Hmmm… I think Ambolley wants me to write about Monsanto. Done!

Does Ghana – or Africa as a whole, for that matter – have anything to fear from Monsanto? The short answer is “yes”. Anytime a huge US conglomerate takes an active interest in developing nations or any geographic area perceived as being bereft of privilege, there is cause for concern.

I first heard about Monsanto while watching the documentary Food, Inc. I have to be honest: it was pretty terrifying stuff. The idea that one company had the power to change the face and nature of the types of food we eat, dictate how our crops are planted, and make farmers solely dependent on their agricultural products because the very nature of that product (i.e. seeds) had the capacity to alter the state of the very soil it was planted in so that nothing else but genetically modified seed could thrive there is a little disconcerting. The antics of the Greek god Ares come to mind, for some unexplained reason. I visualize carnage… carnage everywhere.

To hear a number of American farmers tell it, they feel “enslaved” to Monsanto. No doubt this sentiment arises from the voluminous contracts the company is the habit of handing out to those who be willing to make a deal with the Dark One. (You can read about it here.)

In fairness to Monsanto, the company has done some unquestionably impressive things in the realm of science since the company’s inception in 1901.  Some of its more harmless achievements include creating and selling the artificial sweetener saccharin to Coke; it became the first company to start mass production of (visible) light emitting diodes (LEDs); and it gave us AstroTurf, which is an imperative must at the Super Bowl.

However, some of its more sinister inventions include DDT (which eliminated malaria in America, but destroyed bald eagle shells, sending the population into decline), Agent Orange (the toxic effects of which still persist 51 years later) and lastly, genetically engineered seed.

It is the last component that I am most concerned about with regard to Ghana in particular and Africa as a whole.

There is no doubt that Africa has a problem feeding itself. It is estimated that every 5 seconds, a child dies from a hunger related disease.  As usual, and as it is with every African crisis, our leadership looks outside of its borders, way across the sea and into some Westerners science lab of carpeted office for solutions to the same problems that these labs and offices created. Enter Monsanto. And Bono. And Kofi Anan. And President Obama.

Looking at the lineup, we should trust all of the gentlemen. They are Nobel Laureates and by the world’s standards, very intelligent and well-meaning individuals. The trouble is none of these guys are farmers; for if they were farmers, they would know better than to engage in this sort of sanctimonious frivolity which has gotten the Western world nowhere but fat, sick and nearly dead.

We don’t have to go very far into the past to see the future effects of genetically modified food. Take a stroll around Any Mall, USA, and you can see the direct effects of bovine somatotropin, a hormone injected into cows pituitary glands to increase milk production. Bigger udders on cows = bigger boobs on little girls. Throw a Σ and a few Ωs in there, and you’ve got yourself an equation for disaster. Other unforeseen consequences of genetically modifying our foods in such an aggressive manner include indecent acts against these unnaturally buxom young ladies of the R. Kelly variety, which then translates to increased prosecution rates and overcrowding of our prisons.

But for the purposes of our discussion today, we are looking to Africa’s fertile land scape… not the waxy surfaces of North Point Mall.

From the little that I have read on genetically engineered seed (GES), I have learned that these plants are extremely aggressive. They take over native crop varieties and either strangle them or at best, cause them to mutate. There is also the alarming phenomenon of Monsanto seed – marketed as ‘Roundup’ – causing glyphosate resistance, whereby overuse of Roundup creates aggressive, herbicide-immune super-weeds. In turn, these super resistant weeds require more toxic chemicals in order to suppress them. It’s the agro-equivalent of Super Gonorrhea.

Ghana, along with Tanzania and Ethiopia, has signed on for Phase 2 of the so-called Green Revolution, which in simplest terms in the business of creating ‘higher yielding crops’ (not necessarily higher quality) in Africa.

This is where I get stuck… because it’s obvious that someone in the Kufuor/Mills/Mahama administration did not do their homework before inking this deal (as usual) and putting the farmers – our country’s backbone – at risk. I smell a kick back.

I can’t speak for other African nations, but the fact is, Ghana’s feeding problems have less to do with output than how to get the product to market. How often have you driven through a village and seen women and children scrambling to sell their wares to passers through? Depending on the topography, they will all be carrying similar items: okro, garden eggs, tomatoes, and/or pineapples. People in the villages who carry out subsistence farming eat very well. Ironically, they produce more than they need to get by. The failure of the government, private industry and other stakeholders has been in engaging these farmers in a meaningful way, and helping them bring their goods to market in an efficient and cost effective manner.

Ghanaians die not only from hunger, but from malnutrition in alarming and needless rates. Because the cost of transporting food is so high, our diet is severely limited to basic carbohydrate saturated staples like kenkey, gari, rice and over fried fish, when we need to be eating more greens, fruits and legumes – which are grown in abundance.  Tragically, every few months there are reports of crops tumbling from the sides of tipper trucks en masse, or worse, being left to rot in one production center or another because the lines of transportation were either ineffective or broken. Truthfully, there is no reason that a country that harbors iron ore in its hills and oil in its seas should not have an advanced rail system at the ready.

And now Ghana is going to let Monsanto come in with its high-bred GMOs to devastate the soil, alter our environment, and cause genetic mutations in our population because Obama and Bono said it’s an excellent idea? Tell me, someone, how do the major players plan to distribute this new-found genetically modified manna? On the wheels of ‘hope and change’? Pshaw!

Agriculture is big business, and there are billions of dollars at stake whenever these sorts of deals are hashed out. But at the other end of that of those negotiations also sits a mother who is trying to feed her family. How much consideration is she being given?

*****

I know that there are quite a few scientists and health professionals that read MOM but rarely comment. Don’t make me call you out *cough* Stella and Karimi! *end cough*.  Would you be so kind as to share your views on GMOs, either good or bad, and enlighten us all here?  I’m only writing about it because Gyedu asked me to.

I know that Misty (yes, I called you out) is also a big champion of organic food. I’d like her and other parents like her to share what influenced her to make these choices.

Oh heck. Everyone just speak all at once here ↓

“Yes… Abena Owusua. What do you want?”

“Kwasi Gyekye. How are you this evening?”

“Hmmm. I’m okay. My gout is acting up is all.”

“As for this your rich man’s disease dierrrr…”

We exchanged necessary, but loving, insults and fell into a short fit of laughter before we each asked the other what they were doing this weekend.

“I got off work about two hours ago,” I replied. “I meant to call you earlier, but I got busy with the kids.

“Oh, it’s okay. You know I was at church anyway.”

“Yeah. That’s what I figured.” I asked him if he’d seen that I’d written a book. His excitement quotient increased considerably.

“Yeah! This is your second book, isn’t it?”

“No, Daddy. That was Sami. He’s on his second book.”

I gave him the rundown on the family here in the States. A cousin had had a baby. My brother had bought a house. The kids had achieved certain milestones. He was aware of all these things, thanks to Facebook, where my father like, most people/parents his age have become professional stalkers and super sleuths.

“As for me, I’ve become a professional downloader ooo,” he boasted. “I’ve downloaded all my grandkids pictures onto my laptop!”

I remember a time when my father didn’t understand the concept of email and thought the internet was an actual place. I smiled secretly at the memory. I asked him if he’d downloaded any movies yet. He ‘hmmm’d’ before answering.

“Some stupid guy was supposed to download some movies for me and he brought me kung fu films.” He sucked his teeth in exasperation. “I’ve grown past these things!”

“What things, Daddy?”

“Kung fu films! Didn’t you hear me the first time? You know how these kung fu people are. Two people will meet each other on the road, one will ask the other his name, and before the man can reply, the other one is beating him. Ghanaians only like these because of the sounds they make. Whowaaa! Twaaa! I’m too old for these things. I listen to conversation and sense, not noise and nonsense.”

“I see…”

“You know what? You’ve even reminded me,” he continued. “Your sister’s boyfriend was supposed to send me some movies from Dropbox. I guess he dropped them from Mars, because they have not landed yet.”

He cackled joyously at his own joke. The sound of his mirth forced a farting-giggle from my pressed lips.

Speaking of the Chinese, how were they treating Ghanaians these days?

“Oh, Malaka. They are killing us here! Just in the last two weeks some Chinese miners killed four or five Ghanaians over a land dispute with assault rifles. And the government is sitting here doing nothing!”

“Beh e dey be k3k3?”

“Oh. They dey spoil us k3k3.”

I wanted to press him more on the matter, but he was in the mood to discuss more pleasant things.

“Do you hear my puppy?”

“Yes, Daddy. An old man and his dog. What’s his name?”

I could hear the smile of pride in his voice when he said Swift.

“I’ve taught him to sit and wait for his food. He likes to pounce on the food and when I withhold it, he gives me a funny look, like I’m a stupid old man. After we’ve stared at each other for a while I’ll put his plate down and he looks at me like ‘Ah. So why were you pretending like you weren’t  going to give me the food?’ And when people try and enter the house by heart I tell him ‘Swift! Go swift on them!’ And then he’ll run!”

I congratulated him on his accomplishment in training his dog. He didn’t thank me. He probably didn’t even hear me. He wanted to know if I could send him a tub of Tums.

“They come in boxes of a thousand…in different colors.”

“Why do you need so many Tums, Daddy?”

“Ohhh. You see? Anything I eat these days gives me heartburn. Kenkey, rice, bread – doesn’t matter. Also, the Tums prevents a hangover.”

“Huh?”

“Yes. One night I took Tums with my dinner and then went to the bar. I drank and drank but didn’t get drunk!” I could tell he was rubbing his stomach. That’s what my dad does when he’s reminiscing about his drink. “So I decided to try it the next night. I took Tums, drank and my eyes were clear like ice!”

“Do you need a thousand Tums because you plan on having a thousand drinks?”

“No, dummy!”

That’s when the toothpicks came up.

“As for Ghanaians? I just don’t know. We import eeeeee-very-thing! Even if air was to be imported, we would import that too!”

“Oh, chaley…”

The reminder of the plague of imported goods sparked a distant memory in him.

“You know, those in leadership are really doing a disservice to the country. When I was in secondary school, you could spend 2 to 3 months working in a company during your long vacation. I used to work at the forestry. It gives you job and working experience. Now? Now we have university graduated with big degrees and are of no use to anyone. Why? No experience! So what do they do? They set up an Unemployed Graduate Association.”

“Daddy. That can’t be true.”

I didn’t bother to stifle my laughter, guffawing in condescension. How sad!

“You think I’m lying? Humph. Ask your friend who works at Korle-Bu. She’ll tell you…and probably tell you more absurd things. We don’t think about our future. We only think about how to eat for now. We used to have a corned beef canning factory, sugar refineries, match-making factory… but after they killed Nkrumah and these stupid, useless soldiers took over the country, we import everything!”

I hummed in reflection, wondering what Ghana was like in her glory days when it was a self-sustaining country. My dad was not done.

“Where a bunch of wise-guys are gathered together, stupidity reigns.”

“Huh?”

I could almost hear him shrug.

“Mmmm. Beh everybody is wise in Ghana? We have so many “smart” people holding onto knowledge that they are burying it out to sea. They won’t even bury the knowledge on land where we can excavate it… they are taking it out to sea where it will be lost forever!”

Well, that was true. What with the current crop of ministers of parliament, our perpetual groveling at the feet of the IMF, and our abysmal plans for improving social structures and waste disposal (other countries dump THEIR garbage in our seas and on our lands), Ghana is a long ways from the near utopia of the 1950’s. The retrogression is really disheartening.

My yelped in glee.

“Hey, hey! They’ve turned the lights on at long last!”

“Oh – you’ve been sitting in light off this whole time, Daddy?”

“Of course. This is Ghana! We may only have light for the next 20 minutes. I won’t even bother to turn on the fridge.”

Ordinarily I would laugh at his flip response, but I was sad. I’ve reached a point in my existence – with the progression of age – where life has begun to take things and people away from me and I don’t want my dad living in these conditions… but he loves Ghana. He would never live any place else. I suddenly didn’t feel like talking anymore. I told him I’d give him a call in a few days before I left for South Africa.

“Don’t come back pregnant,” he advised.

I assured him I wouldn’t.

“And kiss each of the kids for me too. Your kids are plenty. Line them up like the Sound of Music and give them a kiss each from Grandpa.”

Then came my second favorite part of our calls: That quintessential long African good-bye.

Okay!

Okay!

Mmhmmm…. good-bye

Good-bye!

Okay… good-bye!

*Click*

Is it too late to talk about Mother’s Day? Is there a threshold after which the topic becomes banal? I don’t know… so I’m going to tell you about my Mother’s Day weekend anyway.  Plus, I want to hear about some of the Mother’s Day adventures of the moms in the M.O.M. Squad in the comments section.

The sequence of events that took place over the weekend came in rapid succession. I’m under the gun because Stone has a pissy pull-up on and Liya wants to go outside, so I’m just going to give you the highlights if that’s ok. Okay? Here we go!

Book Launched:

This was supposed to be an exciting milestone – a triumph, in fact! – but it turned out to be a near tragedy. With just mere hours to go before my first book was supposed to go live online, I discovered to my shock, horror and dismay, that the back of the book had no information. How and why would people buy it if they didn’t know what it was about? When I was instructed to upload a “cover”, I had my graphic artist do just that: create a front cover. Come and see me scrambling at midnight to reformat the whole thing! I was exhausted. I had to get some sleep because the next day I had to go camping with the big girls.

We’re going camping? I’m coming too!

My period invited itself to my Mother’s Day weekend festivities. It sucked. I don’t like taking a dump in public, let alone bleeding out my behind in the presence of total strangers for 3 days and two nights. Oh and did my period show out. I spotted on my jeans – something I haven’t done since high school. When another mom (very discretely) pointed it out to me, Aya asked me what the stain was.

“Did you poo-poo on yourself, Mommy?”

“Yes. I did.”

I chose to tell my 6 year old that I crapped my pants just so I could avoid a conversation about the onset of menses.

Pat that weave, baby!  

By hour five into our camping trip, I had begun to question the wisdom of such an endeavor. I called lights out at 11 pm. I had already had enough of the screaming, screeching, squealing and scampering that accompanies a pack of first and second graders. As silence descended upon the bunk house (we had avoided sleeping in tents, that Heaven) I heard a vaguely familiar sound. It was a thunderous, methodical thumping.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump!!!!

As the night wore on, it became more and more persistent. Sweet baby Jesus in the sky. I wish I had a rat tail comb to give this woman so she could scratch her scalp! Or better yet, why didn’t she just get her weave washed before she came on this trip. Ugh! Finally, at 3 am, I fell into a fitful sleep…

It’s time for activities, Mommy!

Tie-dye. Leather work. A 45 minute hike. Canoeing. Basket making. Kitchen cosmetics. Swimming. All these things and STILL my girls were not satisfied.

“I wish we had done archery and the big swing,” Nadjah moped.

I wish you would just shut your face!

“When were we going to have time to do all that, Na?” I asked, rubbing my neck in frustration. “There was literally not enough time to do everything on the activity sheet.”

“But I – “

“No. No, Nadjah. No!”

I shoveled camp-issued mac n’ cheese in my face and chewed ferociously. I was tired, and bleeding, and when we got back to the bunk house that night, that one mom was posted up in her bed, thumping on her skull like a Roman soldier nailing a thief to a cross.

Can we go out to eat for Mother’s Day?

I vetoed that idea immediately. You know how my kids are. I’ve told you about them. They are those children…the ones who can’t sit still long enough to take a bite of their food before their plate magically hits the floor. You hate dining out with those kids, and so do I.

But my husband wanted to dine out this week, so we did. I gave him my conditions before we entered the restaurant.

“Babe. I literally “can’t” with these children this week. If you want to eat out, then you have to let me sit in this car by myself for 10 minutes just to get my mind right.”

He said okay and took our tribe into Sweet Tomatoes alone. Poor man. Poor, foolish man.

Eight minutes later, he was calling me from inside the establishment.

“Are you ever coming in??”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

I took a deep breath. The landscapers had planted gardenias and roses in bushes nearby, and I was inhaling the excellent scent of the mingled fragrances.

What was wrong indeed! Sweet Tomatoes, for those who don’t know, is a farm to table-ish buffet. They have soup, salad, light pastries and fruit. It’s a healthier (and better tasting) alternative to Golden Corral. So there stood Marshall in line, trying to balance four trays and four kids, each with their own demands and food preferences. In the midst of his trying to scoop food onto their plates, Liya hit her face on the tiled counter and began to howl with abandon. At that moment, Stone took it upon himself to run out of the restaurant and plant himself in the middle of the STREET. A nice white guy in Sperry’s went outside to retrieve him for my husband. Several women offered to help my husband. He declined their assistance. The cashier offered him a belt.

As he recounted his harrowing tale, I couldn’t help but give into a fit of satisfied laughter. I told him! I told him they were crazy! I spend all day with these inmates. I know their limitations and I know mine.

And then we had an anniversary…

This week Marshall and I celebrated 8 years of wedded bliss, or something close to it. To commemorate the event, we climbed Kennesaw Mountain.  I will not expend the time needed to describe the comical scene of two people whose combined weight equals that of a small marine mammal as they attempt to scramble over sheer rocks and dodgy trails. That being said, we were pleased that we actually made it to the top and could add that to our list of feats accomplished as a couple.

I attempted to make this achievement analogous to our marriage, but I was distracted by the sight of a younger (fitter) couple running past us. The guy was muscular and had the posture of someone living in a state of prosperity. The girl was a brunette, with a flat stomach and was clad little Lycra shorts that sat perfectly on her taut bottom. Whore.

“Look at those spring chickens,” Marshall said with a snort.

“That’s okay, babe. We’ve had our time. We are winter turkeys!”

*****

And now this winter turkey has to take her turkeylettes(?) outside to play.

Happy Friday one and all!

Oh, Oh, Oh! Random thought for this random blog. Let’s play a game! What are you doing while reading this post? Tell us right here: ↓

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.

Our papyrus pyramid primarily consists of unopened envelopes of weekly or monthly repeat mail: credit card offers from Chase, Allstate invitations and bank statements. I rarely open any of them, but after staring at the pile for almost a year, I decided enough was enough and began to open envelope after yellowing envelope to determine and discard its contents if needed.

I started with Nadjah’s Suntrust savings account statements. After opening six months’ worth of statements, I decided that it was time to go paperless. The details of her account never change: It draws $10 a month from our checking and puts it into a small yield savings account. I smiled as I remembered the day I took Nadjah into the bank at age 5 to open her new account. She was given a blue plastic piggy bank and a lollipop. I estimated she should have a few hundred dollars in there, minus the money we took out to pay for camp one year.

So imagine my surprise when I opened up envelopes and started noticing fees that I had never seen before. Consequently, I began to see red. These people were now taking $5 to maintain $10! How long had they been doing this? I could only assume from the very beginning and that they had bilked my daughter of $300 over the course of 5 years. I went on a twitter rant, gathered my youngest children and my purse and went into the bank to close the account.

I was too pissed to try to conjure up a work around. I know how banks work. To my surprise, Suntrust’s social media team responded to my tweet. I informed them that I had just pulled up to the bank to close the account. They responded with a canned answer, saying were sorry to lose my business.

I met with a pretty, hipster account rep named Denise and told her I wanted to either have the fees removed or close the account. She obliged, and noted that the account was set up wrongly from the very beginning.

“This should have been a minor account,” she said. “They have you listed as the primary, when it’s your daughter who should be the primary account holder.”

I was surprised that she was so forthcoming about the error. Before I could speak, she said she could correct the error right there.

“I’ll ask my manager about getting those fees refunded too,” she said kindly. “I’ll have to confirm with him if we actually can, however.”

She scribbled my number and said she would contact me later in the day. I left with Stone and Liya in tow, oddly relieved that I would not have to go through the process of re-opening another account at another bank.

And then I got a call from Denise.

“Malaka?”

“Yup!”

“Hi…I spoke with my manager, and he said that we can only refund two months’ worth of fees to this account.”

“You mean ten dollars?”

“Yes.”

As I grunted in disgust, Denise stuttered through an explanation.

“I guess the logic is that at least they were able to give you something back off the loss…”

$10 back off of a $300 theft hardly constitutes as something!

I guffawed at her response and told her to have a good day. Initially, I was outraged, and then I was indignant. I called Denise back, demanding a meeting with the branch manager.

“I want him to explain his policy to my daughter, and tell her why he can’t refund money that was taken from her account due to an error that his bank made!”

“Oh…it’s not HIS policy,” Denise said pointedly.

“Whoever’s it is, she’s the customer, and she deserves an explanation.”

We scheduled a face to face meeting for Friday. For some unearthly reason, I called Suntrust’s customer service department to find out what kind of account Nadjah was holding. When had these fees actually started? The woman was of no help first, because she barely spoke English and second, because her ineptitude made it difficult for her explain that the terms of the account had changed some time before.

“You have to put $25 into the account to avoid the fee,” she said after I eventually wrung the information from her.

“Since when?!?”

“You should have received a communication telling you this, either over email or in letter form.”

“Do you have my email? Because I’m looking at a years’ worth of statements and I don’t see a letter here.”

“No, we don’t have your email,” she said after a brief pause. “You have a letter. You must have lost it.”

I hung up on her. I couldn’t WAIT for Friday.

After doing my own investigation, I discovered that the fees had begun in July of 2012. The bank had taken $55, not the exorbitant $300 as I had previously (and incorrectly) presumed. I explained the details of the fiasco to Nadjah, who was clearly upset by this revelation. (The only thing the girl loves more than life is money.)

“We’re going to meet with the branch manager on Friday,” I said, as though it was fight night. I didn’t want to taint her response with my own biases, so I didn’t tell her what the bank was PROBABLY going to say: That it was her mother’s fault for not opening her mail and – despite it being their error from the beginning – they were not going to be able to refund her money past the $10. I then made a mental note of all the other banks we could visit to deposit her meager savings.

“Can I come too!” said Aya.

“Yeah, sure,” I replied. It would be good for both of them to learn how money and customer service work (or don’t work) together.

Finally, Friday arrived. The girls and I went to Chic-Fil-A for nourishment before the epic showdown. I had piles of statements in my purse and a no-nonsense countenance at the ready. We were twelve minutes early. Denise met us when we walked in and directed us to the waiting area.

“Michael will be with you ladies in just a moment. He’s on a conference call,” she said flatly.

I looked towards the back of the bank and saw an enormous man with red hair and a white shirt pacing his office with a phone plugged to his ear, waving his arms wildly. And so it begins…

At 3:01, Michael walked out to meet us. He extended his hand and greeted the girls and I warmly.

“Come this way to my office please,” he said.

Humph. This was customer service 101. You defuse a volatile situation by offering kindness before you address concerns. It was like offering a rabid dog a piece of aspirin laced meat, and it was working. The girls and I virtually skipped into his office.

“I only have 2 chairs, so I’m going to bring another one in for you ladies if you’ll give me just a moment,” he explained before ducking into the neighboring office and retrieving a chair.

He was the quintessential Southern Gentleman. He had a drawl – yes – but not the type that incites terror in Black folk. You have to have lived here to know exactly what I’m talking about.

He took his seat and launched into a recap of events, including tweets, dollar amounts and mistakes.

“I’ve only been in this branch for a year,” he revealed. Then he pointed to his HTC phone and made a startling admisssion. “I don’t twitter, I don’t facebook, I don’t do any of that stuff. So when the Suntrust (social media) department emailed me all this stuff, I was at a loss!”

Nadjah and Aya both laughed. The idea of a grown up not tweeting or Facebooking probably seemed absurd. Michael continued.

“Called Denise in here to figure out this $300 thing, and we discovered that the fees actually began in July of 2012.”

“That’s correct,” I interjected. Michael was not done talking, and neither were the girls, apparently. They asked him about his kids in the picture, about Disney world, and informed him that they had 200 Disney Dollars between the two of them for doing chores.

“What kind of chores do you have to do?”

“Do the dishes, fold the laundry and clean our room,” Aya said excitedly.

“Sometimes I have to clean the room twice,” Nadjah said, shooting me a dirty look. “Can we get back on topic, please?”

Michael raised a quizzical brow and smiled slightly. He explained to  Nadjah how her account had been set up incorrectly, and that she was a minor. Then he said something about paying taxes on her investments, which then got her all out of sorts. Her eyes began to water.

“I don’t want to pay taxes!”

“Well, as your momma will tell you, there’s only two things certain in life: We’re all gonna die, and we all have to pay taxes,” he said, laughing.

Nadjah did not appreciate his joke.

I thanked Michael for taking the time to meet with us. I explained that since I had brought Nadjah in to open the account initially, I wanted to make sure she was involved in every part of the process if there were any changes. Michael looked at Nadjah seriously.

“Well, I have to tell you, we appreciate your business,” he boomed. “And we want you to keep banking with Suntrust when you get older and get a job.”

“And start paying taxes?” Nadjah said sullenly.

Michael and I chuckled.

Michael turned back to her.

“Okay Ms. Nadjah, I’m going to make this commitment to you,” he said earnestly. “I’m going to contact my regional manager, Courtney Thompson, and ask her if we can get that $45 refunded to you. I don’t know what she’ll say, because it’s going to require an override, but I’m definitely going to ask.”

This was the moment I was waiting for. Nadjah was going to put her foot down and tell him he betta git ALL her money, or she was taking her business elsewhere!

“Does that sound fair to you, Na?” I asked with baited breath.

She nodded and looked at Michael.

“Yes, it’s fair. Even if you can’t get all the money back, at least you tried and did your best.”

Michael sat back in his chair and clasped his hands.

“You know what? Just because of that, I’m going to strongly recommend that we refund you all of your money!”

He stood and ushered us towards the door.

“Can we have a lollipop?” the girls asked in unison.

Michael strode over to the bowl and offered them any flavor they wanted. Then he looked at me.

“Hey, why don’t you bring them back one day so that can take a tour of the bank? We might have some future financial officers on our hands,” he said. He wasn’t joking.

“Sure!”

We shook hands once more and left. The girls were elated, and I was satisfied. It wasn’t the train of events I expected…it was far better. And as they often do, my kids taught me a lesson I’d recently forgotten: you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Oftentimes, you get better results when you’re sweet.

The subject of healthcare in America is a hot button issue, with Obamacare finally rolling out in earnest. One of the unfortunate consequences of universal healthcare has been demand outweighing supply. The US was already facing a shortage of medical professionals, and with more people opting out of the field altogether due to its cost prohibitive nature or, eventually, burn out, the quality of care the average American will receive can only decline.

My family is considered ‘healthy’ (well, except for my husband and I. We qualify as ‘obese’ and are thus subject to higher insurance rates), and hospital visits for are a rare and few between. I’m the only one of us 6 who has had the most hospital visits, and that’s because I was biological responsible for dispensing babies from my body. And with the exception of two unfortunate incidences, I have been blessed to be a part of a good group of doctors who have excellent bedside manner and genuinely care about their patients. However, for many women bringing babies into the world, this isn’t always the case. Like anything else in the human experience, the quality of service one receives will ultimately come down to race, geographic location, socio-economic status or a mix of all three.

I have friends of all races who have had babies, but I admit I have only talked to my African or African-American ones about the nuances of their child birth process. I would like to think that the events I am about to describe to you have absolutely nothing to do with their race and all to do with the fact that the medical professionals in these cases just sucked. I know that abortion is very much en vogue this century, what with our president (and his glamorous wife) being honored as the most pro-abortion president in history at a Planned Parenthood gala, but there are still a number of women out there that actually want a family and are willing to go through the pangs of childbirth and rearing, no matter how painful or “inconvenient”. Call us crazy; or call it a primal need to preserve our species – it is what it is.

When Stone was being delivered by c-section, I had placenta previa . As my OB cut and dug into my abdomen, I watched as liters of blood dripped into two canisters to my right. I was light-headed, but I didn’t pass out. In a way, I wish I had. At least then I wouldn’t have to hear the Eastern European anesthesiologist say something that no mom should hear while she’s in the midst of giving birth to her child. Her tome was mocking and condescending.

“Don’t have any more children. You see all this blood you’re losing? And I wish you could see your uterus. It looks like hamburger meat.”

I shared with you a few years ago that the geneticist affiliated with my Ob/Gyn’s practice (wrongly) predicted that Liya had Down’s Syndrome . I will never forget the call I received that late afternoon.

“Mrs. Grant?”

“Yes?”

“We got the results back from your preliminary blood work and your ultrasound, and it looks like your baby is testing positive for Down’s Syndrome.”

I murmured something in acknowledgment. The coordinator then asked me (very sweetly) if I would be willing to consider an abortion. Whatever for? I told her no, under no circumstances, thank you. They still needed me to come in and see a specialist. I set up the appointment and went in. Turns out the machine they were using upstairs was delivering faulty results.

When my good friend M5X (which stands for Mom Five Times) went in to her doctor’s office to confirm that she was indeed on her fifth pregnancy – a shock considering her husband’s freshly minted vasectomy – a nurse approached her with a lop-sided smile.

“So, Mrs. M5X…this is your fifth pregnancy! What do you want to do about it?”

M5X played dumb and asked her what she meant. The nurse smiled a little broader, injecting her speech with “wells” and “you knows” before finally asking her if she planned to keep it.

“Yes,” M5X said flatly.

It was only at that moment that the nurse began to refer to the child she was carrying as a baby and not a fetus. Now, the reason this story struck me is because I was watching Dr. Phil this week and Troy Dunn (The Locator) was on the show. Troy and his wife have eight children together. I wonder – did his wife’s nurse practitioner have the gall to ask her if she planned to keep her fifth child, or did that child and subsequent others, have the assumed right to life because their parents were White and wealthy?

In another instance, I had a friend from the Caribbean who was advised to abort her baby, because she was showing to have a genetic defect. Her ultrasound showed she had a “broad, flat nose”. Well, so did the child’s dad. Many people of African descent have broad flat noses!

My own sister went through months of agony when she was informed that her son had trisomy 18, that he would be mentally retarded, and he would not live past a year. She too was advised to have an abortion. Again, the boy’s father has an unusually large head that my nephew had the misfortune to inherit. And today he’s a genius who’s about to make his third birthday.

Finally comes the case of my cousin whom I told you about two weeks ago. She is expecting her first child, and went to listen to the heartbeat earlier this week. She was elated that her child as doing so well, despite the fact that many other things in her life weren’t, including her relationship with its father. Her elation soon turned to distress when her Asian doctor turned and looked at her and said this:

“You shouldn’t get too attached to the fetus. Your risk factors for miscarriage are high, so you will probably lose it.”

In those words, exactly.

I was incensed for her and called my sister to rant.

“Dude, there are certain things that doctors don’t need to say to you under any circumstances,” she growled. “They need to do a preliminary questionnaire to ask a woman if she wants to have an abortion before it gets to a certain point.”

“Exactly! Like day one, I sit in your office, and you hand me a list that says “Can we ask you about an abortion? Check ‘ye’, ‘no’, or ‘I’m open to discussing it later’. Sometimes I feel like other cultures don’t think Black women love their (unborn) kids as much as anyone else!”

You can draw your own conclusions about these stories. I just find it disturbing that the FIRST option that these women of color (myself included) were offered when there was the slightest hint of a problem with their unborn children was a termination.

That’s Stone’s foot on the left!

As we prepare to celebrate Mother’s Day, and tolerate the litany of TV commercials encouraging our families to buy us bouquets that will eventually die and jewelry that we will eventually lose, I’d like us to give some thought to the process of motherhood if we could, and all those who are involved in it. I believe it is absolutely imperative that moms-to-be have a strong network to rely on to help them reach the goal of delivering healthy babies; and no one is more important in that endeavor than her doctor and his/her medical team. That strength is displayed through offering caring, encouraging words and positive affirmations, as well as the ability to write out proper prescriptions. It truly does set the tone for one’s mothering experience. Personally, I know I felt better knowing that the first person to touch my child was someone who genuinely cared for my well-being… or at least did a fabulous job faking it.

In another state, half way across the country, another young man is frustrated that he is unable to find work. With a degree in hand and a suit of extra-curricular to his credit, he can’t understand why he hasn’t been able to land that elusive $45K per annum job that every college grad has been promised! He does the only thing that seems logical: six months after his fruitless job search, he applies for unemployment benefits. He’s informed that he is not eligible. Shocked, he asks why ever not! He IS unemployed, after all. Because you have to have had a job previously – and paid into the system from your previous wages – in order to qualify for unemployment benefits, he’s told. Miffed, he leaves the office, grumbling about how “unfair” it all is.

Sounds crazy doesn’t it? Who are these “entitled” people and what makes them think they are so special? You know exactly who they are. They’re your co-workers, your kids, and if it all hits the fan, your future bosses. This is the Sticker for Participation Generation. And I can’t stand them.

Anyone who’s spent more than a week with me has heard me bellyache about this group of individuals who were born in the 90’s. Raised by a generation of parents who came out of Carter and Regan administrations unscathed and determined to give their kids a “better life”, they have largely grown up without learning the value of hard work or experiencing the purifying pricks of failure. Everyone is “special” because that’s what’s “fair”. Indoctrinated by MTV to believe that their parents are obligated to fete them with an outlandish Sweet 16 party simply because they managed to cross the mark, these Neanderthals throw full on tantrums when all they get is a night out at the movies and some cake. I’ve seen it, and it ain’t pretty.

I spend a lot of time berating this group of woefully underachieving individuals, often criticizing their parents for the absolute crap job they’ve done raising their spoiled, entitled, lazy kids. And then Friday night happened.

My two oldest girls are in Girl Scouts, which is great for them, but terribly inconvenient for me. Nadjah and Aya participate in several activities, so no matter what the day, I am subject to some form of inconvenience. But I do it because it’s “good for the kids”, plus I rarely got a chance to do any of this stuff myself when I was a child.

Cookie season came in January, and as all Scout Moms and Dads know, it’s a hectic time of year. The pressure to sell these darn cookies is so intense that it’s almost spine-chilling. It makes no sense, particularly given that parents have absolutely no personal payoff to look forward to.

This January I was in Ghana on vacation, so cookie sales were going to have to wait. And wait they did; three full weeks into the month. Through my husband’s efforts the girls were able to sell 106 boxes between them, which is still a decent amount of cookies. In times past, the troop leader would combine their total boxes and give them a prize(s) to share. This was generally done in the absence of the girls to prevent hurt feelings. Some girls sold hundreds of boxes and others only sold tens. The prizes are bigger, the more cookies you sell. This year, their troop decided to have a big ceremony with gift bags and camaraderie and togetherness… and it sucked.

The scout leader read off what each girl had sold and handed her a gift bag containing her prize. Nadjah had sold 51 boxes, so all she got was a badge. The girl who sold 500 boxes hauled in electronics. To her credit, Nadjah fought back her tears of disappointment. Aya on the other hand, who wears her heart on her sleeve, burst into bitter tears, sobbing and clutching her belly as if the love of her life had died. I cringed when I witnessed her tormented display.

My God… I was becoming one of those despicable parents and I hadn’t even realized it. I had not done my job in preparing her for disappointment and what it means to lose. I had shielded my girls from lost hope, and these were the results.

My immediate internal response was to whisk them away to Toys R Us and purchase a consolation prize. If we left at THAT MOMENT, we could get there before the store closed. Then I thought about all the kids who were going to go to bed without heat or dinner that night, or who were standing in the rain with their parents waiting on the bus to come because they had no car. I thought about lost football matches and basketball tournaments in high school. I also thought about my mother, who had willfully put me in situations where there was no chance of success at least on two occasions. All these thoughts came to me in an instant.

No.

The Grant girls were not going out like that. They would have to put on their big girl knickers and tough this one out.

We went to the car and sat in the drizzle.

“I’m going to give you 5 minutes to cry, and then we’ll talk about it, okay?”

Aya wailed and threw her head back against the seat. Now that she had been given permission, Nadjah began to sniffle too. I occupied myself by reading Twitter updates.

“I think I’m done, Mommy,” said Nadjah.

“We still have two minutes left,” I informed her. Aya was still crying. You could tell she was winding down, but in hearing that she had two minutes left, she restarted her engines. Finally, (finally!) the two minute mark came. It was time to talk.

“Tell me why you guys are crying.”

“Because we didn’t get a prize.”

“And you’re disappointed, right?”

Aya nodded.

“I understand how you feel,” I said honestly. “There have been times when I was a kid that my friends have gotten things that I never have, and never will. But tell me something: Where are all your Girl Scout prizes from last year and the year before? Can you tell me what you won two years ago?”

Nadjah rattled off a short list of 4 items. I corrected her and rattled off 12. (I’m sure there are more.)

“Do you see that you have so much stuff that you don’t even remember what you have?”

They both nodded in reluctant agreement.

After informing them that they were very lucky to be a part of this particular troop – which does a lot of the girls and exposes them to things I haven’t made time for – I made it clear that getting prizes for selling cookies is not what scouting is about.

“Girl Scouts is about training you guys to be powerful, influential women one day,” I said solemnly. “Aya, when you had your tea party/etiquette class, that was to teach you manners and how to conduct yourself in business meetings one day. And when you guys went to the STEM Expo, that was about getting you to think more about science and math. These things are not just for fun… they’re to help train you to be better people.”

I wanted to hear from them. They were unhappy because they had not gotten a plushy (made in China) dog or a travel kit. What could we do differently next year?

“Well for one thing, we could get the cookie sheet earlier,” said Nadjah. (That was an indirect dig at me.)

“We could talk to more people,” said Aya timidly.

“Good!” I said. I started the car and turned to look at them huddled in the back seat, like a pair of captured gerbils. “And remember this feeling. Remember how awful it felt, and do something different so that you don’t have to feel this way again. Now let’s go home and have dinner.”

And guess what? By the time they went to bed, there was no further mention of scout prizes or such foolishness. There was only laughter, teasing, and squealing as they played with their younger brother and sister. That night, I’d saved $40 in pity prizes and was well on my way to saving my kids from being coddled into future adult failures.

*******

As a parent, do you feel it’s better to spare your kids feelings or let them experience hardship in one sense or another? Even if you don’t have kids (maybe you were that kid), discuss, discuss!

“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!

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!

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.