Baby Daddy Hate

When I say I hate my baby daddy, I’m talking about pure, unadulterated hate. I’m not talking about that cute high school to age 20 something garbage that can be soothed over with an apology, a few tears and some chocolates. I’m talking about the kind of hate that has burned in my soul for the last 3 years. The kind that would like to see nothing more than for him to die in his sin, go straight to Hell without passing “Go”, and having his memory obliterated from the planet.

I hate my first-born’s father for several reasons, but the primary two are for his being an unrepentant douche bag and for turning me into a cliché. I have always striven for excellence in my life, and the day I found out at 26 that I was pregnant out of wedlock was the biggest failure of my life, in my estimation. I never wanted to be the girl that rappers talked about in their anthems to their single mothers. The ones who struggled to raise them into the “men” that they were today despite the grueling circumstances and dangers of the ghetto. I wanted to be the woman that few Black ever read about in Fortune Magazine, who has her life together and is making an extraordinary impact on the world. Of course I didn’t have grandiose illusions of becoming Oprah or any such thing, but I never anticipated becoming someone’s “baby momma”. *Shudder*.

My daughter’s father is a caustic mix of ignorance, narcissism, arrogance and ruthlessness. It is his ignorance particularly that makes him such a dangerous foe. I had only seen glimpses of it when we were “dating” (he never wanted a committed relationship, which I stupidly allowed to myself to compromise to) but I didn’t heed the warning signs. I was madly in love, with what I now don’t know, and overlooked several of his less favorable tendencies…such as his penchant for gleefully sharing every sexual exploit he’s ever had with any woman everywhere. He’s also an incredible liar, lying from where he’s worked, to how much he makes, to why he got fired, to what day it might be should you ask him.

It’s funny. For many months I have been dwelling on how much I hated this Black behemoth that now that I’m sitting down to pen those thoughts, many of them escape me. I can happily say that at the end of the day, I am happily married to a good man, have a wonderful family and only occasionally am forced to deal with the antics of The Douche Bag, as we refer to him at my house. As I enter 2010, I am fully aware that he is merely an inconsequential anomaly and of no real importance. True, he is an extreme irritation, like a boil or a rash, but those things too disappear in time. If he is not killed or does not meet his untimely death in the next few years, I carry on knowing that I will full well be able to celebrate his permanent departure from my life in 2022 when my daughter turns 18. I’m going to have the most obnoxiously opulent party that anyone has ever been to in the history of all man kind, and you are all invited.

While I cannot disclose the name of this scab on my ass on the internet as we are in the midst of more litigation, I can give you a few clues. If you’re a woman living in any of the southern states and you’re reading this, beware of a bald black man from Demopolis, AL with an inability to spell or read.  My daughter’s father is a man whore with no moral compass, has fathered 12 children (only 2 of which are now living) and has admittedly proclaimed that he will sleep with married women, sisters, mothers and daughters and roommates.

A word to the wise is enough.

The crazy Black woman on the news

I have spent the last 2 weeks calling 404-679-5200 to find out what’s been going on with my money. Some of you may know this number well. It’s the number to the North Fulton Unemployment Office..err…Career Center. No matter what time of day it is, the line is always busy. Now that we’re in our third week without a check, Marshall gently but urgently insisted that I go down there to find out what’s going on. I live in Roswell. The Career Center is in North Druid Hills. The last thing I was in the mood to do was drive 40 minutes with a fidgety 6 month old and a fidgetier 3 year to sit in a depressing office with depressed adults. But what was I to do? My family needed me to go get that money. Christmas is coming!

I could have combed my hair, but I chose not to. I could have thrown on some lip gloss, but I chose not to. I could have even thrown on a decent pair of jeans, but I chose not to do that either. I could have even lotioned my face, but what’s a little ash on a Black woman to the public? What I DID do, was tie my flat afro puff with some dirty ribbon, throw on some sweat pants and polish the look of with an even sweatier jacket and hit the door. When we arrived at the unemployment office, the scene was everything I thought it would be: depressing. Only now the staff had “livened” the office up with a Christmas tree.

An hour and a half into my wait, Justin Farmer from WSB TV walks into the door with a camera woman. “Oh crap”, I thought. “He’s here to do a human interest story on how the recession is impacting the Atlanta populace.” I watched with amusement as the staff of the Career Center plastered smiles on their faces, got even more professional, and sang out “Happy Holidays!” to despondent job seekers. After taking a few shots of the crowd, Justin began to hunt for people to interview. The first couple, who looked like they had crawled out from under the trailer, turned him down. He had better luck with the old White guy donning a pea green cap and square bandage on his face. They shook hands after the interview was done, and Justin continued to search for more interviews. Several other people and I averted our eyes. Some moved clear across the room. I began to fiddle with Stone’s blanket, Aya’s coat, anything within my reach so as to look to busy to be approached. I made the mistake of glancing upwards and caught Justin’s eye. His camera woman whispered something and he marched straight towards me. He had the look of a man who had struck gold in a barren land. I can only imagine what she said to him.

“Hey! There’s a crazy looking unkempt darkie with two kids! Go talk to her! You know how Negroes just love to talk about their woes.”

Now mind you, there were a slew of other Black women he could have approached. In fact, right next to me was a very mature lady in pumps and a suit jacket. For some reason every Black woman in that office today was dressed to the nine’s…Every Black woman but ME.

“Hi. My name is Justin Farmer with WSB news. How are you today?”

“Fine thank you,” I replied.
“Would you mind if I interviewed you?” he asked. “I understand if you don’t!”

I felt my mouth go dry, and my lips go drier.

“Well, as you can see, I’ve got my two kids here…and they may prove somewhat of a distraction.”

I was sure that would deter him. Who wants screaming kids on their news cast? As I uttered the words, I watched in horror as Aya’s previously pressed hair magically curled up and transformed into a nappy mess; as if on cue. We were SUCH a cliche.

“No, no! They’d be no distraction at all!”

He motioned for the camera woman to come over to us.

“Tell me, where did you work before losing your job?”

I factually told him about my job in HR advertising, that it’s been a year since I was laid off, and that we were coping.

“A year?” he asked incredulously. “Man, that must be tough.”

Whatever, Justin. You know I’m not the only person in Atlanta that’s been laid off for a year. Why all the false shock?

“Yes, it’s been tough.”

“So, you’ve had to scale back quite a bit huh?”

“Yes. We’ve cut things down to the bare bones. We haven’t flown in years. We do what we can to get by.”

He asked more standard questions you would expect in this type of interview; am I training for a new line of work, going to school, how do I stay positive blah blah blah. As I balanced my drooling son on one knee and reprimanded my toddler with a stern look, I informed him that I could not go back to school at this time. When he was done, he thanked me for the interview and left without wishing me luck on my job search.

I’ve always wondered how a news outfit could go to any given location in the country, do a story, and find the most wretched looking, incoherent Black woman on the planet to give a statement. You know? The toothless one with the rollers in her hair, reeking of old bacon grease?

Now I know.

All she has to do is make the decision to walk out of her door looking a hot mess and a camera will find her!

I’m a maid, not a mouse

In Ghana everybody has a maid, and it’s not because we’re a country of balers. Everyone has a ‘domestic servant’, ‘house girl’ or ‘garden boy’ because no matter how poor you are, there is someone else who is poorer. Even the poorest of people can hire someone to sweep their compound in exchange for a roof over the even more indigent’s head.

When we lived in Labone, we didn’t have a house girl for many years. We did everything ourselves. My dad cut the grass, we all washed our own clothes, we took out the trash, and swept the compound. Then suddenly I came home from school one day and my parents had hired 2 house girls (Jamilla and Cynthia) and a garden boy (Williams) on a trial basis. Being that each of these people were ten years or more older than me, I didn’t feel right them “house girls”. “House keeper” was an easier title to swallow. I asked my parents why we suddenly needed 2 housekeepers and a gardener when we’d been doing all the house work ourselves?

“We don’t,” they said. “We only need one house girl and one gardener. Williams will probably stay, but Jamilla and Cynthia will have to compete for the position to see who stays.”

And so began my first experience with the makings of a great reality TV series. Watching Jamilla and Cynthia compete for the permanent post of housekeeper was like watching a cut throat African version of “I want to work for Diddy” or “Making the Band 1”. This story is all about Jamilla, but before I get into that, I have to segue and talk about Williams. Williams was a lecherous 30 something guy who used to make torrid remarks about my breasts and butt when my parents were out of earshot. He never did any “gardening” and was eventually sacked 5 months into his employ when my mother ventured into the boys quarters to find that his wall had been plastered with Jet Beauties of the Week that he’d torn from her magazine collection. When my brother told me to go look, I remember being hit by a musty smell when I walked into his room. I couldn’t identify the smell then, but I now know it was the stink of a**. Williams was getting a** from someone; for you see, he was not the type of man to have sex or make love to a woman…he simply wanted to get some a**.

Jamilla and Cynthia’s competition was amusing, but disturbing to watch. The pair of them couldn’t be more different. Jamilla was a sinewy Northerner from Bawku with keen, weasel like features who spoke with a rough tone. Cynthia was a plump Akan who sang hymns when she worked and always smiled and said good morning to us kids. When my mother wanted something done, she would instruct one of us to relay her wishes to the contestants. They were usually both hanging out in the kitchen.

“Hi guys. Mommy said she wants one of you to sweep the living room.”

Jamilla and Cynthia would then tear off to fight for the closest broom and streak into the living to be seen sweeping the floor. The loser would busy herself with dusting, or fluffing pillows or some menial task in an effort to look busy and useful. Events went on like this for about a month until it was time to pick who would work for us permanently. On the night that the decision was to be made, my mother discovered some of her good silverware and dishes in Cynthia’s room in the boys quarters.

“Madam,” she begged and sobbed. “I promise you I did not steal it! I am not a thief!”

She looked pitifully at us children, silently willing us to back her up. There was nothing we could do. The items were in her room, and though I did not believe she was a thief, there was the proof!

“I cannot allow a thief to live and work in my house,” my mother proclaimed. Cynthia was told to pack her things and leave the next morning. Jamilla was the victor. In retrospect, I can say with 90% certainty that Jamilla probably planted the items in Cynthia’s room. She was just that spiteful.

Things began at a new normal at our house thereafter. For anyone who has ever visited the Gyekye household, you know that “normal” is relative in our house. My dad went back to watering and cutting grass. We went back to sweeping and doing dishes, and Jamilla…I’m not sure what she did.

In the beginning she washed our clothes, but then that stopped. And then she would attempt to make us lunch, but then that stopped. We were never snobbish children, so she would sit with us in the living room and watch films all the time. On occasion, she would make a phone call or two. Over time, she was receiving more phone calls than anyone else in the house. Secure in her new position as the permanent housekeeper, Jamilla began to flex at a level I had NEVER seen before or since. Tired of waiting for one of us to pop a video in the deck, she instructed my brother to teach her how to operate the VCR herself. There would be days when I would come home from school and she would be nestled comfortably on the sofa eating jollof rice watching Delta Force while my dad washed his own clothes in the back. After trekking all the way from Cantonments to Labone, I would eagerly go into the kitchen to look for lunch only to discover that she had made enough only for herself.

“You can go and prepare your own,” she declared.

On more than one occasion I overheard her gossiping to a friend about the state of our sheets and pillow cases or other household items.

“These people are so cheap. They are from ‘Amelica’ (she couldn’t say “r”) but look at this pillow case! There is a hole inside!”

On more than one occasion I think she may have snubbed my boyfriend. Eventually she felt so cool and at ease that she invited some guy she had met in the area over to the house, sat him in the living room, served him a drink and popped in a movie in preparation to entertain him. I walked in, took in stock of this “normal” scene and walked silently to my room. I heard my dad’s car pull up and then raised voices.
“Jamilla!” he shouted. “You know I give you a lot of freedom in this house, but that doesn’t mean you can just invite strangers here to watch films!”

As my father boomed on, my sister and I had a giggling fit in the back room. Sami eventually came in to ask if we had heard everything. We cackled with glee. The man left, and after pleas and the typical “I beg you’s” she was allowed to stay.

I went to boarding school shortly after that, so I don’t know if her behavior changed significantly or at all. I just can’t believe that Kwasi Gyekye was content to cook his own food, clean the bathroom, etc, when he had hired someone else to do that, and that his tipping point was another man on his couch watching war films. Does it make sense to you?

Why Ghanaian children will continue to be molested

Anyone who has spent any amount of time in Ghana knows that it is a land of great contradiction. The locals scrub their white fête attire with Omo and bleach until it glistens whiter than the driven snow, and then hang the clothing to dry with the ground littered with rubbish just below. It is a land blessed with immense natural wealth while the majority of its citizenry is cursed with extreme poverty. Every campaign season the government touts slogans chanting that the “youth are our future!” and encourage everyone to “invest in Ghana’s vast human resources”. In the meanwhile, Ghana’s children are cowed into submission with a cane in its classrooms (if they are so lucky to go to school), or sent hawking wares on the street to support themselves and family (if they are not). Ghanaians spend anywhere between $5 – 10,000 to bury their dead, and let their children go to school without books and in tattered uniforms. Ghana proudly purports her slogan “Freedom and Justice for all” on seals and billboards, and yet sadly, that “Freedom” is for “Just Us”…a select few in the upper echelons of society.

Yes, Ghana, much as I love her, is a land of many sad contradictions, and no where is this more evident than in the way children are treated in this country. Of all the issues facing children right now, the one that pains me the most is the issue of rape and molestation that goes under reported and more scarily, swept under the rug as though it never happened.

It’s estimated that some six to seven thousand children will face some sort of sexual assault in Ghana every year. I believe the number is much higher, because these are only the reported cases. In many instances, if there is in fact a report made, the police work is so shoddy and bungled that it hardly makes it worth the effort. Officers are not trained to ask follow up questions. The victim is issued a “medical form” from the police station and then sent to the hospital to have an examination. Sometimes, police officers have to be bribed to even take a look into the case. If the victim is lucky, the accused will stand trial, where the idiot douche bag in question will offer a sad excuse for his behavior, generally to the tune of “The devil made me do it”, and then beg for leniency.

Sometimes, these perverted men get such leniency, ordered to pay only a few hundred cedis to the victim’s family. These are the lucky ones. In more morose cases, the family may just settle out of court with the accused rapist for yet another few hundred cedis and never report the case at all. In the meanwhile, there is no mental health service provided to the child in question, as the family assures them that “God will show him (the rapist) and that the child ‘shouldn’t mind’ them”. Many might think that this counter productive mentality only extends to the villages where people are less educated, but it’s also very prevalent in the city as well. In fact, it happened to me.

Now let me say quickly I was not raped by my uncle, but what he did was nasty enough that it should have warranted a stronger response from my father, who is in fact an educated and well traveled Ghanaian. When I was 8 years old, we used to live at Ringway Hotel until we could find a house to rent. The irony that this incident took place at a hotel does not escape me. Anyway, my sister and I were playing in the corridor and went into our hotel room to get a toy. Suddenly, my uncle Victor appeared in the doorway.

“Give me a kiss,” he said softly.

I was 8, so I puckered up, kissed him with my mouth closed, and prepared to go on my merry way. After all, I had aunties and uncles in Ohio who demanded their “sugar” when I saw them. Uncle Victor was no different.

“That’s not how you kiss,” he frowned.

“Huh?” I said.

“This is…”

He proceeded to put his tongue in my mouth. I was of course stunned and had no idea what was really going on. When he was done, he turned to my sister and said “Give me a kiss.” By the time the “ss” had been uttered from his lips, all I could see was the particles of Afrosheen from Adwoa’s jeri curl as she tore down the hall. I backed out of the room and ran after my sister, leaving my uncle kneeling on the floor where he had just administered his 8 year old niece’s first tongue kiss.

I never told my father of that day…until 2 months ago. As a child I was SURE that he would kill his brother if I ever told him what Uncle Victor had done. I liked Victor well enough for him not to be dead, and more importantly, I didn’t want to be responsible for causing his demise. However the issue had been eating me up for years and at age 31 I finally felt comfortable enough to tell my dad. I recounted the tale and braced myself for a barrage of curses.

“He did what??” he asked incredulously.

“He stuck his tongue in my mouth,” I repeated.

A pause. Then a loud “humph”.

“Well, don’t mind him,” he said. “Some uncles are like that.”

What? 23 years of angst bottled up and all my dad had to say was “some uncles are like that”? I didn’t know whether to be pissed off at the anti-climatic ness of it all, or sad, or disappointed. I decided to be all three.

“Oh. Okay Daddy,” I responded.

That’s what you do as a dutiful Ghanaian child. You take your lumps, swallow your misery and console your parents by making them believe you take their (wrong) council as gospel. Doing anything to the contrary would make me “disrespectful” and unreasonable.

So if my college educated father could utter this typically Ghanaian sentiment, could I then blame the hundreds of villagers who give this sordid behavior a pass day in and day out? I guess I couldn’t.

It’s funny though. This is one of the reasons that Ghana has become a major destination for all types of pedophiles, foreign and domestic. On the contrary, no one is laughing.