Did You Know Books by Malaka are Available for Delivery All Over Africa?

Ho, ho, ho, Friends!

The rainy season is here (unless you’re in South Africa, where it’s summer) and the season of ChrisKwaHannuFestivus is upon us!

Formerly known as ChrismaKwanzaHannukah, ChrisKwaHannuFestivus is a celebration for those of us who do not discriminate against any of the holidays that traditionally take over the month of December.  It is celebrated by those who enjoy a good bean pie as they take their turn spinning a dreidel with a rousing rendition of ‘Oh Holy Night’ in the backdrop. ‘Festivus’ has been added to the amalgamation in recognition of those people who have no religious allegiances  and have identified themselves as ‘The Rest of Us’.

Whatever the case may be, it’s the season of giving. And what better gift to give than a good book?

For those of us who live in the Western world, online purchasing is our new normal. And when it comes to buying hard copy books, few of us visit the old brick and mortar stores where our beloved tomes were once house. For one thing, so few of them are still in operation. Remember when Borders closed it doors as did your whimsical, independent book store? Remember the pain you felt when they were converted into a Jett’s Pizza cum pet grooming store? Of course you do. It was devastating! Fortunately, Amazon and BN.com were there to pick up the slack (or in some markets, were the direct cause of it). All of a sudden and for a small fee, you could browse for your books online and either have them delivered to your Kindle or to your doorstep.

The era of self-publishing and direct marketing to your readership was officially on! As an author based in the US, this was a great shift for me. However as an author who primarily writes for an African audience, I was perplexed. Where was the consideration for non-Diaspora African markets? There was very little, if any. Geography-based price gauging is the norm for a number of e-merchant sites, and shipping costs from the US to the continent have given many of my readers pause before making a purchasing commitment. This has grieved me… grieved me profoundly, I say! All this pleasure denied because of discrimination and stereotypes, I say!

Enter StoreFoundry. They have soothed what has been a nagging itch and thorn in my side.

Are you in Kumasi? Takoradi? Johannesburg? Addis Ababa? Lagos?!?! Are you one of the numerous people who have asked when my books will be available at your bookstore and have been disappointed when I report back that your local retail store will only stock white writers, Christian books or crayons? Suffer no more! Now you too have the power of point, click and purchase with delivery to your door with StoreFoundry. Yes, you heard me right: you don’t HAVE to have Books by Malaka delivered exclusively on your e-reader. You now have options.

*Throws confetti*

E-published books are great, but sometimes you just need that connection with paper and ink. Besides, ‘Sally and the Butterfly’ isn’t on an e-format because it’s a pick your own path book. (Did I mention that ‘Sally and the Butterfly’ is  Ghana’s first pick your own path book for kids? Because that’s important to someone besides me; I’m sure of it.)

Why are you still reading this? What are you waiting for? You should be browsing! Click, click and share HERE!  And while you’re on StoreFoundry, check out the beauty section. It has all your new favorite beauty brands for 2016 and beyond. :)

Ho, ho, ho click and go!



How the POTUS’ Pop Off Remix Landed Me on a Cold Tin Roof

music-for-babies-226x300We are introduced to the power of music from our infancy, cautioned about it in our religious lives, rendered mesmerized by its power in our private moments. “Scientists” have long convinced expecting mothers that by exposing their babies to classical music from Back and Brahms, they will exponentially increase the intelligence of that child. Pastors have warned many a congregation about the type of music they allow to penetrate their psyche.

“Your ears are a gateway to your soul!” they spit.

And of course, anyone who has spent a week fed on a steady diet of R&B (the old school sort, not this dishwater they are peddling today) knows the draw and power of baby-making music.

Yes indeed! Given the right circumstances, music has the ability to exert a certain kind of influence on any living soul. I ascribe to the notion that it’s important to discern what genre of music you submit yourself to; and if I had stayed true to my own convictions, I never would have ended up on my neighbor’s roof and breaking into her house.

A few days ago, VSB published an article recounting President Obama’s use of the term “pop off” during a press conference about his cabinet’s proposed response to the ISIS attacks on Paris last week. They coined it “the Blackest thing that happened this week.” The incident gave birth to one of the greatest moments in pop culture and Black internet history. Within hours, a POTUS Press conference playlist had been compiled featuring every crunk anthem that’s ever been the cause of street brawls, bar fights and Springer showdowns. And THEN, JX Cannon upped the ante and crafted this… Well, I don’t know what this is. For once, I’m at a loss for words and am not quite sure how to describe this piece of auditory magic.

All I know is that the POTUS Pop Off crunk remix had an immediate effect on me and I was ready to face my day with spurs on!

Here’s the thing about crunk (and trap and all related genres): It will have you convinced you are darn near invincible. I am a 37 year old, 225 lbs woman. I am the antithesis of “invincible”. And yet when L’il Jon interrogates humanity with rhetorical questions like “Turn down for what?!?” I find myself wondering the same thing. What, in fact, am I turning down for?

It was in this spirit that I approached my neighbor, Ms. Phoebe* on Tuesday morning. Ms. Phoebe is my 60-something year old Jamaican neighbor I’ve mentioned in the past. We trade favors for one another, as good neighbors are wont to do. On this occasion, she was standing outside with her Chihuahua looking quite perplexed. Marshall and I reached her at almost the same moment.

“Ahhh, I locked myself out of my house again,” she groaned. “I don’know what I’m gonna do…”

The wheels in Marshall’s head were turning but to no avail. He admitted he had no solution either.

“Can you open the door with a credit card?” Ms. Phoebe asked hopefully. “The last time I did this, a friend was able to do so fuh me.”

“No. I don’t know how to do that,” my husband admitted.

I snorted, disgusted by the spirit of defeat that had enveloped the pair. This was NO problem at all! I knew exactly how to get Ms. Phoebe back into her house!

“I see your bedroom window is open just a crack. I can get up on the roof, crawl through and let you in.”

Ms. Phoebe looked at me in surprise…and a good bit of concern.

“Oh, but you’re so well dressed. I don’wan yuh to get all dutty…”

I waved away her disquiet with my confidence. “It’s just jeggings. Marshall, retrieve the ladder! I have climbing to do!”

Knowing better than to argue, Marshall did as he was bid and got the ladder. I skipped over to Ms. Phoebe’s house and eyed the distance I was to eventually scale. Doubt overtook me, but just for a moment. Recalling the magical melody from the POTUS Pop Off mix I felt recharged, instantly.

Pop off, pop off, pop-pop-pop pop off…

As it turned out, the ladder was too short. We’d need another solution.

“I’ll have to climb on top of my car to get up there,” I announced.

Ms. Phoebe began to call on Jesus and the saints for my protection. I appreciated her prayers, but at that moment I didn’t quite need them. I was fueled on a presidential crunk/trap mix. Adrenalin was coursing through my veins!

Pop off, pop off, pop-pop-pop pop off…

Now that I was safely on the top of her garage, I gingerly made my way across the flimsy tin sheeting to her window. I was confronted by a glass pane that wasn’t securely set in place. Every time I slid it up, it came sliding back down. I imagined myself being impaled by the dusty glass in an attempt to shimmy through the 2’ high opening. I heard Ms. Phoebe bark her encouragement from below.

“Girl, jus’ break that sh*t if yuh need to!”

Pop off, pop of, pop-pop-pop pop off…

No need for that. I found a few pieces of wood on the roof, propped the window open, knocked over a side table and a fan on my way in, and made way down the stairs. Ms. Phoebe was overjoyed when I turned the knob and let her in. She thanked me profusely, and I told her not to mention it. This is the same woman who gave me a bottle of homemade pepper sauce not three days before. How could I NOT climb her roof and reunite her with her belongings?

Now, this is the part where you point out that we could have easily contacted one of the 12 locksmiths that work and operate in the Roswell area. And yes, you are right to note this. But in my defense, I was under the influence of crunk and cannot be held responsible for my irresponsible actions! Un-crunk Malaka would have done just as you suggested: Called the locksmith on my phone, waited for him/her to arrive with my neighbor, offered her words of encouragement and assured her she was not “stupid” for locking herself out.

But these aren’t the decisions one makes when you’ve got Pop off, pop of, pop-pop-pop pop off… on repeat in your head. Turn up ALWAYS wins.



A Few Words About Incompetence and John Dramani Mahama

I know, I know! I promised in the Spring that I would not discuss Ghana politics, particularly since a sizable chunk of the MOM Squad is not Ghanaian. You guys have to give me a pass on this one. I beg you. This is an issue that has been burning on my heart for the last 48 hours. I can’t let it go, which leads me to believe President Mahama has bewitched me with some sort of incantation resulting in a mental wounding. Only the poultice of talking this thing through will provide me with the relief I need. I’m so glad you guys are here for me!

The faults of John Mahama and his administration are many. The nation is reeling, buckling under the weight of a Mahama led administration’s ineptitude. Education standards and results have seen sharp decline; homelessness is at an all-time high; violent and fatal home invasions have seen an uptick; civil liberties have been trampled on and access to healthcare is in constant jeopardy due to sporadic (yet predictable) strikes from disgruntled healthcare professionals. But we have malls. Yes… Malls filled with items the everyday citizens can’t afford to shop in because wages are low and unemployment is high. In the face of all these harsh realities – realities that the Mahama-led NDC was elected (and promised) to fix – JDM has taken exception with being labelled “incompetent”. Here’s what he said to his supporters at a rally at Trade Fair on Monday:

“Did you hear Bawumia say incompetent Mahama? You’ve never held any responsibility anywhere near the presidency before; you don’t know what it is like to be President. I’ll take that word from Kufuor or from Rawlings because they’ve been there before. All of you guys [NPP critics] have never ever come near the presidency. [Do] you know what it takes to be a President? And you stand and say incompetent Mahama administration!”

What the…what?!?

This is a man with a degree. This is a thinking man; there is no doubt about that. He didn’t get to where he is because he’s unable to think (or manipulate). He’s published, and anyone who has the tenacity and persistence to pen a book earns kudos from me for that feat at least. Plus, he’s no fool. No one can deny that JDM is a master communicator and knows exactly how to touch you in your gut with his inflection. But as all writers and thinkers know, you will ultimately be judged by the tangible impact of your words, thoughts and deeds…just like anyone else in any other profession, particularly if the strength of your job performance directly affects the ability of 26 million other people to do theirs. And in this regard, President Mahama has indeed shown himself to be “incompetent”.

The president is no fool, so why does he persist in saying foolish things? He says members of the opposition are not qualified to label him, since they have never performed duties in the office of the president. Naturally, he was roasted severely on social media for this. One doesn’t need to have worked in a particular field to be able to judge the outcomes of services rendered by a “professional” in that field.

What kind of logic is this? Has he mistaken his post as a democratically elected leader for some bearskin-wearing medieval overlord? Does the president of Ghana think that the people he serves are actually this stupid, that the population is too dumb to assess how he is “changing their lives” for themselves? Yes…that must be it. For instance, when it comes to Ghana’s most pressing issue – the power crisis – John Mahama has on several occasions expressed his contempt for the Ghanaian proletariat, merchant class and the bourgeoisie with utterances like “smart businesses are not laying people off” and the myriad promises to never promise to promise to give a date for the end of dumsor; only that it will end soonish. His recent attempt to cast himself as an artist, a political Michelangelo if you will, speaks volumes about the level of disdain he holds for Ghanaians, our expectations and our right to hold our government accountable. No, really. While on the campaign trail, which has been dubbed the Changing Lives Tour, he said this:

“We are working just like an artist. When artists are working you don’t actually know what they are doing until they finish the work. Those who are saying we are not working are entitled to their opinions, but all Ghanaians would testify to the contrary.”

C’mon dude. I don’t know what artists you’ve been hanging around, but the majority of them have an outline – an outline that allows the viewer to predict an outcome. You can tell from the first few strokes that this will be a pigeon, or a cat, or a cathedral. The NDC has no outline, and that’s why we can predict a mess. Unless the president and his team are finger painting a plan for the country…in which case the result is still a mess.

A pictorial representation of what JDM is doing to Ghana.

A pictorial representation of what JDM is doing to Ghana.

In conclusion, I believe the NPP and any other opposition party that has labelled both the president and his performance as “incompetent” has been rather generous in their choice of adjective. There is a thesaurus FULL of adjectives that I think could do the job better, beginning with, but not limited to:











and shyte


Hei, hei, hei! All you NDC sympathizers who are happy with your 36 hours light off and reliance on gen-power to run your businesses, skyrocketing cost of living and soaring food prices: Stay out of my comments section with your vitriol. We all already know your man is going to win in 2016. I’ve admitted as much in a previous post and given reasons why. He’s your champion and will bring you the political victory your pride so craves. But that is only because John D. Mahama a catfish in a small pool of guppies.

It’s a shame catfish don’t make better decision makers and leaders.



It’s High Time For a Discussion About Postpartum Depression in African Communities

I gave birth to my eldest daughter 9 weeks premature. Her early delivery by C-section was the result of external factors plaguing me; mainly stress. Between the numerous healthcare professionals, well-wishers and hospital cleaners, I was also visited by a number of consultants: lactation, AM Care, etc. However one of these professionals was not on the list of people I expected to meet after having a baby.

“Here is a list of all the numbers you can call or centers you can visit if you feel like you’re going to harm yourself or you baby,” said the mental health advocate after a brief but pleasant chat. She put a brochure on the table next to me.

Why would I ever harm my baby? I gave her a quizzical look, one I’m sure she was accustomed to receiving from patients, as she stood to leave. She re-iterated that someone would always be available if I ever experienced “baby blues”. I scoffed inwardly. I would never need any of those numbers because I could never harm my baby. It was a happy event, after all! But even the most joyful of occasions can be the impetus of a tragedy. Many years and three more children later, I’ve often wondered where I lay that brochure. The stress of raising children in virtual isolation can drive one to harbor very dark thoughts. The chemical and hormonal changes that take place in a woman’s body after having a baby can sometimes act as kindling for a pending firestorm. And if you’re a mom reading this and are familiar with that sense of anxiety, moodiness, despair or hopelessness I’m referring to, you are not alone. You are one of a reported 14% of all women who experience Postpartum Depression (PPD).

The national conversation surrounding mental health in Ghana is sorely lacking in general, but when it comes to PPD it is barely whisper. It seems no one wants to admit that it is a very real and – albeit unfortunate – very natural occurrence. Our attitudes towards childbearing is that a baby is the ultimate gift, but every gift comes with its responsibilities. Oftentimes, we measure a woman’s value by whether she’s given birth and masculinity by the number of children a man has/can sire. There is little talk about the physical, emotional and financial changes – and appending assistance required – after a baby arrives…just an admonishment to “go and marry, go and born.” The adjustments required can drive even the most stoic person to the brink.

A preventable tragedy

This week we saw what happens when postpartum depression and mental health are not taken seriously in the harrowing case of Naana Bray. Bray is a 45 year old former chartered accountant who allegedly killed her two daughters ages 8 and 6 by mixing and administering poison in their beverages. According to her family’s spokesperson, she had a psychotic break after the birth of her 6 year old daughter and was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Her mental condition was severe enough to cause her husband to seek refuge away the family home, yet curiously not harsh enough for the courts to get her children away from her and under his care after he had sued for custody. The court’s judgment was that the children were young “and therefore needed to be with their mother.”

Naana Bray's arrest with the backdrop of a hooting crowd demonstrates how little compassion or understanding about mental illness there is in our society. image source: mdernghana

Naana Bray’s arrest with the backdrop of a hooting crowd demonstrates how little compassion or understanding about mental illness there is in our society.
image source: mdernghana

It’s true. Little children do need their mothers…but they need mothers who are whole, healthy and able to function independently. According to a Joy News report, Bray had been committed to two mental wards and was on medication. The psychotic effects of mind altering medications come with numerous warnings about side effects…thoughts of suicide among others. Her family says that there was no warning that she would ever harm her children, but how could there be? Mental illness, like any other ailment, is not predictable.  I doubt we will ever really know what happened in Naana Bray’s mind the day her children died. The court’s job is to work in the best interest of the children ALWAYS, and it failed these two girls with its ruling on that day. I pray it doesn’t fail Bray again when she is tried.

Gaps in delivery of service

At present, there Ghana employs only 18 psychiatrists to service the entire nation. Like the patients they serve, social stigma also affects the professionals who work in the field. For one, psychiatry is not afforded the respect of other medical professions like pediatric surgery or oncology, even though the practice of psychiatry is just as life-saving. Because mental health is so misunderstood and so stigmatized, people frequently suffer in silence or secrecy. There is therefore no understanding of it by the wider population, giving rise to what I call the Myth of the Superhuman African. There are millions of people, many of them “educated”, who think that depression is a white man’s disease and that if they had not heard about it from Europeans, an African could never claim to suffer from it. In effect, these people think an African can only be evangelized into depression. Like homosexuality and women who cannot cook, depression is “un-African”.

The time has come and passed for there to be a long term, ongoing discussion about mental health so that people in the community can be watchful for signs, and so that this tragedy is not repeated with more frequency. Trust me when I say Naana Bray is not the only woman who has or will kill this month. Her case has only managed to get press because of her social class and proximity to a metropolitan area.  The women in the hinterlands with PPD go unseen, and therefore do not exist.

There are many barriers to the mentally ill seeking and receiving the help they so desperately need. Cost, availability, provider choice and stigma are but a few. Sometimes depressed people don’t think they can get better, and give up before they even get in the fight. Until we can fix the overriding hindrances, we have an obligation to look out for our neighbors, friends and family. We need to be supportive – and not condescending, offering empty platitudes –  towards their very real issue. We need to have an honest chat about what it means to live with mental illness and how we can all serve as allies.

Before my 89 year old aunt lost her faculties to depression, she told me about what she was suffering in a moment of cherished candor. “Many, many people are walking around here in despair. They look like they are alright. They look normal. But they are not. They need help.”

Let’s not let the window dressing fool us.

What Countries Would You Like the Jollof Book Tour to Visit?

Corn cobs


Super glue

No, these are not the ingredients for an abstract art project. These are just a few of the visual props used in Nnenna Marcia’s hilarious, disturbing and erotically bent book of short stories titled “West Africa Hot”. (If you haven’t picked it up yet because you’ve never heard of it, Google dey.)

And as some of you know, I dabble in romance (and occasionally, comedy)  as well so, Nnenna and I have decided it would be a capital idea to take this show on the road! But we need your help, Planeteers. Like Dora the Explorer, we’ll need a Map. Will you be our Map? It’s really simple. Just complete this poll and tell us WHERE in the world this duo should go on the Jollof Book Tour!

Now, you’re probably wondering “What in Heaven’s name is a Jollof Book Tour?” Well, given that Nnenna Marcia is Nigerian and I’m a hybrid Ghanaian and both of our countries are perpetually locked in a battle over whose jollof reigns supreme, we’ve decided to put our culinary differences aside for the purpose of solidarity. Jollof represents the best of  west Africa. The book tour features some of the best writers from west Africa. And if you boil jollof, they will come. You gerrit? Of course you do.


Now that you’ve voted, don’t keep this to yourself. Tell your friends, pets, and cohorts to cast their votes too!

How Trying to Avoid “Gold Diggers” is Blocking Your Own Career Advancement and Personal Development

It always starts with a meme, doesn’t it? Memes are easily digestible. Men, who on average use 13,000 fewer words a day than women, find their brevity delightful… even instructive at times. Some think a meme tells the whole picture. (*whispers* It doesn’t.) Meme-based manhood is going to render a lot of dudes frustrated in their singleness, ashy and simultaneously living under their parent’s roof and potential until they wise up and snap out of it. And there is no topic more memed than those exhorting impressionable young men to be wary of the gold digging Delilah.

I generally ignore these memes and leave them for the under 30 crowd to battle out their virtues and demerits, but THIS one I could not let go without comment:


This is just plain FOOLISHNESS.

First of all, you need money for anything…and that includes dating. Until men and women begin coupling by diffusion, you are going to need money, bruh. Not just to impress a woman, but so that you can live YOUR best life. It doesn’t matter if you met her at the club or the library, some kind of way money fits into the equation. You will need money to enter the club. You will need money to buy your own drink(s). You will need money for bus fare to the library, or to put gas in your car. You need money to live.

If you are going to stop the pursuit of earning money because you are afraid that someone who also needs this element to live is going to take it from you unwarrantedly, then you have no business entering the dating pool. Your attitudes about money are too infantile…which means your attitude in general may be infantile as well.

You ain’t ready.

Second, you have to be a goldmine in order for the woman you are interested in to be classified a “gold digger”. Bruh. You Georgia red clay. You Saudi Arabian sand. You Land o’ Lakes butter. All of which are very useful in the right applications, but a gold digger can’t possibly hope to unearth what isn’t there. In other words, if you’re making $8.50/hr on a job with no benefits and you are lucky enough to have a woman give you the weather report, consider yourself blessed. Your parents raised you well. Your edginess does not lie in material wealth. The tragedy is when these guys making slightly more than the federal minimum wage confuse their value and net worth with the Jadakisses and Michael Baisdens of the world who have made their money. (And who curiously are usually responsible for circulating the cracked crockpot memes.)

Third, why are you so worried about money anyway? If you’ve read a book (which would be a far better use of your time than spending the day reading memes), you’d know that the ONE thing the uber wealthy have in common is that at some point, they’ve lost it all. But then they’ve made it back. Why? Because money making is a system. And instead of you to sit down and investigate what this system is, you are concerning yourself about the proclivities of a potential mate who just wants to go out and have a good time…with you? And so what if it’s on your dime. If you’re an intelligent man, you’ll understand that the value of your relationship is not in the kobos or pesewas spent, but how you are both being transformed into better versions of yourself because of your interactions with one another.

Fourth, there is GREAT news. Ever since the 80’s, when women’s lib put on its high top sneakers and shoulder padded power suits, there has been less pressure on men to be the exclusive providers in their homes or their relationship. Going Dutch on a date is far from peculiar anymore. And if the evening goes “really well”, your date may invite you up to her apartment to sit on her couch and watch Netflix and chill. Doesn’t this make you happy? See how feminism has helped you? See how she also needed money to get you on her sofa? It works both ways!

Lastly, if you are a guy and you read this meme and nodded your head in agreement, chances are you are broke, boring and not dating anyway. You don’t want to go anywhere because you don’t want to spend money. You don’t want to dress up for the Renaissance Fair because you don’t want to spend money. You don’t, you don’t, you don’t, because, because, because. And while you are gliding across your crunchy carpeted floor, cursing all these “gold digging” women in the world for failing to see the gem in you they are passing up on, you have failed to examine yourself. You are stingy. You are dull. You have no vision beyond the next $100. NO ONE wants to spend their life with someone like that.


In conclusion: there is no one out there for you.


Wouldn’t it be Great if We all Treated Each Other Like Kindergartners?

“Mommy. NOBODY likes me.”

My sister stiffened at the declaration. Her son is five, and is the only minority in his Fairfax county kindergarten classroom. Standing at no more than 38” and weighing about the same in pounds, Aiden is one of the smaller children in his age group. He is a jumble of emotions and personalities, at once sensitive and nonchalant. He is the type of kid you want to protect for fear that a strong wind will blow him away for the Piglet he reminds you of.

My sister was incensed, concerned that he was being made to feel excluded at school. “What do you mean, “nobody likes” you?”

Aiden insisted that no one did: not at school, not at his karate class, not no one, nowhere ever on God’s green earth. Adj (his mother) made it a point to be more vigilant the next time she dropped him off at his next activity, which happened to be karate. What happened when Aiden walked into the dojo stunned her. It stunned me. It rocked us both to our core.

“Look everyone! Aiden’s here!”

“Hi, Aiden!” the kids sang in unison.

Aiden gave a half smirk, half self-satisfied smile and returned their greeting with the panache of a young man who had just broken into the Coca-Cola vault and was hiding the secret formula in his shoe. One of the students invited him to come sit next to them, and he merrily complied. My sister walked out of the dojo, sucking her teeth. By the time she finished telling the tale, I was perspiring having laughed so hard.

“This boy isn’t for real life eh?”

“I mean, what more did he want? Confetti?”

“Even if they gave him confetti sef, he will insist they don’t like him because it wasn’t falling fast enough.”

“These are the best days of his life. He just doesn’t know.”


And it’s true. I honestly believe we are our best selves in that kindergarten stage. We are kinder, more compassionate and eager. We’re fearless risk takers, for the most part…and even when we aren’t, we don’t discourage anyone else from taking a risk. There are many reasons that the world would be better place if we all conducted ourselves like kindergartners, but for the sake of time, I’m going to outline three.


Everyone is a “friend”

kg joyI was impacted by this when I started putting in volunteer hours at school when Aya was in KG. Her teacher always referred to the children as “friend”.

“Dear friends! May I have your attention?” or “Nicholas, would you go over to the reading center and help your friends put away the books?”

In essence, before you really knew anything about your classmates, you identified them as friend and associated with them all the warm n’ fuzzy feelings that go along with that moniker. Everyone wants to sit together, everyone gets invited to Sophia’s party. Everyone is made to feel included. In Nadjah’s KG class, there was a boy with a severe learning disability that each of them took personal responsibility for. They protected and looked out for him as a unit, because that’s what five year olds do.

This all stops around 4th grade.

And by the time you enter the working world, there are no “friends” to be had. There are only bosses, snitches, opposition and foes. You are suspicious of everyone and everyone questions your motives. There is no room for “friends” in the adult world, which is why everyone looks so beat up and sullen on the bus/subway.


Everyone is soooo enthusiastic about everything!

When you’re a kindergartener, everything is just wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful! Well, except for bedtime. Bedtime sucks, but at least then you get a story, a kiss on the cheek from mom and then fall right out. There is no tossing and turning in the kindergartener’s sleep cycle. Why? Because your mind is filled with nothing but the wonder the world has to offer. Like knock-knock jokes.


“Who’s there?”

“Feet who?”

“Feet the rabbit!”

Does this make any sense? No! But to your fellow KG’ers you are a comedic GOD. You have mastered the nuances and execution of a knock-knock joke, and that makes you pretty cool. It makes all of us pretty cool, because we’re all going to tell the same joke to each other for the rest of the day. That’s right. All 30 of us.

Can you imagine what would happen if you were the originator of a joke and 30 other people in your office told it without giving you credit? There would be disorder… chaos… sulking… salt in the punch bowl and Christmas!

That’ll show ‘em. Tell MY knock-knock joke without proper attribution…

"My knock knock joke. Mine!!!" image from steampowered.com

“My knock knock joke. Mine!!!”
image from steampowered.com

You can do/be/have ANYTHING in kindergarten

kidsciThe needs of a kindergartner are pretty basic. Some milk, a Hotwheel or two, a door to slam shut multiple times a day. Given enough freedom and hydration, a kindergartner can achieve anything in an afternoon. He can journey to space in a cardboard box. She can rule a kingdom from the sofa. The kindergartner is the master of all things, and (s)he doesn’t require money to accomplish any of the goals that have been set at play time. Goals which shift frequently.

“Hey guys! My mom said we can use this chalk to draw on the sidewalk!”

“We’re not chalk drawing anymore, Charles! We’re playing chemistry.”

“Oh. Well, I guess we can crush the chalk up and turn it into science powder then. Right?”


And then all of a sudden, your kids are playing Breaking Bad without even knowing it.

You know what happens to adults who “play” Breaking Bad?


In all, if I had to pick one thing from that kindergarten life it would be the exuberance with which one is greeted by one’s peers. That same excitement that my nephew takes for granted every week. It would make going into public so much more pleasurable. We don’t even make eye contact with people anymore. And why are you so happy…for no apparent reason? Happiness without cause is grounds for committal in an institution; unless you’re a kindergartner, of course!

Can you think of other ways kindergartners are better at life than adults are? Tweet me or put them in the comments!