Category Archives: Thoughts raging in my head

I was supposed to go to Morning Star School, but I didn’t get gain admittance. I can’t remember if the fees were too high or I bombed the entrance exam or if they just didn’t have room for one more student… I just remember the sense of relief I had when we walked away from the wrought iron gates and my parents told us we wouldn’t be going to school there.

I couldn’t have been more pleased. I had just come to Accra from Ohio, and Morning Star didn’t look anything like Garfield Elementary. The playground sucked. That was all that mattered to me.

So my siblings and I spent another week content at play in our lodgings at what was once Ringway Hotel (which is now nothing more than a ruin, last I checked), scrambling over the mighty wooden elephants in the lobby and making polite requests for fried eggs and excellent sugar bread from the cook. And then suddenly, it happened: my parents announced that they had found another school for us.

“Soul Clinic International,” my mother said.

My sister and I burst into a fit of obnoxious laughter.

“What is it? A hospital for your soul?”

*giggle, giggle, giggle*

“Yeah… what kinda name is that?!”

*har, har, har!!!*

My parents let us have our fun and then drove us up to the untarred parking lot of what was to become our new school. We met with Mrs. MacCaughley, who was a Black American. I don’t know why this comforted me. The woman never smiled and made no pretense of showing me any favoritism, but I felt more secure knowing there was an American on the premises. I was then led to a classroom where I was to take my placement exam. I had just left third grade in America and naturally assumed I would be moving on to fourth. The entrance exam proved I wasn’t ready. I knew what a + and – sign were… but what was this x all over my paper?

I repeated my grade.

I had fleeting memories of what it was like to live in Ghana from earlier visits my family had taken. The pleasant sort of childhood memories that one associates with travel – like eating a mango for the first time or seeing a lizard scurry past you in pursuit of a moth – made up the bulk of my expectations for a now permanent life in Ghana. Soul Clinic showed me that those idyllic moments were relics of the past. I was quickly thrown into the fray and would soon learn what it meant to be a child – a girl child in particular – in Rawlings’ Ghana.

The first thing I had to do was learn to shut my mouth. As you can imagine, this was particularly difficult. Only by the grace of God and seven fairies did I manage to not say anything to get me into too much trouble. There were soldiers in those days looking for anyone critical of the regime. If I said anything out of turn, my dad could have been punished for it. And then there was danger that loose lips brought in the class room. Some of my teachers routinely gave out misinformation in class. (I knew this, because I had the benefit of several years’ instruction in NBC’s after school specials.) But I quickly learned that even if a teacher was unquestionably inaccurate in any regard, it was not my place as a student to bring that error to his/her attention, let alone correct them. That was suicide.

Second, I had to come to terms with physical punishment. No teacher had ever struck me before, and my parents only spanked us for the most grievous offenses, like lying or stealing or running into the middle of the street in traffic. Suddenly I was being hit for everything; wrong answers on a test, taking an object with my left hand, not paying my school fees on time. There were days I wished I could march my parents up to the school and demand that my teacher lash THEM. I could not help that my fees hadn’t been paid!

Third, I had to accept my limitations as a girl. This was by far the hardest.

Soul Clinic would teach me that there were hard and fast gender roles which informed the rules that governed our society. This was not peculiar to Soul Clinic alone, of course. It was the way things were done nationally – like assembly and marching to class. Every primary school student marched to class. For me, there was no better way to start the day than with a song. That’s one thing Garfield Elementary didn’t have.

We were very fortunate because we had a “marching band”, which comprised of three boys, two drum sticks and a one drum. They pounded out rhythms that set the pace for our little stamping feet. Everyone admired the marching band, and one boy in particular was considered the best drummer in the whole school. I wanted in. Desperately.

“But you can’t drum,” said Prince. (Remember him?)

“Yes I can!” I shot back. I knew I could. In the 80’s girls could do anything. Punky Brewster had proven that.

Prince chuckled condescendingly.

“No, you can’t, Malaka. You’re a girl… AND you’re too soft.”

Fortunately, by this time, I had lost my crush on Prince and he was just a friend whom I was free to tease. I’m sure I deserved his denouncement. I was such a jerk in those days. Still, the fact that he said I couldn’t play the drums because I was a girl really stung. What nonsense!

My class was filled with bright girls, who were special in their own right. There was Peggy Baah, whom we dubbed “Iron Lady” because she NEVER cried, no matter how hard the teacher lashed her. There was Nicole Klugeson, who was considered the prettiest and smartest girl in all of third grade. She had shoulder length permed hair and blue berry juice dark skin. And then there was Kate Nartey.

Kate Nartey was the poster African child. She had short hair, big eyes, and skinny legs. In fact, she had skinny everything. She was nimble. Everything she did was quick. When she knew the answer to a question, her hand shot up faster than everyone else’s. When she walked, it was with a purpose. When she swept the compound, it was with lightning efficiency. Kate was always quiet, but you always knew when Kate was there. She just had an energy about her.

Kate was the only girl that the boys allowed to play football with. The rest of us were relegated to skipping rope or ampe. I used to watch with awe as she skirted past boy after boy with the football connected to her feet. Kate was good at every sport – basketball, volley ball (we had an imaginary net, delineated by a chalk line in the ground), high jump – it didn’t matter; Kate could do it.

So what came next should not have surprised me.

The following term, after that fruitless conversation I’d had with Prince, we all lined up for assembly and prepared to march as usual, once all the announcements had been given. One of the senior girls called out the song we were to sing and the marching band boys departed from their ranks and got ready to drum. Something didn’t look right though… there was a girl up there holding the sticks.

Kate.

There were whispers all over the various classes. “Ei!” “Whoa” and a couple of phrases in Ga. I don’t know about any other girl that day, but my heart leapt. I marched a little harder, sang a little louder, and felt a lot better about my day. Oh guys, I wish you could have seen her. Her spindly arms were in perfect position, and she stood like a tiny marble statue, eyes trained on her drum. It was as if she didn’t dare look around in case she missed a beat and ruined the moment for every girl there. Because indeed, that’s what it was: a moment for us girls. It was a moment that proved that ability has nothing to do with gender, but with giving people an opportunity to prove their metal if you just give them the right arena.

I know I didn’t deserve to play that drum, but if anyone did, it was Kate Nartey.

Like a bedraggled feral feline presenting a mangled carcass to a would-be master, Twitter will sometimes drops thing on my timeline and looks at me expectedly after I’ve perused its contents. This week, the little blue bird brought me this:

*Vulgarity alert for all my religious readers!*

Now that you’ve been “offended” (or not) by the video, it is at this point that I am supposed to pepper my conversation with words like “subjugation”, and “misogyny”, and “intersectionality” and, “misandry”, and “archetypes” and a whole host of other words that I’ve had to look up in the dictionary ever since this video came out. These words are foreign to me, because I speak Feminish just about as well as I speak Christianese. If I tried to pepper this post with any of these adjectives I’d quickly be revealed as a fraud.

I wouldn’t do that to you MOM Squad. We like to keep it real in these parts, and I’d really like your opinion on this topic: Are Black women too stupid to know when they are being taken advantage of?

Prior to this week, I have never heard of Lily Allen. And until Miley Cyrus’ woeful twerkfest on the VMAs, she never showed up on my pop culture radar. Now you can’t pass a newsstand without Miley’s tongue gracing the cover. Over the last few days, Lily Allen has come under fire for the same crime that Miley committed, i.e. using Black women’s bodies for their own empowerment and advantage.

Something about that accusation doesn’t sit right with me; because in that accusation itself, the complainants premise is that Black women have no agency over their bodies, whatsoever, and that they have no opinion about how their bodies are portrayed. I find that hard to believe in this post-Emancipation, post-Civil Rights era. Black women may not have a lot of creature comforts, but as sentient beings, we DO have the right and wherewithal to decide how to dress ourselves in the morning.

Now, I will admit that I am probably looking at this whole thing through Pollyanna’s rose colored glasses in that I have no music industry experience to speak of, but I would imagine certain things have to take place before a dancer goes from a walk-in to the finished product on the small screen. I image that there is an audition process. I would think that the director would convey the intent of the video. I would think the artist would talk to the women (in this case) about what her vision is. I would think there would be some discussion amongst the back-up dancers in between takes to see how each woman was feeling about the shoot, its progress, or what happened on Jerry this week. And if in the midst of ALL that, none of them felt exploited, who are we to say that they are?

My problem with Lily Allen’s video isn’t that her back-up dancers were primarily Black (or non-white. I believe there is an Asian girl in the cast), it’s that gawd-awful crotch shot in the first minute of the video. Like really? Was that necessary? I could virtually smell poon-tang wafting through my laptop.  Did the fact that all her dancers share facets of my skin tone? Not in the slightest; Because I don’t belong to that social group. I don’t hang out with b-bop dancers, or in strip clubs, or in any of the places where the generally fit/athletic congregate. When I look at those girls, I don’t see “Black women”… I see “a couple of Black women”, and therein lies the difference. These women do not represent every Black woman everywhere, and I’d wager that if you’d ask them, they’d say the same.

But then I wonder, has anyone asked THEM? I’ve seen a cornucopia of quotes from Lily Allen herself but I haven’t seen a semi-colon attributed to the feelings or imagination of the Black back-up dancers that everyone professes to be so indignant about.

We have to stop doing this: and I’m looking at you, the Black genteel elite whose voices direct society’s suppositions about our race/community. This is the same thing you did to Rachel Jeantel during the Zimmerman trial. You savaged her for lack of eloquence and berated her for her appearance. How long did it take you as a group to pause and ask HOW she came to be this way? Weren’t you ashamed when you discovered she was Haitian and that English was not her first language? That’s what it took for you to put down your broad stroking brush that you seek to paint all Black women with? What a horrible thing to be guilty of… to be just as subjugating as the person you seek to castigate.

What I’d be more interested in is discovering WHY these women were so comfortable with their portrayal in this video. For instance, one of that back-up dancers in Miley’s VMA performance said she felt very uncomfortable with the way she was treated on stage – but guess what? She performed anyway. And remember how we were all asking where Paula Patton was during Robin Thicke’s performance and wondering why she hadn’t leapt on stage to smack the “smile” off of Miley? How shocked were you to discover that she was sitting in every rehearsal, and that come the time of the live show, this performance was of no surprise to her!

My final thoughts are this: the dollar is louder and mightier than your outrage, and as long as Lily Allen is paying, you might as well get good and comfortable with Black bottom smacking and jiggling. Besides, it just translates better on film.

I don’t own any “church clothes”. This point will become relevant shortly.

It’s been two years since I attended church regularly, which is almost a sin because my husband is a deacon. My work schedule (which I confess I chose) had me in-store during the hours of service. I changed my schedule a little over a month ago, realizing that I needed a dose of Jesus more than that $36 I earned in those few hours.

Because I haven’t been to church in so long and because I have developed a passionate love for cookies, pizza and chocolate in the last two years, I have outgrown all of my “proper” church attire. Depending on what denomination of Christianity one ascribes to, proper attire can run the gamut from boxy dresses, to trouser suits, or even jeans if your house of worship is liberal enough.

This past Sunday I wore jeggings.

Turns out this was a no-no.

Now, for all the members of my church who surreptitiously read my blog and try to act like I don’t know you DO read it, I heard everything else Bishop said about Christ dwelling in our hearts and giving and so forth. But when he pointed out “tight pants” while casting a side glance in my direction, it caused me to think on other things: specifically men’s opinions on women’s fashion.

As a re-converted Christian, I try to draw a little attention to myself as possible while in religious circles. However this Sunday, fate would have me sitting in the very front row of the church – what preachers refer to as ‘spitting distance’ – because one of my friends is an elder and her husband was out of town. She motioned for me to come sit with her on Elders Row. I obeyed.

I have made no bones about my struggle with weight. And with that struggle comes the hardship of how to clothe such a large body frugally. I have recently come to discover jeggings, which are stretchy and very comfortable. Paired with a thigh length tunic (or long sweater as was the case this Sunday) I find that I look respectable enough and am quite comfortable. I know this because I never get second glances from other women. It is the approval of other women that most women seek, which is a point that is missed by most men.

I admire my Bishop, I really do, however like many men he has no clue what influences women’s fashion or tastes, or even what brings a woman pleasure. Oddly, pastors, who overwhelmingly tend to me male, seem to have a conviction that they understand the nuances of the female existence and comment on it liberally. I remember one there was a story of some pastor in Ghana who got on the radio and said that a man should never perform oral sex on a woman because “that is the place she menstruates from”. Yet another American pastor said that oral sex should be forbidden because “you’re putting your mouth on/in an environment where you will later praise God from.” Well, considering that the same hands I’ve used to wipe poo for the last seven years are very often raised in worship to Almighty God, I fail to see the relevance in that line of logic. I need oral stimulation to climax and my babies have all needed thei bums cleaned.

Cunnilingus

Cunnilingus

Cunnilingus…

I listened obediently and politely while my Bishop talked about women – and there may some in this church – who follow trends like this tight pants where you can “see all your stuff”. Who are you dressing like that for? Just because a man is old doesn’t mean he doesn’t have eyes to see! And what kind of man do you think you are attracting with that mode of dress?

I stared down the row and looked at the five women seated, two of whom were past their bloom. Both firmly in their 60s, they both had on boxy trouser suits and sensible shoes. The woman following wore a pea green skirt suit with fishnet stockings. My elder friend had on a dress with a jacket and 4 inch black patent leather platform heels. And there was me in my jeggings. I’d wager my first born child that none of us got up that morning wondering what a man would think of what we were wearing.

Here’s how I know, and I invite anyone to tell me why and how I’m wrong.

When a girl in the fourth grade gets dressed for school, she dresses so that other girls won’t tease her and call her names. She wants to fit in with the crowd and be accepted by her female peers. If a boy notices, great! But overall she wants the approval of other girls.

This changes in high school,  when girls are more sexually driven and carries on up to about age 25 when a woman thinks she just HAS to have a man.

Thereafter, we go back to dressing for other women and more importantly for OURSELVES. Here is my thought process when I put on clothes in the morning:

1. Is it going to be cold/hot?
2. Is it comfortable?
3. If I have to pee, will I be able to get this thing off in time?
4. Is it comfortable?
5. Would I look at another woman dressed as I am right now and say “Dag. Didn’t she have a friend to tell her shouldn’t have left the house like that?”

Then I put on my clothes and leave. The idea of what a man might or might not think will never factor into the equation. You know why? Men don’t care about what a woman is wearing. They care about getting her naked. I know this because I have been hit on while dressed in the following attire:

Sweat pants

A skirt and blouse

Jeans

A boubou

What did any of those outfits have in common? Nothing except some dude saw me in them!

The sermon led me to have a conversation with my husband on what he thought on the matter. He too was of the opinion that women dress to attract me. I also gave birth to an imaginary baby. What utter nonsense!

“The problem is, we live in a culture that infantilizes women,” I growled. “Men, the media, and even some other women think we all as a sex are stuck at the age of 18-25. That our ONE goal in life is to impress and capture some MAN.”

I was pacing and he was nodding.

“I can tell you right now: when I wake up and get my day started, what you think of how I look doesn’t even filter into my head! And furthermore, if a man sees an attractive woman out there ‘advertising’ with whatever she’s wearing and strays, the burden of guilt is on HIM, not her!”

On that point he disagreed. He vehemently holds that women who dress in a certain way bear responsibility for the attention they attract. Whatever, says I.

Why aren’t men held to these same standards, I wonder? Outside of the baggy pants issue, which  we all agree is slovenly, men’s fashion and the concept of “decency” is never a topic of discussion. Women have always had to fight this silly battle with regard to clothing, starting from riding a horse astride, which as once considered “vulgar”.

So dear reader: in your view, do women dress to impress other women or for the sole purpose of attracting or pleasing men? When you look at your closet and eventually in the mirror, what makes you pleased with what you see? Are you looking with the eyes of others or do you judge yourself? Discuss!

And yes, I will be wearing jeggings at church in the future. I figure if it’s good enough for work, it’s good enough for worship. Same God who gave me my job doesn’t object when I have to wear jeggings to work and pay my tithes…

*I’m writing this knowing that portions of this post are going to irk some of my conservative and liberal readers alike. The moderates might not be so mad at me. By “moderates”, I mean only one person: A-Dub, my sister.

I was recently interviewed by the Ndeye, the curator of Under the Neem Tree and was asked the following question:

What are you[r] thoughts on African feminism as opposed to western feminism? Does African feminism even exist? If yes, how do you see it evolved in the struggle between modernism and traditions? And finally, do you consider yourself a feminist?

Time constraints didn’t allow me to answer the question as fully as I would have liked. After all, there is a lot in those four questions to address! I fired off an answer, hit ‘send’ and closed my laptop. But late last night, the question haunted me in my sleep and followed me into the morning.

Malaka; do you consider yourself a feminist?

As a modern woman, I would be expected to reply emphatically in the positive and politely ask for the next question. Maybe I’m not that modern. I’m okay with that. I’ve never done too well with following trends. As you will see from the article when it is posted, I answered that I do not consider myself a “feminist”.

First of all, I have several hang-ups with feminism as I have experienced or read about it. Now, I have only experienced the idea of feminism from the Western perspective, and as Ndeye points out in her question there IS a difference between Western feminism and African feminism, and even a debate about whether African feminism even exists. When I was first introduced to ‘feminism’, it was via some documentary I was made to watch in the 80’s. It talked about the suffragette movement, the Pill and women’s right to work. It was the women’s right to work bit that stuck with me. What nonsense was this? Black women have ALWAYS worked in this country. We’ve picked cotton, been maids, chopped tobacco, swept streets, minded children… all for a pittance and with no pomp or fanfare. “Right” to work??? Tsseeewww. Nonsense. It was only later that I came to understand that the heralds of the American women’s rights movement/early feminists were the wives of aristocrats, and that there was a direct relationship between a man’s perceived  success and the idleness of his wife. The richer the man, the more idle his wife. That’s not a lot of time to get out and be of much use, is it?

So who do these rich, idle, seemingly incapable women call on to further their cause of freedom? Well, former female slaves, of course. Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, and probably dozens of other nameless Black women who suffered under the lash in fields, and rice swamps, and God knows where else. These women were the picture of strength; the anti-type to the image of female frailty that White men had appended to their own women. Harriet and Sojourner made impassioned speeches about the ability of women. You know what happened next. Eventually, the suffragettes won the right to the female vote in 1920, won the right to work in factories for pay during the industrial era, took over work at home during the war effort. And my sisters? Black women didn’t earn the right to vote until the end of the Civil Rights movement in the 1960’s. We didn’t have the right to work alongside our Caucasian ‘sisters’ in their mechanized factories either. Could they have fought as hard to work alongside us as they did for their own rights to fair pay? Sure they could have. But they didn’t. They didn’t even speak up for Quvenzhané Wallis when the editors of The Onion called her “a little cunt”. White feminist don’t care one whit about Black women until it’s time for the next crisis.

Hey! Hey! Quick! Close your eyes! In one word, describe ‘women’s rights’!

Chances are, if you’re sitting in your big comfy American couch reading this blog, you said “abortion”.

That’s right: Today’s feminist issue is all about abortion, aka the Issue Formerly known as A Woman’s Right to Choose. And at the beginning of this fight for the “right to choose” who did these elite women in their structured suits and beaded friendship bracelets parade around to validate their cause? Poor Black women. Again, they used our bodies and our wretched state to get their government to kowtow to their personal wants. A couple of years later and a more “appropriate” icon of the birth control movement is introduced to the public in the person of Sandra Fluke. There is a history of White women using us, making promises in the name of “sisterhood” and failing to make good on their promises, as recent as Paula Deen.

So no, I do not identify as a feminist. As you can see, I wouldn’t make a very good one, anyway.

I once had this troll that used to follow and harass me on M.O.M. and on Twitter until I finally HAD to block her. She made all kinds of pronouncements about me.

Malaka is a conservative. Malaka is un-evolved. Malaka is a knuckle dragger who doesn’t believe that sex should be had outside of marriage. That last accusation amused me, actually, considering my first child, just like Jesus Christ was conceived outside of wedlock. What? Do you think God was confused when He sent the Holy Spirit to impregnate an unwed teen? I don’t have any problems with children being conceived outside of wedlock, and I don’t think the church should either. We should be encouraging life, not driving people to destroy it out of guilt because we have issues with our warped Victorian era Christian views.

Which brings me to my last thought: does African feminism exist?

I don’t know if you can put the idea (or least MY idea) of what African feminism is into a tidy little box wrapped with kente cloth and call it African Feminism/Exhibit A. Many of our societies prior to the Christian/Islamic invasion of the last five centuries were matriarchal. For instance, in the Akan culture, an uncle had more right to his sister’s children than that woman’s own husband did. This is because a woman’s child was her child for sure, and her brother would be confident that they were indeed a part of her lineage. To that end, there was a time in Africa – or Ghana at least – when the news of a pregnancy was met with celebration. Now, a girl gets pregnant and anguished screams of “Ooohhh!!!” echo in the village/city halls.

We just do things differently. For instance, the way we historically appropriated land in Africa is different from the way Europeans did. The land belonged to everyone in that community, not just some feudal lord in his stone fortress atop a Scottish knoll.  To my knowledge, there was never the sense of competition between the sexes as Caucasian men and women have experienced it. Our Queen Mothers and Kings were afforded mutual respect, and we celebrated their unique roles and expectations within those roles. So in short, no: I do not believe “African feminism” exists. I believe African feminism is a euphemism for human decency.

I read that there is a push for feminists to stop using the term as their moniker and to come up with some other name. There is this idea that they need to re-brand, because feminism/feminist has so many negative emotions attached to it, even among other women. Feminists, like any other clique, can be a cruel bunch if you do not share their same views. You can throw Catholics, Southern Baptists and Shiite Muslims in that category, just so I’m not accused of picking on feminists.

If I HAD to categorize myself, and put myself in a box, I’d like to say that I am a Decent Human Being…inist. Does decency have a gender or race? Of course not. At the end of the day, that’s all I want: to treat people fairly and to be treated fairly.

Can I get an ‘amen’ from my moderates?

I recently read Boakye Glover’s The Justice, a Ghanaian political thriller. It was a definite page turner, fraught with action, suspense and action, courtesy of Caleb Osei, the novel’s hero and ‘blowman’.  The book – the central theme of which was the love of God, country and family – was released during an interesting time in Ghana’s history, for 2013 was the first time any election results had been challenged in court in the country’s fledgling democratic history. In the aftermath there was no bloodshed, no rioting in the streets; none of that stuff CNN sends planeloads of khaki clad journalists to cover with somber prose and patronizing glances for the camera.  The results were released and life went about as usual. Ghanaians had proven to the world, and more importantly to Africa, that we are matured in approach to governance and democracy.

But I wonder if we could take it several steps further?

With every passing year, I hear of more and more Ghanaians giving up their ‘spoils’ of toil in the West to re-emigrate back home. Many have declared the American Dream as dead, which I am wholeheartedly inclined to agree with. The pursuit of the American Dream is financed by crushing American Debt, which can take an entire generation to climb out of. Thirteen years after receiving my BA, I STILL owe thousands of dollars in student loans. There is roughly between $902 billion and $1 trillion in total outstanding student loan debt in the US today. It’s estimated that the average person owes $26,000 (not including interest) on their loans, which is a daunting amount stretched over 20 or so years. Most Americans barely recover, and the middle class is gradually but progressively shrinking. All the same, Americans hold tenacious hope and love for their country – an affection which is renowned throughout the world. It’s demonstrated in everything Americans do: from the way civil government is run, to the way they treat the environment and to how they celebrate their heroes.  I’m not saying America is perfect… not by any means. But I doubt any other country can boast a citizenry that LOVES its country as much as an American.

I long to see Ghanaians develop such a love for their country and heritage.

We often refer to Ghana as a Mother, assigning the country a feminine identity. If Ghana were an actual physical breathing woman, with thick thighs and ample breasts and full hair (you know, a proper woman) would we continue to treat her the way we do if we loved her? Would we dump trash on her, urinate on her whenever the feeling to ease ourselves came upon us and choke her with pollution? And when she wept, would her infuse her tears with petroleum waste and raw sewage? Would we reward her fealty to us by robbing her blind? Wouldn’t other men (or women) look at us with disgust and ask us why we were treating such a beautiful woman with so much promise and potential in this derogatory manner?

In real life, do you abuse someone you claim to love? Of course not.

Why should a Chinese man or an Irish man have more love for Ghana than a Ghanaian? Is she not for us? Of course she is.

And yet our politicians – who claim to ‘love’ and ‘serve’ Ghana -  rob our coffers daily for their own personal gain. Trash is thrown wantonly in the street, the stench of rich is made worse with a single tropical storm. Our police force, given the charge of serving and protecting rather defrauds and harasses citizenry with impunity. And worst of all, we’re forgetting Ghana’s glorious history, reveling in the fact that we raise children who can hardly utter a word in their local language and speak in undistinguishable foreign accents. Doing one’s National Service is not seen as an honor, but rather an abhorrent chore that is to be circumvented or made as inconvenient as possible, wherever possible. God forbid one should be sent to the arid North! Such is our contempt for our heritage that the busiest street in Accra, and certainly the center for high-end commerce is dubbed ‘Oxford Street’, mimicking a certain famous road with the same moniker in London. Is this how to love a woman? Is this how to love a country?

Now, do Americans litter, pollute, steal and destroy? Absolutely and almost daily. The difference is that for the love of their country, they have set up solutions to combat these problems.

• Thieving politicians are made to pay for their corruption, whereas in Ghana, ours are left alone to wreak further havoc and encouraged to pilfer more.
• American scientists and environmentalists are given funding for discovering solutions to its waste problems, whereas in Ghana, we have yet to entice our Western trained professionals to return home and develop the nation with their knowledge.
• American children are being taught how to respect the environment and are made to understand what their personal impact on the globe is. Ghanaian children chew, pour, pass, forget and are not given tactile tools to creatively solve problems are even informed of what their own significance is as a student, other than to pass examinations.
• Americans have safety rules and regulations for every product that is consumed in the country. Ghana imports inferior “Made for Africa” items from China, which are notoriously substandard and in many cases, dangerous.

I could go on of course, but the purpose of this post is not to gripe, but rather to point out that despite all Ghana’s foibles, there seems to be a crop of citizens – but Returnees and those who have never bothered to leave – determined to demonstrate a new love affair with Ghana. I’m encouraged by groups like the Green Ghanaian who are committed to repurposing our waste and ushering a new national consciousness surrounding the environment. The explorer in me leaps every time I see a post by Ghana’s Adventure Junkies, who encourage every Ghanaian to get out and see his/her country: Climb Mount Afadjato or brave the walkway at Kakum! I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my BFFFL (and women of her ilk) who is committed to the cause of excellence in everything she does, from her MAKSI fashion label to championing the cause of women in every arena.

The pursuit of excellence is part of Africa’s glorious past. Somewhere along the line, probably in the midst of the brutalization meted out by the colonial powers and our own internal rivalries, Ghanaians were convinced of their own inferiority. The tide has steadily been reversing, but at this juncture in history it’s not time for gradualism. It’s time for an about face. You Ghana Man/ Ghana Wwoman: You’re probably reading this post on your iPhone or Android, a marvel of the 21^st Century. The world is in the palm of hand. Don’t you think it’s time we achieved marvels of previous centuries, like reliable access to clean drinking water?

Loving our country a little better can certainly make that possible.

*There are some people – an exceptional few – who are paragons of emotional stoicism. These people have all the emotive sensibilities of a fragment of driftwood. This post is not about you. It’s about the rest of us.  Just FYI…

Strong.

Black.

Woman.

What comes to mind when you hear these words? Close your eyes… or not; really think about it. Perhaps an image of a woman at the bus stop with all her plastic grocery bags arrayed around like a field of rotting posies her pops into your consciousness. Perhaps it might be a powerful woman in a pencil skirt and lab coat barking out orders. Is she the nameless janitor that cleans your building every night? Whoever she is, I’d wager 99% of you have imagined her alone. Not supported by family; not surrounded by friends; just strong – and ALONE. And you would be right.

I was chatting with one of my dearest and oldest friends last night who is going through a very difficult time with her would-be fiancé. “Would-be”, because although he has continually promised on several occasions to propose to her by x date (the most recent being spring of this year), he has yet to do so. His reasons are his own, although as her live-in boyfriend, he does enjoy the benefits of married life with the bothersome commitment. She told me as of last night she had had enough.

“I keep choosing people who don’t want me,” she said in measured tones. I could tell from the quality of her voice she had been crying for hours. “I give and give, and I don’t get anything in return. Not a word of thanks. Not a word of encouragement. Not a hug in public. In fact, I was inspired to write on my vision board ‘B*tch, sit down. You doing too much.’”

I hummed in agreement. This particular friend (we’ll just call her Jayden) does do a lot in her relationship. She surprised her boyfriend with Coldplay  tickets and he pitched a fit.

I told you I don’t like surprises! he roared. Why would you buy these??

Jayden planned and purchased a trip to the islands for a getaway. He acted like it was a bother to leave the room.

She washed and put away his clothes when they returned from said vacation. He never acknowledged the act of consideration.

Recently, in the midst of an emotional breakdown, he discovered her in the room crying, drinking, and downing pills. His advice?

“Oh stop it. Send back the invitations to the pity party, address Jayden,” and walked right past her room.

Screw all that. Maybe that behavior is good and acceptable for those emotive deadwoods I mentioned earlier, but for the rest of us breathing, living, sweating women it’s downright hurtful! As a woman who has had more than one emotional breakdown herself, I can attest that those utterances were NOT what my friend needed in that moment.

She needed assurance. She needed compassion. A light touch on the shoulder or a strong bear hug would absolutely suffice. But she didn’t get any of that and the only reason I have been able to conclude is that she is perceived as a “strong Black woman.”

Let me tell you something: the Strong Black Woman doesn’t exist. The Strong Black Woman is just that: A woman. She has deep emotions and spiritual needs. She has a hear that gets broken just like any other woman. She has orgasms or not, just like any other woman. If you tickle her she will laugh and if you punch her, she will cry. She is just a woman.

Sometimes I feel as though I have been living under the umbrella (or shadow) of the strong Black woman persona. Since I’ve put my friend’s business out there, it’s only apropos that I do the same for myself. One of the biggest contentions in my marriage has been the sense of isolation I’ve felt since moving to Atlanta to be closer to friends, only to have those friends move back to Ghana or some neighboring state. I’ve blogged about this before, so it’s no secret to the MOM Squad. Atlanta is not my home. I have no familial ties or emotional connections to this city. There have been days when I have felt so alone I thought the loneliness would kill me and almost prayed that it would. I felt it in my body, and the sense of despair, brought on by loneliness, produced in me a headache of the most exquisite nature that I thought my head might explode. My husband, who neither needs nor craves social interaction, thwarted every hope of my ever establishing social re-connections outside of the limits of this city. I thought I was crazy until I had a chance conversation with one of my friends (who lives in another state, of course). She told me about an NIH conference she attended.

“Malaka, I have attended hundreds of conferences over the years, and they’re all pretty much the same: boring. But this NIH conference I went to last month resonated with me in a way no other one has before.”

I sat quietly, signaling that I was ready for her to continue.

The topic of the conference was the maternal mortality rate. It was discovered that women of African descent, whether in the diaspora or on the continent had the highest mortality rates. The numbers, as she put it, were staggering.

“Well, I would attribute that to poor healthcare and FGM if you’re on the continent,” I said confidently.

Not so fast, she admonished. As it turns out, unlike other races, the numbers did not improve whether these women moved up within income brackets, better education or geographic location. In fact, when they studied women who lived under inverse conditions (very poor and moderately educated) within Hispanic communities such as the Dominicans, their mortality rates were significantly lower.

“Overwhelmingly, Black maternal mortality rates are attributed to eclampsia, pre-eclapmsia , hypertension , congestive heart  failure and diabetes,” she said.

“Ugh. Sounds like stress to me,” I muttered, remembering my own bout with pre-emclapsia, courtesy of Douche Bag.

“And that’s exactly right,” she said affirmed. “Black women are dying not only from stress, but from stress compounded over time with little or no relief.”

Unlike Hispanic communities or homes, most of whose inhabitants are multi-generational, Black women live in pockets of isolation. Some because they’re chasing a professional dream. Some because their partners are locked up. Some because they don’t feel accepted within their own communities for whatever stigma they carry (i.e. they’re too dark, they have afro hair, their mother was a corner whore, etc). Some because their husbands don’t see the value in living to close proximity to family.

Said another way: Black women are dying of broken hearts.

Scattered.

Divided.

Discouraged.

But because we are and always have been placed at the bottom of the totem pole, no one sees it and no one cares. It’s assumed that we are strong enough to bear the weight of misfortune that is heaped upon is – because you know, we’re STRONG and BLACK. However any structure that does not have its foundations tended to will crack. And let’s face it: the darker the woman, the greater her presumed capacity for strength, right? Go to MOM Mode and pit Alek Wek against Namoi Watts in your mental  boxing ring. Alex wins, doesn’t she?

Alex!

Poor Naomi…

Admit it. (And stop laughing.)

It didn’t occur to me how much I needed my sisters around me until my cousin died a little over a year ago. He was in his 20’s and died in his slumber from a sleep disorder. No one was home when he passed. My aunt, distraught from the pain of losing a child so young and just coming into promise sat in her house and mourned. She is one of the lucky few who has a community of sisters in her midst. They came to her home, circled around her, and rubbed her scalp, limbs and feet and just let her moan her lament. Me? If such a tragedy should occur, I’d be reduced to a cryptic rant on Facebook. How does that even compare? How many women have been empowered to carve out and create circles of support to raise their families in or exist within themselves?

Even God said in Genesis 2:

Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.

Selah.

Here’s my proposal: think of Black women as a berry, the darkest of which is the sweetest, and in turn the most fragile. Have you ever noticed how delicate ripe fruit is in your hands? Press it too hard and it will fall to pieces. For the love of all that is good and pure, give us the privilege of falling to pieces! And if one is so inclined, take those fragments and lovingly transform them into something new and wonderful.

Lawd have mercy.

This isn’t what I wanted to write about this Monday. I wanted to discuss something with substance… something that was going to make us all think, and ponder, and turn to inward reflection and contemplativeness.

Unfortunately, the fodder I was fed this weekend forced me to contemplate things I’d rather not have. Like Miley Cyrus grinding all up on Robin Thicke in a display so vile it elicited this reaction from the entire Smith Clan.

Where was Paula Patton?? Why didn’t she jump the stage and slap Miley Cyrus silly??? Surely this moment warranted a dirty slap? And who let Miley disrobe herself in such a classless fashion? Sure the likes of Beyonce and even Marilyn Monroe have disrobed themselves and donned barely there threads; but Miley’s skin toned short and bra combo left her looking oily and cheap… like she was covered in an unctuous sheen, the type that only can be achieved by bathing yourself in oxen fat. That’s an image that is seared in my consciousness forever!

Speaking of booties, I’ve been trying to work on reducing the mass and habitable space that it requires to survive. I have thus turned to azonto as my work out regiment of choice. Since azonto is from Ghana, a quick Google search led me down a rabbit hole of other Ghanaian things. That’s when I was confronted with this image.

And this one.

And THIS one.

Ah! Each picture was dealing a killer blow to my self-esteem. What kind of slender hip to waist ratio was this? It is the American media’s job to make me feel like my beauty, such as it is, is sub-par, not my African sisters. What was this?!?! We are supposed to stand in malnourished solidarity, whether that means languishing in hunger or stereotypical obesity. Then come all these healthy women with shiny skin and bright smiles to match their bright African print outfits… It was disturbing.

Fortunately, someone brought a warning issued by the US Embassy in Ghana to my attention, so it took my mind off the Arse Fest that was erupting all over my television and phone screen. Apparently, this is the week that Ghana (or its metropolitan areas including Accra and Kumasi) is supposed to go up in flames. For those who don’t know, the Supreme Court is giving its ruling on the outcome of the contested 2012 presidential elections this Thursday, and the Americans think we’re going to act the fool. Please.

They did the same thing when the George Zimmerman verdict was being read too, you know. Scoured social media for threats of violence. Sent undercover officers into the community to discover who was planning mischief. Laid out strategic plans within the police force to viciously quell any upheaval. But shockingly, astonishingly – ANNOYINGLY! – there was no such anticipated riot after the “not guilty” verdict was read. Rather, there was a collective clutching of the breast. The wind was knocked out of us (save the few serf-minded idiots who sided with the verdict), we clicked our tongues, wept, and went home.

No matter how hard you try to train a fish tricks, it will never be a dog. Just because the American government does (and always has) treated Blacks like animals doesn’t mean we are.

Now that Ghana is facing a similar test, they presume to treat us the same way. I hear they are telling their citizens to be watchful and to take extra precautions ahead of the Supreme Court ruling this week.

“Get your binoculars! The zoo animals may try to break out of their enclosures!”

At least, that’s how I interpreted the report.

Ah. These Americans.

Let me tell you something about Ghanaians and rioting. Rioting over disappointment is sooo last century; like 1983. Africans who go to court don’t then turn to riots to get their way! If the opposing faction, REALLY wanted to stir up some trouble after the election, they would have done so in the days following immediately in 2012. We are new millennium Africans! They will make their ruling, and the rest of us will carry on with living life as best we can – which means figuring out where the next meal is coming from or when they are going to cut off the electricity. You know, developing nation problems. Ghana isn’t the Congo you know! I fear the American’s will (again) be disappointed when we don’t resort to Banana Republic tactics to vent our frustrations.

What happened this weekend that was of note in your part of the world that was of note? Or was a booty-booty weekend for you too?

With all the hustle and bustle and horror of the last two weeks what with the Trayvon Martin case, the shooting death of Darius Simmons, the row over the Boston bomber on the cover of Rolling Stone, and the unpleasantness in the news in general, I forgot to bring you the details of my book reading and discussion earlier this month.

The event was by all intents and purposes a huge success. In addition to people that live here locally in Atlanta, one of my cousins flew all the way in from Texas with her daughter which meant a great deal to me. Certainly the most saccharine of all gestures was the attendance of @thefabsdion, whom I only know from Twitter. The event never would have come to pass if not for the efforts of Sangima who among others has been hounding me not only to write a book, but absolutely insisted that I do a reading in Atlanta as well. She organized the entire event which was held at Kat’s Café.

Kat’s Café is located in fashionable Midtown, and has all the trappings of urban cool: Cement and wood floors, mixed media art adorning the walls and drapes of satin and sari material hanging from the rafters to section off space. I felt a little out of place there, this hefty mother of four who rarely gets out to anywhere that doesn’t have a slide or a field of grass, so I ordered myself to calm my nerves – clasping a fruit punch mixture of pineapple juice and pomegranate with lots of ice to bring on the effect. (That’s what celebrity authors drink, in case you didn’t know. ‘Sober’ is the new cool.)

I wrote my book for “us”, and since “we” often have to go through uncommon hoops to make special arrangements for childcare, quite a few of the attendees brought their kids, all of whom were under the age of 10. I was in danger of having to bring my brood as well as we had no one to watch our four, but Marshall kindly offered to stay home so I could focus on the reading. With three little girls scampering about, stealthily eavesdropping on every other word, it made the reading quite a challenge. It was supposed to be a night of intellectualism and stuffy seriousness (isn’t that what all book readings are renowned for?), but turned into an exercise that had all the gravitas of an episode of Who’s Line Is It Anyway?

“When Tony lifted her round bee oh tee tee you em, he marveled at the sight,” I half muttered. “The sound of their lurid ess eee ex filtered through the air.”

Yes. I was reduced to spelling out descriptions of sex and sexual acts so as not to corrupt or scandalize anyone’s child; Not that Abercrombie & Fitch and every other TV ad aren’t doing a fair enough job of that on their own.

Friends traipsed in and out of the event the entire evening.

“I can’t stay for long, lady, but I definitely wanted to come by and support you.”

I hand out hugs and ‘thank yous’ like the creepy old man in your neighborhood who waters his lawn barefoot, donning only faded cotton shorts in the dead of winter.

There wasn’t much chatter during the reading, which was neither good nor bad. It just was what it was. Everyone who has read the book has either finished it in one go or read it in a record “two days” if they are slower readers. I have come discover that Daughters of Swallows is unique in the sense that it is written in a context and a genre that is not generally associated with African women: romance and suspense. And while some might dismiss the work as an ode to smuttiness, others have and will discover and deem its contents current and refreshing. I recently did an interview with a journalist in South Africa about Adventures, and I ventured to ask her what the general European view of African women was. Why was this blog – and my book which was also a topic of discussion – so intriguing to her audience?

“What do YOU guys think of African women,” I asked. “Tell me honestly.”

“We think African women are just victims, you know… and [their] husbands oppress him them.”

That’s what we are to the rest of the world? “Victims”? This narrow narrative is the precise reason I am SO glad that you all pushed me to publish this book!

Anyway, the reading: The second half of the night was just as amusing as the first. By the time the doors opened to the general public at 7:30 pm, Kat’s Café was bustling and bursting at the seams. That night’s entertainment was Eva Kennedy and her band. Good Lord, that woman has a set of pipes on her. And what a mouth!

I tried to feign modesty that evening, but she would have none of it. There were three celebrants at Kat’s that night: a couple celebrating their anniversary, a birthday, and a certain author who had just published her first book. One by one, she instructed us to come to the stage.

“Turn around, Malaka,” she said solemnly. I obeyed, waiting to see what she would have me do next. “The crowd wants to see your butt.”

The band struck up the chorus of Doin’ the Butt, and I involuntarily began to stop, drop and roll said butt, for which my knees cursed me the following morning.

Eva encouraged the crowd to buy copies of my book with the following admonition.

“The dollar turns over seven times in the Jewish community y’all,” she purred before raising her voice. “We need to support our own!”

A drunken woman in a brown weave and very tight clothing named Sam bought a copy of my book in that instant. She paid with a wad of one dollar bills.

“The Daughters of Swallows, huh?” she asked with a wicked laugh.

“Yes. That’s swallows like the noun, not the verb,” I replied over the loud music. I made flapping gestures followed by a fist to the mouth to illustrate my point. Her table erupted into a fit of laughter.

At 11:30 pm I got up to leave. Eva was taking a break at the bar when Sangima and I got up to inform her of our departure. I hugged her and Kat, thanking them for a wonderful evening.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said Eva. “Did you sell all your books?!?”

“No, I have about five left, but it’s ok,” I smiled.

“Stay!” she commanded. “Gimme them books and I’ll sell all five by the end of the night!”

I shook my head, explaining that I worked at a shoe store and had to get up and whore shoes in the morning.

“And you gonna keep ‘whoring shoes’ if you don’t sell more of your books,” she sneered.

It was meant kindly, in that old school “I’m only beating you with this black plastic comb so you can learn to be tough” kind of way.

Eva was so authoritative that I almost relented, but I knew I would pay for it in the morning.

So there you have it MOM Squad! The next reading will be in Accra later this year. My hook ups have arranged for Daughters to go on sale at SyTris Café in Osu, so look for it on shelves in a few months! (Here’s their FB information https://www.facebook.com/SyTris )

Happy Friday, one and all. Click here if you want to buy a copy and just simply didn’t know where to.

Oh wait! Before we go, let’s play a random game! What was the last thing you were thinking before you clicked this link or opened your email to read M.O.M. today? Tell! Tell!!!  ↓