

Male piercing for most ethnic groups in West Africa is a sort of talisman performed only in critical situations to avert evil and sometimes to attract good fortune. It's never for looks!!!

On The Other Side

On the other side was my writing prompt from yesterday. I had arrived late to class and had no option but to write something brief and hopefully make sense. Here is what my pen laid on paper.


ON THE OTHER SIDE, freedom. She was married off at age thirteen. Her first baby showed up sixteen months later. Not even forty days after that, he tore through her and laid his seeds; two this time. Nine months later, twin boys arrived. She didn't love them, neither did she love the daughter before them, all fruits of his loins.

For seven painfull years, she squirmed under his sweaty body every night. Early on, she'd learned to retrieve behind the curtains of her mind from the first thrust up her belly. She would go the market, cook and clean, all in her head to forget his panting visage over hers. For her, he had remained a stranger, a stranger her parents had shacked her to, till death and death was were she was headed, for freedom on the other side.

The Boss

The Boss was a prompt I was given in one of my writing classes. Here is what I came up with.

He's not the boss of me. He thinks he is. Parading his beer belly in the usual overstretched Saharan shirt, the buttons of which threatened to fly off with every chuckle, he patted a space beside him on the sofa.
"Sit down," he said. His breathing menaced to choke him.
He had money from here to Monaco and back, and two beautiful wives at home but still chased after countless young women like me. I know it but I don't care.
God has created only one of my dad's kind of men. The rest is an ignominious bunch of pigs. The neighbor who tucked his hand under my pretty flowered shirt when I was five, maybe six.
My uncle who once tried to wrestle me to his bed when I was just giving him a peck on the cheek. What about my father's own friend who lured us to his house when his berry trees bent under the weigh of their ripened fruits. And oh, my fourth grade teacher who touched my nascent breasts. They all must pay.

DUST TO DUST

I walked into my writting class a couple of Mondays ago where my instructor handed out the following prompt: Legitimate Praise
When I put pen to paper, I instantly free fell into the pain I felt for a long time after my father's passing. Needless to say, I never got to the "praise" part of the assignment but here is what I penned that day.

Just fresh dirt, a mound of dark red, pebble riddled dirt. Underneath my father. No headstone, not flowers, nothing. There he was shrouded from my eyes forever. My father, the man who unknowingly gave me the best gift in the world. He gave me the the gift of education, in a culture where the white men's school was taboo, the way straight to hell even for a male child, left alone a girl.

I wanted to be here. My mothers had attempted to dissuade me.
"Women don't got to grave sites," they said.
"I'm going," I responded. It was the first time I had ever raised my voice to them. They took notice.
"Well, then wear a pair of pants under your Jelbab. The deads should not see under your clothes when you step over their graves."

This is where the timer stopped the fifteen minute prompt writing. It was painful for me and still is, as I'm copying my work to this post. Too painful to edit, too painful to finish. I will someday but for now here it is. To a father who was really one...

OSUSU, A Traditional Way Of Saving In Africa

Growing up, I knew it as tontine - the adapted french word or parri  a local word for this age old practice on the African continent. A friend told me it  was called Osusu in Nigeria. I immediately liked how the word sounded, hence the title of this post.

For generations, women in Africa have assembled in clubs - small or large - once a week, once every two weeks or once a month. It's an opportunity to socialize over good food and music, more importantly to collect contributions for members.

The contribution amounts are set and equal for everyone. They are generally nominal - 500, 1000, 2000 CFA - amounts reflecting the financial means of the women in the club, roughly 1 to 4 US dollars. They can be much substantial for women of more capable means. Some clubs collect wax print fabric instead. All the collection for one meeting is remitted to the person in line on a predetermined order tracked by the administrator and president.

Parri, as I've known it since childhoold, is a traditional mean of saving for African women. Women use the monies or fabrics collected to begin businesses, clothe their children and themselves, and save for the future of their families. Nowadays, the system has expanded to include some men clubs and has developped in big business in many African countries.

If you have knowledge of such associations in other countries, I'd like to hear from you. Please, share they appelation you have for it and how it works. Our world is amazing. It's always a joy to hear about the way other cultures live their daily lives.

I'm BACK!!!!

Dear readers,

I had to pull back and consecrate more time to finishing my first novel. It's done! SAFFRON HAPPY is completed. I'm delighted to share a summary of it with you. It goes as follows:

When his motorbike repair shop shuts down, a husband takes the controversial decision to join his wife at her roadside doughnut stand from which she was financially supporting the family for months. Illiterates and a minority in a mostly polygamous society, this one husband and one wife team maneuver their way through rigid social norms, interesting interpersonal relations and the desire to provide their children with opportunities they themselves never had. My novel is set in the Ivory Coast and takes the reader on a journey through the joys and tribulations of daily lives, cultural beliefs and practices, and family dynamics common to many countries in West Africa.

I look forward to have it published and share the exciting story with all of you.

Thank you for your support!

The African Head Wrap

The head wrap - with it's varying colors and shapes - often times is an essential clothing item that inject a zing in an African woman's accoutrement. However, it is more than just another garment in most countries in Africa. In Muslim areas, it is a requirement for all females, young or old, in addition to or in lieu of the flowing scarf head cover.

Moreover, just like the red dot sported by women in India and a couple other East Asian countries, the scarf is sign of marital status. Women in several west African countries are required to wear a head wrap at all times -except in their own room or within the familial house - once they get married. Still widely respected, this practice nevertheless is being less and less observed by the younger generations. A great number of women sport head wraps not because of the cultural or religious requirement but simply as a fashion statement. They come up with creative ways to tie exceptionally gorgeous fabric pieces into amazing head gears.

Link to head wrap images below

http://www.google.com/images?rlz=1T4ADSA_enUS367US367&q=african+head+wrap&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&sa=X&ei=9PF4TbPrGvOD0QGY-fzLAw&ved=0CD4QsAQ&biw=1259&bih=576  

The Debate About Makeup For Tweens

When the news broke about Geogirl, a new Walmart makeup line for girls eight to twelve years of age, beyond the heated debate about the appropriateness of cosmetics at an age range considered young by most, I was thrusted into my past as a young girl growing up in Africa.

Most African babies' experience with makeup begins when they are just a few days old. Mothers will bathed their babies and regardless of their gender, they would line their bottom eyelids with hand mashed kohl liner. The practice will go on until the baby starts walking. For baby boys, generally that is the end of it but for girls, persistent mothers will continue embellishing their eyes on a daily basis. For the wide majority of mothers, the practice will become only occasional.

The girls will be re-introduced to eyeliners and even subtle lipstick for some, right around twelve or thirteen. For most of them in today's date, this is a rehearsal for their life as women. In more traditional communities, mothers train their daughter to make themselves up to attract the attention of prospective husbands.

Makeup for young girls is not considered outrageous for tweens in Africa unless it is shockingly colorful. Traditional African makeup is characterised by its subtlety.

Naming a baby in Africa is serious business in Africa

Every African has a meaning or a significance attached to his or her name. First names may be assigned based on family lineage, day of the week when baby is born, order of birth, religious reasons or circumstances of birth. This is not an exhaustive list as the meaning and significance of assigning a certain name to one's baby may be entirely based on parents' subjective circumstances.

In almost all African families, there will be children named after grandparents. Grandma and grandpa on both sides expect this gesture from their children to the point it sometimes becomes a source of contention between in-laws. It's also exerts unwanted pressure on a young couple who had other name choices in mind for their future baby.

Some babies are name after their day of birth. For instance, a female baby born on Friday could be named Djouma by a Bambara family. The Bambaras may also call the first baby Somah if it's a boy. In the Akan tribe in Ivory Coast, Amah is the name for a baby girl born on Saturday, Ndah is for the male twin and Ndablah for the female twin.

Circumstances of birth give ample room for creativity in name assignment but even then, no name is assigned frivolously. My own father was name Banta for his resilience. My grandmother carried his pregnancy under both physical and emotional difficulties. My paternal grandfather was called Houne - twin in Soninke language. Saney is for a female born on a starry night.

Some names are meant to be premonitory. Woody is a baby boy of the Bete ethnic group of Ivory Coast that one wishes to be manly, virile, as he grows, Sanou (gold) for a girl one wishes to glow in life, Fanga (power) for a Bambara boy one would like to become a leader some day.

Most African do not have middle names but when assigned, middle names have for purpose to indicate one's religious affiliation or beliefs. A Christian or muslim name will denote the parents adherence to Islam or Christianity. Similarly, animist parents may assign names to reflect their beliefs in the supernatural and animist deities.

There is always a story behind an african's name. The next time you meet one, ask him or her about the meaning or significance of their name. It more than likely won't be that their parents just loved that name.