Category Archives: Madness

I opened my inbox today and found a note from my favorite teacher. I was all at once excited. We have a pretty decent bond and have managed to keep in touch, even though I have not been under his tutelage in seventeen years. I tore into his message, which read this in part:

Howdy? Planning to do something with issues arising from Angelina Jolie’s story? Also, what’s it with grown men abducting and keeping young women in captivity for decades – surely you’ll have an interesting angle to provoke some real thinking and action among the outraged … as in loud proclamations of outrage are not enough. Both offer a bigger and more useful set of issues on which to expend your ever sharpening talent than indulging the soft porn desires of Adventures readers methinks…

He then invited me to get angry with him if I wanted for being “judgmental” and ended on a softer note by saying he missed Abena Gyekye (but only a bit). In times past, this sort of criticism might have cut into my soul like a blade set ablaze – but I have just come through a weekend spent camping with my two oldest children and 100 other squealing first graders in the woods for Mother’s Day. I am unbreakable.

At his behest, I went to read up on Angelina Jolie and her choice to have a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery  – a ‘luxury’ most people who suffer from breast cancer will never dream of enjoying. Women with breast cancer in lower income and developing nations will most likely expire once the disease has run its course. Those are just the facts, and this has everything to do with access to not only medical care, but the availability of such. In my (half) native Ghana for instance, there are six oncologists to serve a population of 22 million in the entire country.

SIX.

You don’t have to be an authority in mathematics or economics to see immediately that demand far outweighs supply and to forecast what the trickle down issues are when you have SIX oncologists with the mandate of caring for an entire nation. We’re lucky in Ghana though, aren’t we? How many oncologist live and work in the DR Congo?

I read Angelina’s op-ed piece and had no thoughts. I don’t like Angelina Jolie. (I have never forgiven her for the Brad Pitt, Jennifer Anniston thing 8 or 9 years ago. How that affects me and the pot I cook my rice in, I have not discovered yet, but there it is.)

Breast cancer runs in my family. So do ovarian fibroids. I have had several cousin, aunts, a grandmother and a mother all have their innards cut out and discarded in an effort to save or extend their lives. In some cases it worked, and it others it didn’t. God rest those who lost their fight against a disease which kept their cells replicating under it eventually killed them.

If it sounds as though I am glib about the subject, it’s because I am. There is something else that runs in my family that I fear far more than cancer. Only the earliest readers of my blog know about it because I don’t discuss it often. The disease I dread more than any other is mental illness – and like cancer, it’s generational and hereditary.

This Mother’s Day, I spent a great deal of grey matter devoted to the memory of my mother. She’s not dead – don’t worry. But I haven’t spoken to her in years. I think she’s bipolar, but she refuses to get her head examined. She thinks she’s perfect. My mother and I stopped getting along right when she hit menopause and I hot puberty. In my younger years, I just attributed our furious bouts to a clash of hormones. But as I got older and learned to lock myself in a room or not come home at all until I learned to cage my raging emotions so as not to clash with her, I saw that she was not getting any better. My mother was just irrational. It was unbearable. It ruined a good portion of my life. When I had the choice and the chance to disassociate myself from her, I took it without hesitation. I thought we had a bad mother-daughter relationship, and that was the end of that… until I began to hear whispers from my extended family.

“You know why your Momma is crazy and your Aunt Jane ain’t, right? It’s because she wasn’t your grandmomma’s daughter.”

“Your Grandma and her mom didn’t get along either. I once watched your great-grand mother beat her daughter until blood came out of her ears for going to watch a movie. Mistaken identity you see…”

“Lawd, your mom walks to the beat of her own drum. You know mental illness runs in your side of the family, right? You should get that checked out.”

No, Auntie So-and-So; I did not know that. Thank you for delivering the news with such finesse.

 As my elders calculate it, I have four and a half more years before I go stark, raving mad. I’ll be 40 and Nadjah will  be 13… just entering puberty.

And the insanity will start all over again.

And I’m not sure what to do about it.

And that scares me.

The excitement in the room was contagious. Three rows behind us was the Queen’s Hallelujah Quartet – four women whooping, and hollering, and screaming “AMEN!” every time there was mention of the Fragrance Protector’s accomplishments. Finally, she came to the tiny stage. I strained my neck to get a better look her. As she prepared to speak, the room crackled with electricity. A man in the front row shinnied his shoulders as though passing the wave from his arms to the next congregant. The Quartet broke into raucous tongues of praise.

“Eee yayaya e BOW sha ba!”

Ah. Was this woman the Queen?

She was my height; no more than 5’4” tall, and she was elderly. She wore priestly robes, with vestments of royal blue and shimmering white. The jet black wig that settled precariously upon her head reminded me of Marla Gibbs, circa The Jeffersons. Her voice was not strong and clear, but there was an explanation for this. She had been ill.

“When I was laying on my back and couldn’t ascend the top of my stairs, I told God ‘If ya get me to the top, I’ll praise You Lord!’ There wasn’t much I could do in my state, but I could still praise the Lord!”

At the mention of “praise” the church broke into yet another praise break. The Hallelujah Quartet, all women of no less than 60 years old, rushed to the front of the tiny church, jigging, and jiving and holy twerking. One particularly rambunctious woman – covered from head to toe in Pepto Purple and a shoulder length synthetic weave – shuffled down the narrow aisle, eyes wide and intent. At any moment I expected Michael Jackson to blow into the room screaming “This is thriller!!”

He didn’t, however.

True to her word, the Protector did not speak long. I am ashamed to say that I can’t recall anything that was particularly stirring in my spirit. That’s probably because I’m probably ankle deep in sin myself. Who am to judge the godliness of others?

There were two other speakers who came on stage. A bishop and an Overseer. They exhorted those who were about to take the oath of ministry to preach the “whole Bible, not just the parts that made people comfortable.” I looked about the room and wondered if that method would really be received in this ministry.

I was beginning to get weary. It was Sunday night after all, and M5X and I had to wake up the next morning to get our kids to school. Her cousin had not yet been ordained. We waited another 45 minutes to no avail. Another praise break had broken out, and the three of us slipped out of the building into the rain. It was going to be a long drive back up north.

“There is so much to discuss,” muttered Elder B as we approached her car. I couldn’t wait to hear her take. She shushed me when I began the conversation.

“No, no! We have to wait until we get into the car!”

When the doors were shut, I let out the guffaw I’d been holding in all night.

“Ok. How about when Elias Cotton said ‘Stand on your feet if your ankles can support your own weight’?”

“Right! He would say stuff, and then act like he didn’t say it!”

“My favorite part is when he said ‘I don’t have time to tell you what to do. You know what to do! Rebuke your own spirit!’”

As we discussed the night’s shenanigans, I discovered I was alone in my assessment. Elder B and M5X both felt as though the presence of the Lord was in that place. I guess I was wrong. They are both leaders in our church, and they would recognize God’s presence better than I would.

Soon we make it off the back roads and were speeding up I-285. In the darkness, a cloud of red break lights appeared. Why on earth was there traffic at this hour? Surely it wasn’t because of the rain?

We stopped and waited for our lane to move along. Soon, blue and red lights were flashing beside our car. There had been a horrible accident involving a tractor/trailer. We were stuck. Elder B flipped through her smart phone and discovered that we were looking at an estimated three hours before crews had the mess cleaned up.

“11:30 pm? Are you sure?” asked M5X.

“That’s what it says.”

She shut off her engine and we prepared to while away the time, noting that if we had known we were going to be sitting in traffic until almost midnight, we could have just waited at the church!

We chatted about any number of current events until I realized something terrible 30 minutes later: I had to pee.

I made the announcement to my companions, who asked me what I planned to do about it. Since none of us had a phone that was completely charged (mine had died while I was on Facebook and M5X hadn’t charged hers all day), my walking to the next exit was out of the question.

“It’s raining, it’s dark and you’re in heels, Malaka. How far do you really think you’re going to get?”

They were right, of course…but I had to do something. We were in the middle lane, so peeing in the middle of the road was out of the question. If only we were closer to the median! My bladder was straining against my abdominal walls. Soon, I recalled something my sister had told me just a week before. In a similar, desperate situation, she had peed into her son’s diaper while at a train station. Luckily, I had one of Liya’s pull-ups lingering in my purse. I told my companions about my plan and prepared to execute it.

“I’m going to put on this pull-up, step outside, and pee into it,” I announced boldly, unzipping my skirt.

I’ll spare you the remaining mechanical details and skip to the results. Suffice to say that toddler pull-ups are not possess the structural capacity to support the full weight and fluid contents of an adult sized bladder. In the end, I essentially peed all over myself, and all over Elder B’s back seat by extension. The car reeked of my hot urine, and B had very little in her survival kit. Somehow, she unearthed three towels of various sizes, some wet wipes and some hand sanitizer. I cleaned myself as best as possible. I would have been ashamed, had it not been for the intense hunger I was experiencing.

I offered again to walk to the exit to get us some chicken.

“Aren’t you guys hungry?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, but you can’t walk to the exit to get food!” they objected in near unison. “It’s a mile away!”

We battled about the merits of my walking to the exit until I finally gave in. My skirt was stained anyway, and I couldn’t convincingly blame it on the drizzle outside. We diverted ourselves by dreaming up the contents of the emergency car kits we were going to build when we got home.

“What are you going to put in yours?”

“A blanket,” said M5X.

“Some flares,” said Elder B.

“An empty can to pee in,” I answered.

And then a miracle happened – we began to move! We cheered jubilantly. The ordeal was over. We had only been stalled for an hour and a half, not three! As we drove home, I re-read the exit sign I imagined myself walking towards an hour before.

Hollowell Parkway…

Oh, Lord. God was truly smiling on me that night. Hollowell used to be Bankhead Highway, before it was renamed. It is arguably the most deadly street in all of Atlanta. My urinating on myself would have been the least of my issues, had I ventured up to Hollowell in search of chicken in my state of dress!

*****

And that concludes this tale about the first time I think I went to a gay church. Happy Friday to you, one and all!

We’re human. We judge other humans. We just do.

I am judged every time I step out of my house, and I’ve come to live with it. People look at me and think “African American female, natural hair, 4 kids. She must be unmarried, Democrat, on some form of public assistance.”

Then they find out I’m married, a Christian, and hold pretty “traditional” values (whatever those are).

“Aha! She’s judgmental, retrogressive, and hates gay people!”

(Because you know; once you’re a Christian, you automatically ‘hate’ gay people. Pshaw!)

So when M5X invited me to her cousin’s ordination service, I had to jump at the opportunity. There had been whisperings about his sexual orientation based on some dubious Facebook posts and a brutal attach he suffered here in Atlanta a few years back. (The latter truly saddened me. No matter how you feel about a person’s lifestyle doesn’t give you the right to harm them. Are we not all aghast when pastors in the Middle East and Asia are killed for sharing their faith? Well alright then!)

It took me more than a week to prepare for this event. I didn’t grow up in the church. I was raised Muslim. There are church functions and rituals that I am just not familiar with, but have always held a fascination for. When was the appropriate time to whoop? How do those old ladies manage to shuffle their feet so fast when the Spirit catches them? Why do religious (Black) Christians always have their noses crinkled when the pastor/bishop says something particularly profound? And what do you do when the person delivering the message has sex with someone of the same gender? All these things were a mystery, and I wanted to explore them!

So off we went to Camp Creek Road, down south past the airport. The church was called New Life Spirit of the Holy Incense or some such moniker. M5X and I were accompanied by her best friend, Elder B. All three of us were clad in conservative suits with hair styled in a manner acceptable to go before the Lord. A quick YouTube investigation had shown that there were expectations for our mode of dress.

When we entered the building for the ordination service, we were greeted by a 300 pound woman with a tattoo of a barcode on her collar bone. When I got closer, I saw that it actually said “HOPE”… but the letters were smooshed together. She nodded for us to go in, where we were greeted by 3 more ushers and helped down a short flight of stairs that led into an underground sanctuary, bathed in crimson and gold plating. You know: church colors.

There was a rather large man with light skin and curly hair standing on the stage, praying that every spirit of distraction would flee from that place. He wore a white cloak with black underpinning. A quick scan of the itinerary showed that this man was Elias Cotton, presiding officer. He encouraged us all to get ready to praise God as we never had before.

“Get ready to unbuckle your seatbelts!” he urged in a Madea-esque voice. “You heard me right! Get on your feet and stand if your ankles can support the weight. Go the bathroom and undo your Spanx if you need to! We gon’ shout and praise!”

And he and the choir – an assemblage of 4 women clad in black – did just that. Oh mercy, did they make a joyful noise. That’s church talk for “sing poorly.”

As they warbled their way through some Hezekiah Walker remix, preparing for the climax of the song, Elias Cotton raised his right hand towards the band and flickered his fingers urgently, encouraging them to give him so mo’ until he finally dropped his fist and threw his head back with an emphatic “Ha!”

This scenario played out again and again – in 6 minute intervals – with some pastor being introduced after which we were instructed to praise God for what He’d done for us that day.

“Didn’t He wake you up this morning? Well that’s something to be grateful for!”

Didn’t you ask me that same question 15 minutes ago? I wanted to shout.

But I was too interrupted by another praise leader who had entered the aisle at that moment.

“He’s a great counselator…He counselated me!” he was repeating.

The grammarian in me wanted to flee and stab her inner ears.

I scanned the room and saw that there were indeed a good number of gay/transgengered/just-not-heterosexual people in the room. I waited for a sense of distress to fall upon me, but it didn’t. When it comes to Christianity and the sins of others, I ascribe to Paul’s logic on the matter in 1 Corinthians 5:12. “For what have I to do with judging those also who are outside? Do you not judge those who are inside?” (It’s worth reading the whole of Corinthians. It’s pretty gangsta.)

I didn’t feel like I was in the midst of a Christian assembly: I merely felt like I was in a building, playing church in my grey suit and purple heels. This scenario plays out in churches across America no matter the sexual orientation of the congregants. I decided I would just enjoy the show.

There were several effeminate men waving desperately for an usher to bring them a fan. Just moments before, Elias Cotton was informing us that we needed to get on our feet “and praise!” because we were at a celebration, not in mourning. I snickered therefore when I noted that the fans the church was using were from a funeral home. It just seemed ironic. It suddenly dawned on me that I had left at home several items in my “church kit”.

These include, but are not limited to:

• Breath mints
• A handkerchief
• A fan
• A cloth large enough to spread over my thighs in order to stay modest
• A small bottle of water for hydration
• A heavy, musky perfume that poorly matched my pH

My deceased maternal grandmother must have been hollering with shame in Heaven.

An hour and a half into the service and nothing had happened beyond singing. I was beginning to tire, and so were the other congregants.

Elias Cotton could sense it too. He floated across the stage with amazing grace.

“You see, a lot of you are feeling allergic to this atmosphere he said, interjected his speech with sputtering laughs. “But if you’re allergic, don’t die! I said don’t die!”

Okaaayyy….

At long last, it was time for the offering. Elias actually gave a good message, which encouraged me to drop $5.00 in the bucket.

“We are a 21^st century ministry. We DO accept credit and debit cards,” he said solemnly.

The church was a mix of COGIC tradition and Jedi magic. I didn’t understand the costuming…but that’s probably my fault. Again, I didn’t grow up in chu’ch. There was a kid floating around in a Ku Klux Klan robe and a myriad of different sheets constructed into body coverings. That’s when my attention was turned to the church fashion. On one extreme there was a woman in nude stockings that made her legs look casket bound passing out fliers. On the other, there was a 40 year old grandmother sporting a low cut top that exposed her full breasts. The left one was covered with a tattoo of a dragon with its head plunged downward, engulfing her nearly exposed areola with its mouth. And then there were the guys dressed like women, complimenting each other on their shoes and women with buzz cuts and suspenders giving each other nods of “what’s up”. None of these sat together.

All this finally led to the moment we’d been waiting for. Yet another pastor was introducing The Overseer.

“When she comes to this stage, I want everyone in this room to be on their feet!” he growled. “Y’all not gon’ wear MY pastor out. Nuh uh! We are blessed and honored by the presence of the QUEEN of this house…guarding the fragrance of the house so that deliverance can abide in the house!”

I waited in anticipation for this woman to ascend the stage. With a welcome like that, surely she was a fearsome sight to behold!

It’s a question that every child gets asked at some point in their life: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

When I was between the ages of 8 and 10 I knew exactly  what I wanted to be when I grew up.

“A baker, a writer, an actress and a mermaid,” was my canned, enthusiastic  answer.

The most influential women in my life at the time were my Aunt Blanche (of Bakeshop Classics fame), my Auntie Tamu (who introduced me to the typewriter) and Ariel from the Little Mermaid. I was a staunch believer in the existence of mermaids, and was convinced that if I put enough salt in the bathtub, found a sea priestess and believed hard enough, I too could grow a tail and swim with the dolphins.

Of the four occupations, I can lay claim to having done three successfully in my adult life. I baked for every special occasion that our ASP/SCAB celebrated in South Africa and was feted as a confectionery genius. Of course, I understand that it could have been the sugar talking through the mouths of babes – but it still felt good to be appreciated for my pastry prowess. Then there were those few times I acted in school plays and later auditioned for theater in university. I was brilliant, but I never pursued it past the audition. I’ve tried diving into the sea on several occasions, but my body is way too buoyant and not nearly streamlined enough, so my mermaid attempts have been utter failures. And then there was the writing.

I’ve always written creatively, but my work came so naturally to me that I never saw the true value in it. When I started writing short stories when I was in first grade, it was just a way to get all these characters and scenarios out of my head so that I could make space to replace them with new ones. The first person to take me seriously as a writer was my best friend Temeri, who would implore me to add more and more to my script.

“These are so GOOD, Malaka,” she would say.

Temeri was always a better and faster reader than I was, so I assumed she was skimming through my works and not really reading them. I will never forget that the read The Hobbit in a week and read The Lord of the Rings Trilogy in two! She mocked me for  taking a month to struggle  through one volume of Sweet Valley High. We were polar opposites, with different skills, different rates of development and different family dynamics. But I will never forget the shared pride we felt when I showed her my first “book”: a stapled and taped together manuscript of 12 pages. Incidentally, it’s one of the many precious things that is forever lost in the myriad of items that were discarded after my parents’ divorce.

I was flipping through my Facebook pictures and found a picture that one of my siblings tagged me in. It was a 7/8 year old me, grinning into my Uncle Sonny’s camera. For a moment I was transported back to that time, recalling summer days chasing milkweed plants and making wishes on dandelions. (Don’t ask me why.) And then I realized that I had done it. At 35 I had finally fulfilled the dreams of my 8 year old self. I had actually cobbled together something that could be published as a legitimate book.

Daughters of Swallows is not your typical M.O.M fare. It’s actually adapted from posts on The Other Blog – the one Ebenezer Mr. Scrooge who drops by here is acquainted with. One of the greatest pressures for me as a writer has been to write a book; and one that will make people laugh, specifically. Being  intentionally funny is a lot of pressure! So I rejected that pressure and wrote a raunchy romance/African chick lit novel instead. Knowing that doing this would be to the utter chagrin of my holy acquaintances (and my father!), I am being published as “Malaka.”.

That’s: Malaka Full stop.

There are issues with men and and their possessiveness over surnames that I am not willing to contend with at this time. I have lived my life as Mr. So & So’s Daughter until I became Mr. So & So’s Wife, and then eventually became So & So’s Mother…and this book is all about me as an individual and a woman. Period.

It comes out on May 10^th.

I feel like I’m having my first baby.

I think I’m going to throw up.

My Aunt Elizabeth passed away a little less than a month ago and was buried over the weekend. She was a three years older than my dad and was one of my favorites. With the stark reminder that all life comes with an expiration date, I decided to call the old man to check up on him.

He didn’t pick up his cell phone. I called all three of his numbers and none of them was working.

I panicked.

“A-Dub, have you talked to Daddy?” I asked my sister, texting frantically.

“Not in over a week…which is actually odd,” she replied. “He calls pretty often.

I fretted about who I could send to his house to find him and came up empty. Was my dad okay?? The next day, I called again. He picked up on the second ring.

“Ah! Kwasi Gyekye…where were you!” I hollered into the phone.

“What do you mean?”

“I called you yesterday and you didn’t pick up,” I wailed.

“Oh that’s nonsense. I always have all of my phones with me.”

I explained that I got an error message on each of his phones when I called the night before. He snorted.

“Oh. That’s Ghana networks for you. I can be sitting in my house, dial one of the phones in my hand, and the network will tell me that the number is unavailable.”

“Really?”

“Humph. Yes ooo,” he said, settling back into his chair (I could hear him). “I even contacted the phone company to complain. The rep told me I had probably diverted my phone calls. How can I divert my own calls?! Do I have a network machine in the house? I told him he was a fool.”

I laughed, but he could tell something was worrying me. He asked me what was wrong.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about Aunty Elizabeth…”

“And what? You thought I had died?” he asked, breaking into my explanation.

“Well, I couldn’t find you…”

He snorted again.

“Look. When I’m about to die, I will inform you first. I won’t die without you knowing.”

We both broke into hysterical laughter over the absurdity of that statement. I thanked him for his consideration and changed topics.

“Eii, Daddy! Guess who is my best friend on Twitter?”

“What’s Twitter?”

I gave a two by four explanation of the SM platform and told him all about the Great Gyedu-Blay Ambolley.

“Eh? You said who? Ambolley?”

“Yes!” I said, cackling gleefully. “He said when we see each other in Ghana we can do a song together!”

“Umm! Has he heard your voice before? You sing worse than your sister…and even she di33, she only hums.”

(I broke into wild laughter. My sister DOES have a crap singing voice.)

“And why would Ambolley be friends with a foolish girl like you?”

(I laughed harder. I AM a foolish girl.)

“I used to listen to his music when I was young…but then I grew up and learned sense. You know, when you go to these live bands, they can sing EEEEVERY song…except Ambolley.”

“I told him I would brush up on my Fante so I can sing with him,” I replied.

“You don’t have to brush up on anything. You can’t sing his songs, because he doesn’t sing in words. He only makes noises. He’s like James Brown.

Eh eh eh plee! Say ‘i lah! Heh ho whaa?

Those people don’t use words to sing. Those bush Takoradi things.”

“He’s from Sekondi, Daddy.”

“Whatever. It’s all the same thing!”

I laughed some more, which alarmed him.

“What’s wrong with you? Why do you sound like you’re choking?”

“Nothing, Daddy.”

“Gyedu-Blay Ambolley…” He let his voice trail off and chuckled. “That’s pretty cool.”

He asked me about some flooding in my area.

“We didn’t have a flood, Daddy.”

“Yeah, I know. That was Mississippi. It’s all America, isn’t it? And hey! What about that Boston Bombing!”

“It was awful, wasn’t it?” I said soberly.

“They should let me be his executioner. Foolish boy. I would pull his fingernails out one by one and then extract his teeth with pliers; but only to a point. Then I would make him chew meat with half attached teeth!”

“Oh, Daddy!”

“No! I’m serious! Why should you go and bomb people as they’ve gathered just to have fun? Now look! You’ve killed an 8 year old boy. If you want to declare war on America, engage the military! Sit in your house and declare war…then we’ll see if you are a man. Foolish boys! The elder one is very lucky that he even died.”

“Yes ooo. They are keeping this one alive just to kill him in a few years.”

“Yes, it’s good,” my father replied. I could hear his head bobbing. “They have to extract the truth from him first. That’s one thing I like about Americans. And hei! Did you see Obama’s speech after the bombing?”

He didn’t wait for my reply.

“My Obama was so cooool. He said ‘Whoever is responsible will be found’, and look! Three days later, these boys were captured.”

“Hmmm. As for Obama, he’s a killer.”

My father chuckled to himself, as if harboring the details of some secret agreement between him and the leader of the free world.

“No, I’m serious, Daddy. People think George Bush was a killer, but Obama has killed more people in his 5 years than Bush did in all 8!”

“Yes. That’s what we niggez (because he would never say “nigger”) do. We’re killers! You have an African ruling your country. What did you expect? You see, within just a few short months he was able to kill Bin Laden, Gadhafi, and several people you’ve never heard of. George Bush just used to talk plenty. That’s why the world didn’t mind him. But MY Obama is cooooool. He’s like a river.”

“Huh?”

“A river, dummy! When the waters are too hot and you put your feet inside, you know the water is dangerous. You say “ajeish!” and you step out. But when the waters are cool, you feel safe to relax inside. It’s only cool waters that carry people away…and drown them. Like Obama.”

I thought I would literally die on the phone. But he wasn’t done yet.

“In fact, you people should elect him as president for life.”

“We can’t do that, Daddy. This isn’t the United States of Zimbabwe. Obama is not Mugabe.”

“Well then, you need to draw up an amendment that says every subsequent president must rename himself ‘Obama’.”

“Ah, but Hilary says she also wants to have her turn on the throne oooo…”

“Hilary can’t do sh*t,” he said flatly.

Oh chaley!

My minutes were up. The lady on the phone card said so. My dad heard it too.

“Oh, don’t worry! I’ll buy some credits and call you later.”

“But I have to work until 10 pm tonight,” I said quickly. 30 seconds left.

“Don’t worry! It’s only 2 am my time. I can stay up till 2 to talk to you!”

*Click.*

I didn’t even get a chance to tell him I loved him, but I’m sure he knows.

Every once in a while, something magical happens that shifts the course of your existence.

It’s rare that someone who does not bear the last name ‘Gyekye’ takes me by the hand and guides me into M.O.M. mode, but that’s what Gyedu-Blay Ambolley did last night. Like a newly dropped leaf floating wantonly on babbling, pebbled brook, I found myself flowing with the ebb and tide of the contents of Brah Blay’s most recent tweet.

Ambolley wants to drop an album with ME.

Well, those weren’t his words exactly, but that’s what I’m going to aspire to: an entire album of duets with the originator of rap/skat/and hip-life and hop.

Brah Blay and I are best friends (on Black Twitter, anyways), so when he didn’t tell me it was his birthday last week, I was crushed. I should have known this, since we’ve had a friendship that has blossomed over the course of 63 days since we began following each other on Twitter. I mean, 63 days is enough time to get to know the innermost secrets of someone for whom you share mutual respect, right? And yes, I am vehemently asserting that Gyedu-Blay Ambolley respects me and is equally interested in all the things that are of importance to me – chocolate and Chick Fil-A being chief among these. Why else would he suggest that we perform together?

I’m sure you don’t believe me. And why should you? It sounds rather dubious…like the idle primary school yobbing we’ve all engaged in  - or at least witnessed – at some point.

“Ei! Me? My daddy owns Ghana Airways! We fly to London for free every long vac!” (Meanwhile, it’s only Kumasi the kid is traveling to ooo…)

“Oh. You – you think you be some hard guy eh? Me, my daddy owns a submarine!”

“You are a liar!”

“No. It’s true. We enter the sea every weekend!” (Meanwhile, it’s a common canoe at the Volta region that the kid is entering ooo…)

“As for me, I dropped  an album with Ambolley.”

This stuns the group into silence. Why, that would make this child a super star! The gaggle of uniformed juveniles pounces on the girl who is unforgivably guilty of making up an over-the-top toli tale.

“You Malaka Gyekye? How can you do a song with Ambolley?”

“Album,” I reply.

“Liar!”

“It’s true! He even told me to wear a yellow dress.”

I then describe the second greatest night of my musical life. (Nothing can top seeing Prince in concert for the first time.)

******

The year was 2013. Lycra was making a comeback, and I was wearing it in abundance. Everything had to be perfect for Gyedu-Blay Ambolley. I mean, it’s not every day that an icon of African music invites you to share the stage with him. It was an occasion that demanded opulence, pomp and circumstance. I squeezed into my yellow sequenced, tasseled, bedazzled dress, complete with a hat fashioned from yolk colored plumage. A glance in the mirror and a self-affirming nod of the head told me I was ready.

We were going to perform the album live at Alliance Francaise. Wanlov the Kubolor and Sister Derrrrrbie were there as well. I’d asked the siblings to join me for waakye in a leaf earlier in the day, but they’d shunned me. It was okay though. Because I was now Cinderella and I had entered the ballroom in all my glory. I was going to be dancing with the King tonight, and they would be mere g-dancers!

Brah Blay benevolently took my hand and brought me to the microphone.

“You look…interesting this evening,” he said, smiling behind a newly grown mustache.

“Thank you!” I yelled above the raucous sound of the band playing behind us.

The sound of my euphoric voice carried over the crowd which had gathered for the show.

“You’re welcome!” they shouted back.

Brah Blay nodded and said it was time. We were going to sing some of his greatest hits, but I don’t speak Fanti. He told me I could just do a head banger and shout out affirmations from the background.

“You mean like P-Diddy?” I queried.

 “Or L’il Jon, if you like.”

This was too good to be true.

“Yeah!!!!” I growled enthusiastically. “Let’s do eht!”

Everything in my life had prepared me for this moment. A decade of listening to crunk during my self-imposed exile in Atlanta, summer vacations at Winneba, a year of eating nothing but gari and rice because that’s all we could afford…

I poured all my passion and pain into the vocals. I blended old school and new into a masterful, melodious piece. Brah Blah was dazed by this dexterous musical display.

Eh zimi rrra mi mi rarara…WHO-WHAT?!?!

******

I looked at my audience, who sat spellbound.

“What happened next?”

“Well…actually…it hasn’t come to pass yet. But it will! Time is linear as you know. I just have to wait for the fruit to bear.”

“There are some in physics who would refute that, you know.”

“What?”

“That time is linear.”

“Whatever,” I sniff. “The point is that Gyedu-Blay Ambolley and I made a song, and I was wearing a yellow dress.”

“I thought you said it was an album…”

“Let’s keep our focus on what’s important, okay!?!?”

******

MOM Mode, mitches! Happy Friday.

I was in love with a Douche Bag once. I’ve written extensively about him here on MOM over the years. I’ve talked about the numerous times I’ve paid his bills, financed his dry cleaning, brought him food, bore his baby, paid some more bills, and finally ended up in court. HE took ME to court to establish child support and visitation, if you recall. (Keep this is mind. This is key.) Through it all, I’d hoped that he would grow up, get and keep a job, and grow a pair. It never happened.

Last year was a banner year in my tumultuous relationship though. I finally accepted that he wasn’t sh*t and was never going to be sh*t. I stopped blogging about him altogether, in fact. He had really become a non-factor in my life. When you eliminate your expectations of people, there is no way they can disappoint you right? Well…that usually holds true – unless the person for whom you’ve decimated all expectations is a douche bag.

I was still reeling from last night’s ridiculousness when I got a call this morning. The caller ID said it was from Texas. It was Douche Bag calling, allegedly from Afghanistan. It’s now going on 2 years since he took me to court to initiate child support proceedings, and 18 months since I’ve received a payment. He is a few thousand dollars in the hole, and has been driving with a suspended license. None of this should matter – because he is supposed to be working on some covert government assignment in the Middle East that is going to net him a steady paycheck.

It was 9:30 am. What could he possibly want? Nadjah was in school, and I had already made it abundantly clear that he was only to call my phone during the hours she was home. I have nothing to say to him.

“Hello?” I said guardedly.

“Hey…can you talk?”

He sounded like he had been crying. Oh dear GOD. What?!?!

“Yes,” I sighed. “What’s up.”

“I need a huge, HUGE favor.”

“Uh huh. What?”

“I need you to take me off child support.”

“I’m sorry…what?”

He began to sniff pathetically.

“They said they’re going to send me home tomorrow if I don’t get my driver’s license re-instated,” he said woefully. “They talkin’ ‘bout they gonna send me home ‘cause I owe $x,000.”

“Okay…” I said, staring at the phone. “So what does that have to do with me?”

“I need you to take me off child support. I know it’s a big favor to ask, but I promise you I’m gonna send some money your way when I get it. It’s just that I CAN’T lose this job.”

That’s when his sniffles gave way to a floodgate of tears. I was unmoved.

“Douche Bag,” I said pointedly. “Look at how long it TOOK to get child support established, from the day you initiated it to the day we sat in front of a judge. What makes you think that I can get this done in a day?! It’s Friday!”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but I really need you to figure it out and do something.”

When I balked, he continued.

“Just tell them that you and me worked something out and that I been sending you money on the side. Tell them it just hasn’t been added to the system. I really need you to do this for me.”

I groaned and put my head in my hand. Was I hearing what I thought I was hearing? The utter impudence!

“Look, I can promise you this,” I offered. “I will call on Monday and see what the procedure is, but I can’t make any promises. I don’t know what they are going to say.”

“Okay. Okay,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Please make sure you go down there on Monday.”

“A’ight.”

That should have been the end, but NOOOOO….

“Also, I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call Nadjah lately. It’s just that it’s 6:30 pm here right now, and by the time she gets out of school, it’s like 3:30 am. I can’t really make calls at that hour…”

“Uh huh.”

He was stuttering.

I checked my world map. When she gets out of school it’s actually 11 pm in Afghanistan, and a decent enough hour for a 44 year old man to call his child “half way around the world” (if that’s indeed where he is) to at least say hello and/or goodnight. I didn’t bother to mention that he might try calling her on the weekends, or that she was home all week for spring break. Whatever!

“Alright, Douche Bag. Is that it?”

“Yeah. Just please make sure you go down to the court on Monday, okay?”

“Bye.”

*click*

I was having breakfast with M5X today and told her about the bizarre call. She was overcome by the sheer audacity.

“Why did you even entertain that call!” she exclaimed incredulously.

“Girl…I don’t know.”

“You know what you should do?” she said calculatedly, “you should call Fulton county, just to SEE how long it’s going to take to get this process completed. Why would he think this is something you can do in a day? And furthermore, why would he think that you would even oblige him? It’s not like y’all have a history of working things out and him coming through with ANY sort of payment…in the last 8 years!”

So that’s what I did. I called Fulton County Division of Child Support and asked them what it would take to stop court ordered payments for the Non-Custodial Parent. Do you know what the rep told me?

“Oh! That’s simple enough. All you have to do is send an email through your account on the system telling us you want to close the case, or you can send a notarized letter stating you want to close the case. You can do it in person as well.”

“Well, how long does that take?”

“As soon as we get the request, we can close the case.”

“Uh huh. Thank you…”

I hung up the phone.

Between him and Crispy the Coal Man, this was more douche baggery than I could handle in a 24 hour period. Clearly, he had done his research. Why he didn’t come out and say that this was all took, I can’t say. I DO know that April 15^th is tax day, which is probably what is prompting all this sudden urgency. Oh no. Not The Kid. I’m not falling for the banana in the tail pipe.

Sisters. Beautiful, 24-29 year old sisters. Do you see why you need to protect yourselves from liars and douche bags? This could be your life! Move and counter move; a consistent game of tactical insurgency; a lifetime spent uncovering a web of poorly formulated lies and deceptions. Lawd have mercy. And do you know what car Douche Bag was driving when I met him?

A Chevy.

Douche Bags come in all garden varieties, but you can usually point them out if you look close enough. The earlier, the better.

1. They have nothing to show for themselves or their accomplishments, except for a car.
2. They compensate for this for fabricating a ton of accomplishments.
3. They speak with wanton abandon about their virility.
4. They are rehearsed and repetitive.
5. They stutter (or take long pauses) when they lie

So what do you think? Should I send the email?

—->Insert unbridled,  deranged, maniacal laughter here <—–

Nobody knows what it’s like to work in retail. You think you have an idea, but until you’ve experienced the genuine horrors of working with the public, you really have no idea. Being a retail worker is a multifaceted job. You have be a janitor, cocktail waitress, psychologist and peace advocate while occasionally throwing in some cashiering duties. On the best of days, one can carry out these tedious tasks without incident. On the worst, one might be (sexually) propositioned while on the job.

Last night was one of my worst days.

I work at BS&W (a cute moniker I’ve coined for the shoe store I work at) and generally come in during the night shift. This is when the most dubious characters are out shopping – or stealing. Because they know that they harbor intentions that are not pure, these characters are usually uncommonly sensitive about workers sharing their space in the store. This is why I try to give them as much space as possible…so that they don’t feel like I know they’re about to steal. My company doesn’t like its guests to feel uncomfortable under any circumstances. This is why I smiled at the portly dark-skinned gentleman who walked in close to closing time and moved myself to the next aisle where we could regard each other at a safe distance.

I noted that he did a double-take when he saw me. I did as well. He was a little taller than me (which is not tall at all) and was wearing billowy black pants with pleats, a white button down shirt and a black vest. His attire did not flatter his body, which comprised of three spheres, stacked one on top of the other…like a snow man. Or a “coal man” in this case. Crispy the Coal Man.  He was bald and had a gap in his two front teeth. His skin was dark and smooth, and judging from his dated clothing and manner of walk, I deduced that he was a Johnny Just Come from Nigeria or some other part of West Africa. He motioned for me to come to him. He was a customer. I walked right over.

“Yes, sir?” I asked politely.

“Yes…can you tell me where your sale items are?” he inquired.

I smiled brightly. I was going to give excellent customer service and be back on my way to picking up trash left by patrons who’d previously been in the store.

“Yes. They’re right there behind you in those racks, according to size.”

“I knew that,” he admitted. “I just needed a reason to call you over here to tell you how beautiful you were.”

I snickered, and feigned being taken aback by the “compliment.” I’ve been dealing with this sort of man since I was 13 years old.

“Well thank you, that’s very nice of you to say.”

“So your name is Malaka?” he asked, looking at my name tag.

I nodded in the affirmative.

“It means ‘angel’,” he informed me. “And you are indeed very angelic.”

Oh Gawd, these deft raps.

“You know that’s Arabic, right?” he asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“I speak Arabic,” he said smoothly.

That’s when I laughed.  I informed him that the fact that he knew the meaning of my name in Arabic did not mean he “spoke” Arabic. He then began to mutter a stream of words. I made out “salaam” and “ahum du li l’ahi.”

“That’s a prayer,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Yes…that’s the f’athiha,” he confirmed. He seemed shocked that I would know that. “Are you Muslim?”

“No,” I replied curtly.

I was in no mood to share how I had escaped a childhood of oppressive Islamic rule. I also refrained from pointing out the fact that he had memorized a Koranic verse meant that he “spoke Arabic.” That’s like me repeating “Namaste” and claiming fluent Hindi. Idiot.

He continued to make small talk and compliment my figure until I laughed uproariously and placed my hands on my hips. He immediately took note of my wedding ring, the golden brilliance of which stood out against the dark blue dress I was wearing.

“You’re married?” he asked, alarmed and disappointed.

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m out!”

He spun around and made his way towards the back of the store. I went back to my duties.

It should have of ended there.

10 minutes later he approached me again as he was about to leave the store.

“Well, I didn’t see anything back there that I liked,” he sighed. “You must have sold everything before I came into the store.”

“Yes,” I replied impishly. “I knew you were coming and sold all the size 10 ½  shoes.”

“I don’t wear a 10 ½ .”

We played Guess My Shoe Size a little longer until I gave up.

“The point is, I was making a joke. I sold your shoes.”

His eyes roamed over my body like a cat eyeing a hapless bird in a bath.

“You look like you’re about an 8,” he said, smacking his black lips.

“No. I’m a size 10.”

“Well your boots make your feet look small,” he said in explanation. “And your thighs are large. They make your feet look smaller. You’re very well proportioned.”

Oh ewwwww!

“How many kids do you have?” he asked.

What? Where did that come from? I told him I had four.

“And how old are? Where are you from?”

“I’m 35 and I’m from Ghana.”

“So I look like one of your people, huh?” he cackled.

No, “my people” are much better looking than you, sir.

“Yeah…kind of,” I conceded.

He then informed me that he was 40 years old, and that he had a 5 year old daughter. He unearthed a dated cell phone from his pocket and showed me a picture of his baby. She was beautiful. I told him so.

“She look like me, don’t she?” he laughed wickedly.

“Actually, she does.”

“Her momma can’t stand that.”

Oh here we go. He was one of THOSE guys. It was then that I realized what I disliked about him so much: he was tired and played. Everything about him was played; his raps, his clothes, his phone, his jokes…just played!

His voice had a thin, annoying quality to it. He had begun to drone on about how he was going to take this picture and make a blanket out of it. His baby momma would hate that, he asserted.

“But my girl is gonna get her for me,” he chortled. “Every night, she’s gonna ask her mom for the ‘me and daddy’ blanket. Just watch!”

“Not if her mom folds it up and puts it in the closet,” I countered.

He carried on as if he hadn’t heard me. He commenced to brag about how he was the first one to take his 5 year old to get a mani-pedi and that every time after that, his baby momma would have to remember that HE had done it first. He also took her to the aquarium for her birthday.

“Okay…”I interrupted. “But who was the first person to teach her to read?”

He was stumped.

“Why are you stuttering?” I asked wickedly. Who gives a crap if your child has pink nails? Does she know her numbers, dude??

“Make no mistake,” he said with a huff. “Daddy is VERY involved. I pay that daycare every month. In fact, they be calling me looking for that money.”

This guy is an idiot and thinks I am too. He just told me that she graduated Pre-K. Georgia Pre-K is free…

“Uh huh.”

It was at this point that he informed me that he would like to have more children, and soon.

“As you can see, me and God have some good product.”

I smiled conciliatorily.

“I’m looking for a good, fertile woman. You know, with a good milking station and other apparatus I can work with…much like yourself.”

He made gestures with his hands.

“Huh?”

“You know…Double D’s.”

Actually, I wear a G cup, you nit wit.  

I laughed out loud, letting my voice carry over the entire store.  That’s when he told me about the type of woman he was looking to ‘trap’ and ‘breed’ with.

“You know, my baby momma only had a 3% chance of getting pregnant,” he said with bravado. “That means my stuff is potent.”

“I would think that the success of that pregnancy had more to do with her body than yours,” I countered.

He ignored me.

“Yeah…well, when I have this next baby, it’s gonna be even more chocolate. Although her mom might be white, but it won’t be light skinned. I want chocolate babies.”

Now he was just rambling. I had begun to sweat because I was thinking about my dinner. He mistook this for something else.

“Are you getting hot? I have that affect, you know.”

“Yes. Your enigmatic essence is overwhelming me.”

“I know.”

He was being laughed at and didn’t even have the intelligence to realize it.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m looking for a nice 24 – 27 year old woman. You can take a woman like that and blow her mind.”

“How do you mean?”

That’s when he stopped talking to me and lost himself in a monolog, recited in the third person:

So what did you do with your boyfriend this weekend?

‘Oh, we went to a Chinese restaurant and then a movie.’

Oh really baby? Why don’t I take you to Chops, and then we can go check out Alvin Ailey…expand your ho-rizons.

(Yes, he actually said HO-rizons.)

“Alvin Ailey?” I asked incredulously.

He looked at me strangely.

“Yeah, the dance company.”

I know Alvin Ailey. Our Girl Scout troop goes to see the show every year. How was this supposed to impress a grown woman? He continued with his tale of proposed seduction.

“You take a 20 something who’s used to hanging out at the Underground and say to her, ‘Hey baby, why don’t you get yourself a passport? Let me take you on a cruise?’”

“Are you serious?” I interrupted.

He clapped his hands like it was a sure banker.

“Are you telling me that’s not going to blow her mind?”

“I guess it would – if she’s never left SWATs…”

“And then when she gets pregnant, and asks you what she’s supposed to do, I just look at her and say ‘Hey baby…I got this big ol’ house. I got a fridge with plenty of food; and I got this 60 inch in the corner. It got cable too. I can even get someone in here to help you clean up…or show you how to clean if you don’t know how to!’”

Really niggro? You’re 40! You’re SUPPOSED to have a house with some cable in it!

At that moment I felt the spirit of my saintly, chain smoking grandmother descend from the heavens and hover above us. She had a Virginia Slims dangling from her rouged lips.

“Malaka,” she whispered, “this nigga ain’t shiieet.”

I ignored her and spoke to my tormentor. He was dangling his car key in his hand to simulate how he’d welcome this phantom lady into his imagined grandiose mansion. He drove a Chevy. A CHEVY.

“You know, you have just confirmed my assertion that 40+ year old men are looking for 20-something  year old girls because they are easily manipulated and impressed,” I mused aloud. “But you need to find the right one. My dad was a pilot. I’ve been all over the world and I’ve been flying since I was on breast milk.”

This seemed to perplex him. Still, he had to soldier on and prove that the paltry trinkets that he was offering were indeed valuable. I confirmed that they would be much appreciated – to someone who’s never seen or had much. In conclusion, he said this:

“My first task is to make sure she’s the right stock,” he said slyly. “I went to Georgia Tech. When I’ve had her over enough times, I’ll get a DNA sample from her. I know how to do that.”

“I think it’s time for you to go,” I said with a chuckle. But oh, was I serious.

“Nice talking to you, Malaka,” he said, extending his hand for a shake. “My name is Isreal, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you too, Israel.”

Good Lord, I lie as easily as I breathe.

The point of this whole tale? If you are – or know someone  who is – a woman between the ages of 24 and 29, watch out for men like this. They are COMING for you. Travel. Expand your own horizons. Read books. Don’t let some douche bag with the promise of cable TV and an old Chevy ruin your life!

But it doesn’t end there, believe it or not. Part deux coming up….

I didn’t set out with sexual harassment on my mind, but it’s one of those unfortunate consequences of giving an individual like me access to a keyboard, a smartphone, a podium…pretty much any vehicle that allows one to communicate with humanity.

You see, sometime last week, I got a tweet from Gyedu Blay Ambolley. He said he had been interviewed and suggested I check out the story…so I did.

He looked great – very handsome and distinguished – in every picture from this article, and I had no qualms telling him as much. I tweeted a reply along the lines of the following:

“Nice body of work. And your music is pretty good too.”

I can’t say for certain what I said. I am unwilling to go back and review my timeline for accuracy.

Unless you’ve grown up on Mars – or somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line – you’ve probably heard of Gyedu Ambolley. He is a titan of Ghana’s music industry in its heyday. If there were a Mount Olympus for African Musicians, the dwellers therein in would comprise of Fela Kuti, Mac Tontoh, Miriam Makeba, Hugh Masekela, Asaabea and Ambolley. So you see, the fact that this gentleman is following me on twitter is a pretty significant deal.

And here was I, treating him like a frozen Poki tube trapped in the grips of a thirsty primary school girl.

I didn’t get a response from him for hours after I’d sent that tweet. Well daggone it! If I was going to objectify (and possibly offend) one of the greatest musical talents of my father’s generation, I wish I had done it with much more flair. It really should have looked (or sounded) something like this:

******

I don’t know how I managed it, but I had gotten a one-on-one interview with Gyedu Blay Ambolley. I squealed when I heard a fist pound lightly on the private dining room where we’d be having our chat. I had arranged the seating for optimum comfort. I grinned and shook his hand enthusiastically.

“Gyedu! Mr. Ambolley…Brah Blay – what would you like me to call you?”

“Gyedu would do just fine,” he boomed cordially. “No need for so much formality. We are all brothers and sisters under God.”

“Then I think I’ll call you Brah Blay,” I insisted. “I like alliteration. I bet you didn’t know that about me. But why would you? We’re here to interview you – the great Gyedu Blay Ambolley!”

I take a seat and invite him to do the same.

“But there’s only one chair Miss…Mrs…?” he let his voice trail off.

“Malaka. I’m just Malaka,” I reply. “And by all means, feel free to warble a few verses from that one song. I won’t mind a bit.”

Brah Blay raised his brow quizzically. He promised he might sing for me after the interview was over. He asked if he might call one of the wait staff for a chair.

“I won’t hear of it!” I squawked. “Not when I’ve saved you the best seat in the house!”

I patted my lap with my left hand and motioned for him to come hither with my right. After patting and “come hithering” for an eternity, Brah Blay finally acquiesced and sat on my ample lap.

I wrapped my arms around his waist and took a long, deep breath.

The man smelled like aftershave, fresh coconut milk and music. He actually carried the fragrance of music. After inhaling to my heart’s content, I felt ready to begin the interview.

“Mi mi mi miiiiii!!!!”

My sudden throaty outburst caused the music icon to jump in fright.

“Eiii! What’s wrong with you!”

“Shhh shhh shhhh…” I whispered soothingly, putting my pointer finger against his lips and pressing down weightily. When the tip of my finger hit his chin, I placed my hand back around his waist.

“There’s no need to be afraid. I was just clearing my throat.”

“Uh huh…”

“Let’s begin shall we?” I asked him, giddy with the prospect of all that we had to discuss. I had so many questions!

“With pleasure, Malaka,” replied Brah Blay. “Only, I wish you’d let me stand at least. You seem very uncomfortable under my weight.”

“Oh…how!” I said, vehemently dismissing his claim, as well as the fact that my thighs had gone numb. “Why, I’m as happy as a whore in church.”

“Uh huh…”

“Did you know that your initials spell the word “gba?”

“I’m sure someone has pointed that out to me at some point.”

I giggled, but when he didn’t join me in my short fit of laughter I turned serious. I told him I respected his time and that we should probably forge ahead with the interview. He probably had a jingle for a mackerel product to get to soon or something.

“So, Brah Blay. Tell me. What was the sweetest mango you’ve ever eaten, and when?”

“I’m sorry…what?” he asked in genuine surprise.

“Well it’s a standard question whenever an artiste finds their way on Mind of Malaka,” I said, conveying equal and genuine distress. Hadn’t he read my blog?

“I – I – I don’t know. I guess a few years ago, maybe? I used to live in Cali. They have excellent mangos.”

“So you think Cali mangos are better than Ghana mangos?” I challenged.

“I didn’t say that,” he countered. “You asked me where the best mango I had had was. I said it might have been in Cali.”

“That’s a little unpatriotic, don’t you think?”

Brah Blay soon became hostile.

“Are you going to ask me a question about my music?” he practically begged.

“Why on earth would I do that? You’re in this daydream so that I can objectify you…not ask you silly, industry standard questions.”

The idea of being treated like something less than a demi-god did not appeal to Brah Blah. He leapt off my lap and called for security.

“They’re not coming,” I warned darkly.

“What? Why ever not?” he asked, those deep brown intelligent eyes widening in panic.

“Because you’re in MY world now…”

At that moment, I got an alert on my iPhone. It was Gyedu Blay Ambolley! He had responded to my tweet.

Well then. He wasn’t offended at all. That just took the wind out of little plastic sails. I guess it’s harder to e-objectify a man who has lived through the free love and LSD era than I thought.

The title is not a misprint.

VILENTINE’S Day.

There is a vile side to Valentine’s Day, my friends – a slimy sequence of events that occur during a day that was created to honor love and affection. It turns out that not everyone has noble intentions for Cupid’s favorite holiday. There are those who go on the prowl in search of easy prey, with the sole intent of violating the purity of this sacred Hallmark holiday.

Here’s how I discovered this sordid truth:

******

I was at the park waiting for a woman named Ebony to bring me Girl Scout cookies. I had been hustling her unsold overflow to co-workers and friends, keeping the change that they said they didn’t need for myself. Toll money; you know. It’s not because I’m a thief.

Anyway, I got an unexpected call from my younger brother, Reckless Weasel. Something must have been wrong. He never calls. Then I remembered it was three months had passed since his last call and that this conversation was therefore right on schedule.

“Whaddup dude.”

“Yeah….”

“You been smokin’? You sound kinda chill.”

“Nah, nah. I’m looking for a new job so I’m laying off weed for a bit. Gotta keep the system clean.”

“Guess what?”

“You’re pregnant.”

“Huh? What? No! I told you I shut down the factory two years ago!”

(Now insert several jokes about damaged assembly lines, empty packages and trucks with no cargo here.)

“Did you get a call from your cousin? SHE might be having a baby, if she’s not lying. You know how she likes to play jokes.”

“Uhhh. I see. Uhhhh…”

Our cousin Maame had named Reckless the godfather of her first born son 2 years ago in an apparent effort to divert a portion of his smoking funds towards her son’s care. She doesn’t approve of recreational drug use. We’ve tried to point out the medicinal value of weed on several occasions to no avail.  The joke was on her though. Reckless Weasel is the worst godfather ever. He’s never bought his godson anything. Like, ever.  

“So when’s the ‘due date’?” he chortled.

“It’s supposed to be in 7 months,” I replied. “But that’s not even the kicker. She and Kojo don’t know when the baby was conceived.”

“That’s understandable.”

“No it’s not. They barely ever have sex. In fact, she can’t remember the last time they did it.”

“What?? And they live in the same house?”

“Yeah man. I asked her if maybe it was on Valentine’s Day, but she said it wasn’t. She was too tired after work.”

“Awww man. That’s awful! A man should always be able to have sex on Valentine’s Day. Why, that’s one of the best days for guys to get laid. Especially for single guys. I know for a FACT that I’m  gonna get some on Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh that’s so gross.”

“No for real. That’s when women with questionable morals and low self-esteem are out in force!”

“Saa? And what does a woman with low self-esteem look like?”

“Oh come on, Malaka. You have friends with low self-esteem. You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

“No, really. I don’t.”

“*Siiiighhh* You know…that chick who just tries too hard.  The one who dresses and acts like Beyonce, but is actually a back-up dancer. You only have to spend a few minutes talking to her to figure it out. That’s the hardest part. Talking to all these girls until you unearth the one with low self-esteem. She’s always the one complaining about something. Her hair, her car, the fact that she doesn’t have a car, some guy…”

“And these are the ones guys look for?”

“Yup! She usually has fewer standards. Low self-esteem is key if you want to get some for free on Valentine’s Day…or any other day for that matter.”

(Suddenly, images of my little brother in a foggy back alley with some painted girl in a dirty blond wig flooded my mind. I was horrorstruck. Why was my brilliant brother humping bleached women of ill repute in some dirty brick enclosure?!)

“Oh, come on man!” he objected. “I got more self-worth than that! I don’t know what’s been in an alley…but I DO know what’s been in the back seat of my car.”

“Like cigar wrappers and old Johnny Guitar Watson eight tracks?”

“Exactly. You can take a girl with low self-esteem to the back seat of your car. She’ll have no complaints.  Them other chicks be wanting to come over to your house or go to a nice hotel n’ sh*t. That’s why I don’t fool with them.”

“I see…”

(I pause for a long moment.)

“You’re going to write a blog about this, aren’t you?” Reckless Weasel predicted.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“I can hear the wheels turning.”

(Insert 4 or more jokes about locomotives, the Industrial Revolution and rusty hand brakes here.)

“A’ight dude. I’ll talk to you in about 4 more months, nnnkay?”

“Later bells!”

*Click*

******

There is no moral to this story.

Happy Friday to you, one and all.