Category Archives: Madness

There is only one person who brings drama and madness into my life, and that is my douche bag baby daddy from a previous relationship, whom I am tasked to deal with, courtesy of the Georgia Judicial system. I hope he DOESN’T get hit by a bus this week…

What I Smelled When I Saw Pictures of Usain Bolt in Bed with that Brazilian Student

As I’ve mentioned on many a previous post, I grew up in a suburb of Accra called Labone. It’s hard to believe looking at the area now, but there was once a time when rents were reasonable and a lower middle class family such as mine could afford to live there. The house I lived in was demolished and is now home to a branch of Zenith Bank.

Any-freaking-way, there was a dude that used to live in the boy’s quarters of the house across the street from us called Dada. Dada’s exact function in service to the white man (the manager of an Accra based Swiss company) was unknown to me, but he was my dad’s jesting partner and errand boy. If one needed the other, they would simply whistle a specific tune and wait for a response, which was usually almost immediate. It was an audible Bat signal, if you will.

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Being on such congenial terms with my father naturally made Dada feel chummy with my siblings and me, and he chose to express his familiarity by playing ‘area boy’ games with my brother and making lewd comments about the development of my and my sister’s bodies. The first time I heard the words “natural bobbi stannap” (where bobbi = breast and stannap = stand up, a nod to the perkiness of unspoiled, teen mammary glands) were from Dada’s lips. On more than one occasion, he assured me that it was alright for me to come and visit him in his room one day, instead of him coming over to our house all the time.

It was an offer I politely, firmly and frequently declined. I didn’t know what shenanigans Dada had plans in his room, but even at that tender age, I knew enough to know that NOTHING good would await me in that boy’s quarters room. I couldn’t put my finger on it then, but thanks to the Internet, I now understand what type of creature we were dealing with in Dada. In Twitter terms, he’s that niqqa who employs Hotep science to advance the idea that there exists a “natural attraction” between 25 year old men and 15 year old girls.

Selah.

So anyway, I’d avoided going to Dada’s room for months…maybe even years before it finally happened. My streak of luck had run out. One afternoon, my dad stood whistling on the veranda whistling for Dada in vain, getting no response.

My father grunted an irritated “Ah!” and placed his hands on his hips. He grimaced and furrowed his brow, the urgency for whatever required Dada’s unique attention becoming more apparent with every passing minute. I had only ever seen Dada return with waakye or several balls of kenkey – of which he happily partook at my father’s insistence, so I suppose Daddy was hungry that day.

Finally, he could bear it no longer.

“Malaka! Go across the street and tell Dada I’m looking for him!”

I looked up with my father with imploring eyes, but said nothing in response besides a dutiful “OK.”

The white man had ferocious dogs at his house. Dada had made several comments about my breasts, which were by this stage a solid B-cup. Somewhere in the city, a chicken was being slaughtered and in being put out of its misery, was in a better position emotionally than I was at that moment. Nevertheless, I soldiered on an ambled across the street under my father’s watchful, expectant eye from the veranda.

The dogs were sleeping, so I got by them easily enough. Boy’s quarters are always at the back of estate houses, so I found it quickly as well.

“Dada?” I called tentatively. “Dada?”

I whistled their unique tune and waited. Dada’s voice responded behind one of the two doors.

“Yes?”

I breathed a sigh of relief and pushed it open.

“Hey, Dada! My dad said…”

And then that’s when it hit me: A powerful, musty, musky scent that weakens the senses and causes the knees to buckle. I had no idea what it was, but seeing as Dada and the toffee seller were smiling sheepishly back at me from their shared position under the sheet of his bed, I could only assume they were responsible for its creation.

It smelled like fermented corn.

It smelled like anger.

It also smelled like triumph.

It smelled like wet booty and broken promises.

It smelled like something I wanted to forget.

Dada, the toffee seller and I stared at one another for what felt like the totality of human creation. I can’t recall who broke the silence first, but I informed Dada that my dad needed him and fled, the scent of the room still clinging to my nostrils, my clothing, my hair…

And THAT, dear Reader, is what I smelled when I saw the picture of Usain Bolt and the Brazilian Student when their pictures began circling around social media. Now that I have 4 kids and a long forgotten number of sexual encounters under my own belt, I know that what I smelled in that room so many years ago was the unique aroma of coitus. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that the quarters that Bolt and the Brazilian shared for the night was pungent with it.

Source: Facebook. And why do you have your romping pictures on Facebook? Foolish girl!

Source: Facebook. And why do you have your romping pictures on Facebook? Foolish girl!

Coitus and fried plantain.

Coitus and lies.

Coitus and the pharmaceutically smell of prophylactics.

Given that this is Usain Bolt we’re talking about here, the scent of coitus was likely accompanied with the thunderous sound of flesh clapping, slapping and striking flesh.

I don’t know, of course. I’ve never slept with the man. But I imagine that the experience is…electrifying. (Get it? Get it? Because bolts of lightening? I kill me!)

The mind is a powerful thing, dear Reader. It can form associations with things that seem so basic, so elemental to one person and elicit a violent response in another. Like cotton fields to white folk versus Black people. White people can ride past a cotton field and marvel at how pretty it is…how much it resembles snow. They just want to frolic in it! Black people drive past a cotton field and hear the crack of many whips. They feel the scorching sun. They marvel for a moment and are compelled to whisper thanks for freedom. The more passionate amongst us may drive past a cotton field and throw up a middle finger at it.

Associations, you understand.

Likewise, I see Usain Bolt and this duckfaced chile in bed and I smell bodily excretions and thrice-used Frytol.

Source: WestAfrica Cooks

Source: WestAfrica Cooks

 

PS: I’m sorry if you’ll never look at plantain the same way again. Like I said, the mind is a powerful thing…

Who is Worth Protecting: Vaginal Hierarchies in the Age of Oye Lithur

When well-meaning women beholden to archaic traditions lovingly perform barbaric acts like holding their daughters down and slice off their clitorises with rusty blades or yank them out of classrooms to sell them into marriage, women like Nana Oye Lithur spring into action. It’s not that the former group of women gave birth to bring intentional and perpetual misery to their female progeny; it’s just that these traditions represent the way things have always been done. Better to disfigure and maim your girl than to allow her to face the consequences of promiscuity. Better to trade her in marriage to a responsible (older) man who can look after her better than you ever could with so many other children of your own to consider. Better to take her out of school early – before she crafts lofty dreams and hopes that she will never realize because she is, after all, an African girl.

These are just a handful of examples of the harsh realities that many women – particularly the poor – face in Ghana day in and out; scenarios that women like Nana Oye Lithur, Ghana’s current Minister for Gender, Children and Social Protection, have dedicated their lives and talent to changing. It is the type of work that wins you international recognition, kudos and accolades. Working to abolish harmful traditions and as well as the laws that give these customs fertile ground to flourish is a noble pursuit. It is also one that makes sense, given that the ideas about female ability and worth – rooted in opinion and nothing more – have morphed over time yielding more favorable results for women.

Nevertheless, in countries like Ghana, these notions about the inherent inferiority of women’s worth doggedly persist. A woman’s body and sexual past are fair play – or more accurately, a war zone – on which to lob attacks to score political points. Chauvinists like Ken Agyapong unabashedly assert that prominent women such as Charlotte Osei earned their positions by trading in sex. Misogynists like Dela Coffie say that champions for social equality like Lydia Forson are voices from a brothel. Jokes about raping women, violently taking their virginity, stripping them naked in public and/or beating them in the process abound, from the mouths of those who carry the title ‘honorable’ and the frustrated street sweeper alike. Mouths and minds who see women as enemies and not partners equally tasked with bettering the nation. And still through it all, women like Nana Oye Lithur have been on the forefront of this cultural fight, shutting down those who so casually desecrate the bodies of young girls and women with both the pen and the penitentiary.

She has advocated for harsher punishment for rapists.

She is a human rights lawyer and a child advocate.

She has just signed a petition asking the incumbent president to release three NDC propaganda mouthpieces who threatened to harm, murder and rape the Supreme Court judges with harm, rape and death over their handling of the case on the credibility of the current voters register.

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Policy analyst Dr. Charles Wereko-Brobby has called Oye Lithur’s action “incongruous”, given her background. I should say so! There are certain women who have signed this petition for whom it does not register shock. Akua Donkor is among those. Madam Donkor is the type of woman who represents the outreach field that Oye Lithur ought to be converting and bringing to the light, not following into the slimy muck. Akua Donkor is a political opportunist who uses gimmickry to give herself relevance. She is not the type of person one looks to reflect thoughtful analysis or understanding of the law. She is a tool used by the majority party to harvest votes from a large swathe of the population that has been undereducated, underserved, and underrepresented in governance. Her views about women’s rights are not nearly progressive enough. So while it is disappointing that she would sign a petition to call for the immediate release of three reprehensible, irresponsible rogues who called for the rape of Justice Georgina Wood and the murder of her colleagues, it’s not entirely surprising given the base she panders to.

But for the Minister of Social Protection to do so? It beggars belief.

Nana Oye Lithur is not an unintelligent woman, which means that there is some carrot waiting for her on the other end of this disgraceful action. Unfortunately, as does just about everything in Ghana, the general consensus is that it boils down to partisan politics, which has allowed so many women of strong repute have allowed themselves to be aligned with such a disgusting action. Among those named are Hannah Tetteh, Valerie Sawyerr and Prof. Naana Opoku Agyeman – all NDC stalwarts. The answer to your unasked question is “Yes”. Georgina Wood was appointed by the rival NPP government. Apparently, Justice Wood’s party affiliation is a scarlet letter, a stain repugnant enough to preclude her from protection under the law according to this cabal of classist women over 50.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Now we have to ask ourselves some serious questions about when, how and why we protect women’s bodies in Ghana. The village girl in remote outposts garners immediate sympathy. It’s her face, after all, that is plastered all over glossy Oxfam and Save the Children posters. Her face and her plight are a commodity that feeds and funds NGOs and line ministerial pockets. It is to the benefit of the classed gender activist to be seen supporting this caliber of victim. But how about women whose shared political values do not match your own, who draws her living from a wallet funded by the might of the elephant rather than the shadiness of an umbrella, or vice versa? Of what value and are the attacks against her? Do they illicit the same sort of horror and indignation? It would appear not. Such a woman is no ‘mere woman’ at all…she is political opponent foremost, and therefore worthy of destruction.

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This is the hierarchy to determine which sort of woman deserves sympathy, protection or support in Ghana when confronted with the threat of assault, and it’s one that gets converted and altered depending on the audience. Until we can come to the conclusion that ALL women deserve equal protection under the law, we will continue to hurtle down this dangerous and divisive path that harms every woman – the vulnerable and powerful alike in the end. It is merely a refining of the vicious notions we have lived under and striven against for so long.

For the top brass in the NDC – a political party whose early leadership has on its record a responsibility for the killings of the Supreme Court Justices Cecilia Koranteng Addo, Frederick Sarkodie, and Kwadjo Agyei Agyepong – to now call on the president to pardon three media personalities who have called for a repeat of those atrocities betrays a level of disrespect that defies all reason. It is vile, cruel and beneath the dignity – and humanity – of these once-respected leaders.

 

If Only I Could Solve All of My Problems Like A ThunderCat

Last night, I felt it prudent to lose myself in a bit of 80s nostalgia. The past 8 days or better have constituted a general failure in the spheres of civil rights, global peace and adulating in general, so an escape to a time when all of these principles were things for my parents to fret over at dinner was just what I needed. I gathered my family around me, fired up the old DVD player and popped in Season 1 of the Thundercats. Noises in the living room vacillated between stunned silence, disbelieving grunts and postulations about what each character meant when they employed certain puns during unambiguous scenarios. And if there’s anything any 80s cartoon is good for, it’s the liberal use of puns.

With the Thundercats as our guide, my family of 6 +1 house guest sprinted and leapt around Third Earth. Without warning, we found ourselves an audience to Lion-O’s Anointment Trials. Lion-O – like most African leaders – was the presumptive Lord of the Thundercats after his father’s demise. That means he inherited his position. Having never proved his worthiness or right to the title of Lord of All Cats, it was incumbent upon Lion-O to go through and successfully complete the Anointment Trials to earn this title. The Thundercats code of honor required his friends to do all they could to stop him. He would have to be as strong as Panthro, as swift as Cheetara, as cunning as Wily Kit and Wily Kat and beat Tygra in a battle of the mind.

Oh

My

God

Somewhere along the line in 1985 as a latchkey kid, I’d missed all of these episodes. Tragic! No matter. Watching them 30 years later was just as exciting, if not even better. I was rooted in my seat, transfixed by what I was witnessing. A thought came to my mind – a silly one, if I’m honest. I didn’t banish it. I entertained it. What…what if *EYE* could solve all of my problems just like a Thundercat? What would that look like? Well first, I’d begin by:

 

Shouting ‘Hoo!’ At Every Freaking Thing

Lion-O was not permitted to use the Sword of Omens or the Claw Shield during his Anointment Trials, and for good reason. The Sword of Omens makes him invincible, and on a regular day, he’s encouraged to make use of his weapons. At stasis, it’s a pretty sharp dagger that becomes the length of his body after the impassioned scream of one word: Ho!

Ho (or heaux, as I’d pronounce it) is imbued with magical powers. Yell ‘heaux’ and your whole squad shows up to help. Yell ‘heaux’ and fierce light will emit from your accessories, blinding your opponent.

Man, I could see myself now. What’s they problem? Chicken salad too dry? Sweet tea ain’t cold enough? Not burning enough calories on the treadmill? Kids won’t leave me alone to make these pancakes they asked me for?

HEAUXXXXX!!!!

Everyone scatters…tasteless salad, annoying kids, everyone! Problem solved.

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Beating My Problems to Submission

You ever seen Panthro fix the Thunder Tank or any other mechanical object lying around Cats Lair? What’s the first thing he does? I’ll tell you. He smacks the crap out of it and yells “Dang BLAST IT!”. And guess what? The machine starts working again. That’s because Panthro runs a tight ship out there at Cats Lair. You don’t really want to go toe-to-toe with Panthro. I don’t care if you’re a spreadsheet or a coffee maker. You take one look at Panthro’s biceps and that grimace and you know it’s in your best interest to comport yourself. How awesome would it be if you could just smack the pudding out of a pile of reports and yell “Dang BLAST IT!” and everything work out fine? Like, your boss and your colleagues just think you’re a wizard because you can just beat your way to success?

Heck yeah. You know you would.

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Sprinting and Back flipping Away from Undesirable Situations

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Police brutality was (and if this annual trend stays true, will continue to be) a big problem last week. The world watched two men DIE on their smartphones and televisions…in one case in real time.

But what if you had another way of escape.

A person can pretty much tell if a store clerk, the lady at the DMV or a cop is going to give them a hard time. What if instead of suffering through the entire nasty encounter, you could just backflip your way to safety and peace? Or, OR, how about this. What if you’re taking an evening stroll, minding your own business and all these fuqbois on the sidewalk just won’t let you have peace. They keep harassing you. They keep touching you. If you were a Thundercat, you could use your super speed and just get to the QT to pick up that Freezoni and get back home. Because sometimes, all a girl wants in life is peace and a slushy, syrupy drink.

Making a Joke Out of Everything…and Being Cute While You Blunder

WilyKit_WilyKat

There are some people who do this anyway; make a joke of serious issues, I mean. Everything is a bloody joke. They lost your luggage?

“Oh…it’s funny how that happens. Have a nice day, eh?”

They put a hole in your wall while moving in your furniture?

“Hahahaha!!! Oh, don’t worry! You can file a claim with my company. My boss will give you a call. I get off at 5pm.”

Braided your hair with Yaki number 613 instead of number 27 like you asked?

“Oh. Ehehehe….But this one too is a style.”

Maybe you yourself are one of these people. Maybe you are just prone to screwing everything up.

But you ever notice how SOME people manage to get away with this? It’s because they are cute! Somehow, when you’re CUTE, your blunders don’t seem so egregious. Just like who? Willy Kit and Wily Kat. Don’t be a screw up and be ugly. You’ll get kicked off the team.

Pretend None of Your Problems Even Exist. Like, Just Don’t Acknowledge Them.

This has got to be my favorite coping mechanism by FAR. During the fourth day of Lion-O’s Anointment Trial, he had to defeat Tygra in a battle of the mind. I suuuuwear, I’ve never seen anything like it. Tygra was standing at the top of the hill, right? And Lion-O had to get up to him. All of a sudden, Lion-O stops and starts fighting AIR. Actual, empty air. Because why? Because Tygra is at the summit, all mystical and Asian talmbout some, “Let him see what is not there…”

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Yo.

You can do that?

Because I SHO NUFF would be at Suntrust’s Headquarters with my mortgage in my hand hollering “Let them see what ain’t there! Let them see a zero balance!”

That’s not how it works in real life, though. In real life, if you don’t pay off your balance, you have a foreclosure.

I’m sure my kids would love to have this Tygratic ability to make ish disappear. Like that stinking room and those bad grades.

“Let Mommy see what’s not there!”

 

 

Yeah.

ThunderCatssss….Heaux.

Thundercats.ws-Site-Relaunch

 

Is Tomi Lahren REALLY The Right Voice for White Moral Outrage?

Up until a few days ago, I had never heard of Tomi Lahren. Tomi is a conservative pundit who makes her living trolling Black pain and mining Black disenfranchisement for every cent its worth. She’s a worm who moisturizes herself in the tears of Black orphans. Just evil. Tomi uses Black culture, its heroes and its villains alike to provide herself with relevance. She and Piers Morgan – that unctuous British bigot – have that in common. Lahren currently works for the Blaze, but given the outrageous nature and asinine commentary on social events, it’s safe to bet that she’s jockeying for a position as one of the Fox News Blondes.

One of Tomi’s most recent targets was Jesse Williams…or specifically Jesse Williams’ acceptance speech at the BET awards. She asserted that BET was giving Mr. Williams a humanitarian award for spreading ‘racism and hatred’. Anyone with half a brain listening to that speech would never come to that conclusion…but we’re not dealing with someone operating with a full deck of cards. We’re working with Tomi Lahren. Watch her videos for yourself and see if I’m exaggerating! Every time I hear her voice, it’s like hearing human bone scrape against asphalt. Just torturous!

Anyway, this week, Ol’ Missy Lahren hopped onto her embossed leather soapbox with the intent of tackling the murder (and it was a murder) of Alton Sterling, who was selling CDs in front of convenience store when two cops tackled him and put 6 bullets in his back and chest. Her voice got thinner and thinner as she launched her high pitched whine about why Black folk have this penchant for turning criminals into martyrs, Alton Sterling being the latest. To demonstrate that society was better off without Alton Sterling’s existence, she offered the following tirade as evidence of his apparent unworthiness to live:

“Here’s what know about Sterling. Sterling was a registered sex offender. He was previously arrested for aggravated battery, criminal damage to property, unauthorized entry, domestic abuse/battery. In 2009 he was sentenced to 5 years in prison for marijuana possession and for carrying an illegal weapon with a controlled dangerous substance.”

I’m listening to and looking at this woman this woman rattle off all these “stats” on Alton Sterling, looking at her lips grow tighter and tighter as she screeches her faux outrage, and all I can think to myself is ‘Wow. This sounds like the average weekend itinerary from whatever trailer park you just extracted yourself from.’

What we ALSO know about Sterling’s sex offender registry is that his was 17 at the time and the girl he was engaging in sexual contact with was 15. Similarly, you may recall in 2003 when 17 year-old Genarlow Wilson was convicted and handed a 10-year prison sentence for having consensual oral sex with another teenager. I would imagine that there are many Altons and Gernalows unfairly charged and floating through the American justice system, thus providing harpies like Tomi Lahren the ammunition to deem these men’s lives worthless.

Everyone knows that Black people are handed harsher convictions by the criminal justice system for the same offenses that white Americans commit. The long-term repercussions for Black people are far more devastating than they are for white Americans. Study after study has proven this. Again in 2003, The American Journal of Sociology published the results of a matched-pair experiment in which the participants were split equally by race, black and white.

What the study revealed is that employers were more likely to call Whites with a criminal record (17% were offered an interview) than Blacks without a criminal record (14%). And while having a criminal background hurt all applicants’ chances of getting an interview, African Americans with a non-violent offense faced particularly dismal employment prospects.*

That’s important. But what’s more important is that Tomi Lahren is proof of this phenomenon herself. While this woman sits on TV night-after-night, delighting her bigoted viewers by insinuating that the deaths of these Black men, women and children at the hands of the police are somehow justified because of their criminal pasts, Ms. Lahren forgets that she has a past of her own that isn’t so squeaky clean. In a stunning turn of events, Tomi Lahren found herself exposed…by none other than Black Twirra.

Aubrih Stan, who goes by the handle @yauniexo had finally had enough. She exposed Tomi Lahren for the prostitute and shoplifter that she is and came with receipts. Twitter, who like Facebook, is deeply invested in preserving white integrity, deleted Aubrih’s tweets and from what I gathered, shut own her account for a time. But it was too late, because the innanets never forgets and the innanets makes copies. Within hours, everyone knew that Tomi Lahren had spent 14 years of her life whoring herself out for pay and stealing items from Target in 2008. And yet here she sits, with her own show on the Blaze. If all things were equal, we could call Ms. Lahren’s good fortune “the American Dream”…a dream that allows you to trade your nightmarish past bent over the arm of a sofa, sucking oily old-man-cock for a few 20-dollar bills for a lucrative career in media. In reality, it’s nothing more than White Privilege. I can’t think of any former hoes of color in this century (besides Mama Maya, God rest her) who the establishment would even let remotely close to becoming the voice of righteous indignation.

And don’t get me wrong. I do love my prostitutes. They have changed the course of history and affected social events from the days of the Rahab in Bible to Cardi B in 2016. And I applaud Tomi for having the strength to pursue that….career. It takes a great deal of inner fortitude to participant in the sort of anal play for pay that I’m certain her clients demanded of her. But is THIS REALLY the woman that hateful white America (and all you coons who cape for their cause) has chosen to be the voice of American morality? Because that’s what it comes down to in our society. If you’re Black and have any blemish in your past, you deserve to die at the hands of police. It doesn’t matter if you’re just walking home, or going for an afternoon drive, or selling CDs, or listening to loud music when you’re killed. It doesn’t matter that you weren’t engaging in criminal activity in the moment when you were killed. As long as you have a record, an infraction even as mundane as a trip to the principles office, you deserve death in this moment or the future.

Heaven forbid, we apply the same standards equally. Heaven forbid Tomi Lahren finds herself a victim of sexual assault. How callous and asinine would it be to say “Well, you know she’s be a whore for half her life. She deserved it.” No one deserves to be raped, just like no unarmed person deserves to be murdered by the police.

People like Tomi Lahren, who live high in their towers, made of ivory and glass shouldn’t let the altitude make them delusional. You can’t be a ho in a pencil heels lobbing grenades while you’re sitting on a drum of liquid nitrogen with your name on it. That’s just unwise. The last time I checked, prostitution and theft by taking were both criminal offenses in Amurrrca, Tomi.

Have you heard of Tomi Lahren? Do you find her as despicable as I do? Discuss!

 

*Source: thesocietypages.org

The Upside to Brexit: Britons Disprove Their Presumed Superiority

None of my English friends are actually “English”. They are English men and women of Nigerian/Ghanaian/Jamaican decent. Their ties to England (and to their precious, burgundy UK passports) usually begins with some 419-marriage-for-papers; or with their parents lucking out by getting pregnant and delivering them in the UK whilst in university during the 70s; or by overstaying their student visas and slotting themselves firmly into the cog work of English society. They are English in the same way that I am American: African by birth, Western by chance. And yet despite this cumbersome, shaky relationship with our adopted countries, each of us has taken on the mantle of continuing the old rivalries from the original inhabitants (or invaders). African-English folk refer to us African-Americans as “you Americans”, an appellation that is usually followed by the phrase “are so dumb”.

Among our many crimes as Americans are:

  • Voting George Bush into office twice. (I want to add that that wasn’t the fault of the people. That was the Electoral College.)
  • Failing to enact gun control legislation.
  • Refusing to add an extra vowel in the spelling of words such as ‘color’ and ‘neighborhood’, or reordering the placement of the letter e in words like ‘center’ and ‘meter’.
  • Our insane insistence on driving on the other side of the road.
  • Our inability to control our portions, leading to an epidemic of obesity and heart disease.

You get the picture.

There is a tenuous relationship between Britain and America, one built on admiration won and disgust earned in equal measure. Yet through it all, the English have always maintained their position of racial, cognitive and social superiority. America’s latest offense? Allowing Donald Trump to get this close to the presidency. How stupid can you Americans be?

Well, now thanks to Brexit – a contraction and joining of the words Britain and exit – you Brits can answer that question simply by looking in the mirror. Muahahahahaaa!!!

Can I tell you how delighted I am? This is just fantastic!

As I watched the Pound slide to 30 year lows after the results of the vote were announced, I was met with a sense of awe. This quickly gave way to a perverse sense of pleasure. Yes! All your too-known. All your fear mongering and xenophobia. Here are the fruits of the bitter seeds you’ve planted. Who’s the dummy now?

The English STAY dogging the American education system. But how do you send out legions of people to vote who don’t even know what they are voting for? Eh? Did you see this? Did you see what the British were Googling after they realized what they’d done to themselves?

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And then there was THIS chick, whose regrets apparently represent a fair majority of the voting populace. Look at her face.

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Like the guy who found the perfect relationship, couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull out or not, makes a hasty decision, and now he can’t live happily squandering the fruits of Oprah’s hard earned labor. This coulda been YOU, England:

Now, top EU leaders want England to pack its stuff and get out as “quickly as possible”. Hei! Talk about a bitter divorce!

Now, of course these setbacks – the pounds sharp decline, their economy shrinking by 100 billion in ONE DAY, the hysteria and morning after regret – are only temporary. I mean, this is Britain, conqueror of the entire world. They will rebound, because allowing this once great superpower to collapse completely would signal a devastating end to Western superiority as we’ve always known it; And though they may want to punish Britain in the short term, those who believe in the cause of white supremacy will never allow this to happen. Britain can’t become a failed state. It’s not like it’s Ghana where corruption is the norm and patriotism is a myth. This is Britain. The Queen lives there.

Nevertheless, this is a great day for America and Americans. We get to look at England and thumb our noses back, for once. We are finally on equal footing. You Brits, with your cricket and your afternoon tea and your NHIS are no different from us. Our paths our now firmly entwined. Welcome to the future.

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Ghana’s Kotoka International Airport Gets A Facelift – But Corruption, Bribery Prevail

There’s ALWAYS some sort of bribery or money bilking scam going on at Kotoka International Airport. Between the yellow fever vaccination booklet scam, the baggage handlers stealing your luggage, and the customs officers’ expectant query about what you have “brought them from America”, it’s always a miracle when the traveler exits the airport’s sliding doors with their wits intact. Kotoka is a den of iniquity. It is a chaotic, incomprehensible hellscape. If you’ve entered Ghana via that airport in the last 20 years, you will attest that this is no exaggeration. Ice Cube got outta Compton with more ease than you will through Kotoka and its parking lot.

But there’s great news! The linear processes aren’t getting any better and the staff are just as arrogant and deceptive, but the airport is getting a facelift! *confetti*

Jemila Abdulai, my sister in blog, recently returned from Germany and had Ghana’s special blend of corruption thrown right into her face as she was trying to Uber home. And since we are storytellers, she did what was only natural: she told the story of how she was subjected to extortion by the airport’s workers. For that ‘crime’, her award-winning blog was hacked. (It’s back up and running now. I personally think the hack was practice for whoever the IGP is going hire on election day, but that’s because I’m a cynic with trust issues.)

With her permission I am re-blogging her account of the ridiculous and heinous events here…because they can’t hack us ALL. And because we’re all tired of them pulling this ish.

Kotoka-branded
By JEMILA ABDULAI

Kotoka International Airport, Ghana’s only international airport, is getting a facelift and it’s beginning to show. From the new “visa on arrival” desk to the expanded arrivals immigration hall and luggage pickup carousels, the much-needed renovation project, which apparently started in 2014, is helping ease some of the congestion travelers experience through the port of entry. As they say however, beauty is only skin-deep. What about the other, more arduous surgery? The one that expunges memories of power plays and solicitation by airport officials and staff, saves the country millions of dollars, and securely establishes Ghana as the gateway to West Africa it claims to be? When does that work begin?

Stepping off the plane around 8:30pm on June 16, 2016, I was tired, but happy to be home. After days of dreary, cold weather in Germany, I didn’t mind that I had walked right into a travel guide or blog post: the balmy, hot Ghanaian air rushing to envelope itself around me while the unmistakable hint of salt danced about. As myself and the other passengers were transported by bus from the aircraft to the arrivals door, I caught a glimpse of bright lights in the distance: the very lights guiding workers through the night as they worked on constructing the new airport terminal. Terminal 3.

Only moments earlier, a KLM crew member had announced over loudspeaker, “Photos and videos on the airport premises are prohibited”. This is a first, I thought to myself, before shrugging it off. Maybe they want to keep things under wraps until the official unveiling, I reckoned – to offer a pleasant surprise to those who have yet to see the renovations.

Having already filled my arrival form, it took me five minutes to get through passport control and make my way over to the carousel. It would take another 30 minutes before my suitcase came into view. While waiting, I checked the Uber app periodically to see whether there were any cars in the vicinity. I finally found one as I placed my luggage on the airport stroller and headed towards the exit: it was five minutes away. After putting in my request, I continued towards customs control, bracing myself for the usual questions: “What did you bring me?” “Where and why did you travel?” “What’s in your bag?” Nothing. Not a single question. Well, that’s different, I thought to myself. Different, but welcome. After 14 hours of total travel time on subway, train and airplane, I was tired and looking forward to taking a shower and going straight to bed. The clock said 9pm, but my body knew better: it was 11pm. Jet lag had me running two hours ahead of time.

Continue reading at Circumspecte.com

The Idiocy of Declaring a Woman a Hoe Based on the Length of Her Hemline

And the Bible says:

“If a woman wears a short skirt and tight jeans a man shall look upon her lustfully and commit adultery in his heart.” – Jesus H. Christ, 2000+ years ago.

No? That’s not what your Bible says in Matthew 5? Coulda fooled me! The way we police women’s sartorial choices “based on God’s law”, one could easily be forgiven for interpreting scripture this way. But I suppose this is the weakness of men rearing its ugly head again. What Jesus actually said was:

“But I say, anyone who even looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”

There was no mention of what she was wearing while man was doing the looking and lusting. No mention of if he’d offered her a drink and she accepted. The responsibility was on the man to either tame his heart, or gouge his own eyes out if he could not contain himself. (That’s actually in the Bible. Matthew 5:29)

I don’t know what it is with men – and today I’m talking about Ghanaian men, though I’m certain that they don’t hold a monopoly in this trait – that makes them so averse to accepting responsibility for their own choices and actions. I believe it goes back to Adam, the prototype for the immature and reckless man at whose feet I lay blame for the caliber of men we have to contend with today. We might actually be regressing as a species. What did he say when God asked him why he ate the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil? “It wasn’t my fault, Yaweh! It was this woman that Thou gavest to me!”

And women have been dealing with men who not only cannot follow instructions, but also bearing the blame for men’s disobedience ever since.

Selah.

Dovetailed with the burden of carrying the failure of men is the burden of bearing the moniker “hoe”. Calling a woman a hoe has become the quickest (and laziest) way to silence and denigrate women. In 2016, a woman can be denounced a hoe for doing anything from posting yoga poses online to going to church. Safe spaces for women are shrinking exponentially, and as usual, women are being made to bear the blame for existing in a hostile environment neither of their choosing or making.

I have watched a series of exchanges between my friend Lydia Forson (she’s my best buddy now) and a certain columnist take place over the course of the weekend. I hesitate to brand this man a journalist, as that would require putting him in the same league as Komla Dumor, Nana Ama Agyemang Asante or Nana Aba Anamoh. He has yet to produce a piece of objective journalistic work that meets the international standard of the word. He gets paid to express his moral opinion rather than research, analyze and report , which is a pretty good gig. But nonsense like that is only rewarded in failed states like Ghana. I have chosen not to mention this moral crusader – as Lydia calls him – by name because this post isn’t about him, but rather the lethal cancer he represents.

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Last week former Miss Malaika winner Hamamat Motia found herself under sharp criticism and condemnation for a dress that she wore to the VGMAs. The picture of the mother and former model showed an off the shoulder strap, plunging neckline, a mullet-cut hemline. It also showed a bit of side boob. For this, Hamamat was branded an ashawo (slut) among other things in a society where privileged men drug and rape women and earn job opportunities in return for violating women’s bodies. Hamamat then did what you would expect of any woman who has had her spine expertly extracted by a violently patriarchal society like Ghana’s: she went on an apology tour for wearing that dress. A dress she bought and paid for, even possibly had designed. A dress that several people in her house saw her slip into and declared that she was radiant. And she was. She looked stunning in that dress. The yellow offset her skin like the sun fading into the night sky. Hamanat wasn’t really apologizing for wearing the dress: she was apologizing for being called a hoe. Which is quite a mind-fuq when you think about out.

The sartorial choices that women make – or have had thrust upon them – have long been used as a determining factor of her worth. And thanks to colonialism, mental bondage and the Ghanaian’s aggressive adherence to Western standards in just about all forms, from beauty to education, the archaic notion that the length of a woman’s dress is a viable factor for assessing her self-worth or propensity for promiscuity is firmly rooted in our collective psyche. How did this happen?

War… Or more specifically, conquest.

During Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign from 1798-1801 he discovered the Sphinx, the tombs of pharaohs and Egyptian cotton. He blasted the Afrocentric features off of the Sphinx and used the bodies of mummies as fuel for locomotives. And then he brought cotton back to France in order to revive the textile industry. All the noble women in Napoleon’s court were required to purchase yards and yards of material in order to meet the standards of fashion acceptable for coming to court. All women were also prohibited from wearing the same dress to court twice. Napoleon also had the fireplaces in the palace stuffed so that women would be compelled to purchase more material for pantaloons and other long underwear in order to keep warm in the vast, drafty halls. In this era, the empire waist dress (named for Emperor Napoleon’s new empire) was designed and became all the rage in Europe. Paris was now the fashion capital of the world. Not to be left behind, the British went over to India, fabricated an offense which led to a war, split the country in two and consequently took control over the country’s cotton production and manufacturing. Floor length gowns were the marker of a “lady” – white gowns even more so. A white gown signified that one was wealthy enough to do no toil because stains would be evidence of work (hence their popularity in the post Bad Boy era) and white parties were/are a mainstay for both the wannabe and fabulously wealthy alike. And the rest, they say, is history.

Except when it isn’t. Whether a woman is dressed “like hoe” or not is really just a matter of dates and global events, not design.

In the 1930s, women were routinely policed and arrested if their bathing suits did not comply with city ordinances. After WWII, all that extra material was needed to support the war effort (not modesty) and the bikini was born!

In the 1930s, women were routinely policed and arrested if their bathing suits did not comply with city ordinances.
After WWII, all that extra material was needed to support the war effort (not modesty) and the bikini was born!

We Africans have yet to overcome the imposed idea that a woman must be completely covered in order to consider herself confident, regal and beautiful. What’s worse is what the Ghanaian male has done to his female counterpart’s body…our bodies collectively. Once upon a time the female form was respected and honored in our society. You see it in our older wood carvings. But then with colonialism came the fetishizing of the African female form, followed quickly by its sexualization. And because of the guilt and shame that came with misinterpreted and misapplied biblical half-truths, our bodies were criminalized by the very same men who once respected us. With criminalization comes policing…and what do victims of oppression do when they crave recognition of their humanity? Frequently, they side with their oppressor. This is why patriarchal princesses industriously join in the fray when it comes time to shame another woman for what she was wearing/drinking/eating/studying and finds herself on the receiving end of a sexual or physical assault. Many (far too many) Ghanaians have captive minds and don’t even know they are prisoners. They don’t even know that the amount of material used for clothing has little to noting to do with morality , and everything to do with commerce.

My husband shared something he read about Saartjie Baartman. It was decided by certain bright minds in Europe that her body – with its large breasts and buttocks and elongated labia – was “sexually primitive”, and therefore appealed to the baser sensibilities of men. Saartjie’s proportions–though extraordinary – are typical of the average African woman’s. In sharp contrast are the proportions of white women, which tend to skew flat. Their bodies were determined to be “sexually civilized”, because they did not incite the base sexual desires of men to the same degree that an African woman’s would. This idea somehow found its way into the Ghanaian psyche and now we women are being punished for our physical appearance. If you have big breasts and a fat butt, you’ve got to be a hoe.

 

By definition, a whore is someone who trades sexual acts for currency. You can’t “dress like a hoe”. Money actually has to pass hands before the moniker can stick. Let me end with a tale:

A friend shared a story with me. His father had abandoned his family and his mother was left to care for him and his brother. His final exams were looming and he’d been sent home for not paying school fees. His mother – now a shell of herself, but still trying to hold the family together – promised he would get the money and be back in school before the end of the week. That night she left the house and was not seen until early the next morning. She had his school fees in hand…all of it.

Now, he strongly suspects that his mother had to go sleep with a guy in her office to get the money, but he’s never asked her. Likewise, she’s never revealed how she got the money.

If she did, did that make this church-going, God fearing woman a hoe? Absolutely, without a question. His momma was a hoe for a night, and now he works in a nice office, drives a nice car and her covered hair and long skirt couldn’t change that.

 

 

And now, I leave you with this gallery of our ancestors dressed like Akan hoes. Get your minds right, especially you fake journalists who see life with the clarity of a cataract.

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In the 1930s, women were routinely policed and arrested if their bathing suits did not comply with city ordinances.  After WWII, all that extra material was needed to support the war effort (not modesty)  and the bikini was born!