Thoughts. Ramblings. Heavy-hipped. Mango-obsessed.


I got woken up unceremoniously around 4.15am by a woman screaming in the car park, so I'm up. Her defiance was in complete contrast to the couple I wrote about previously where the man was effing and swearing at her and she said nothing, did nothing, except smile.

This woman – now this woman made sure she woke up the whole neighbourhood. The police arrived 5 minutes later and she kept on saying to them, 'keep him the fuck away from me'. The guy got arrested and was put in a van. She must have been hurt 'cos the ambulance soon arrived.

The block of flats where I live seems to be the epicentre of things that happen in and around the locality. The building itself becomes an observer but remains unharmed, almost invisible. We often have prostitutes and their pimps calling out to each other on the street at 2 in the morning like it's high noon. Once, a woman pulled her pants down in front of the block and was acting all weird, crouched to the ground like her p*ssy was burning up. I had to call the police.

So, I'm up – can't sleep - pigeons cooing occasionally in my balcony. It's quiet now, as if none of the drama happened less than an hour ago.

I made myself a mint tea – two bags – the strength of it is waking up my chest – thinking of what the rest of the day will bring and what part I plan to play in it to make it a fruitful one.


Which Came First?: the McChicken or Egg McMuffin?

Please send your answers in
to the white-faced wollygog
with the Revlon-red lipstick
and manic-depressive smile

who's probably a closet vegan

and a loving father
of two beautiful

pet poodles.

So, if ya think you know the answer

'cos you've got a 2:1 degree,

or you can spell 'brie',

or you've been playing the piano
since you were 3 months,

please send a postcard to:

Old McDonald Didn't Have A Farm
P.O. Box 666
E492 99p

(p.s. I've come to the conclusion that James Blunt sounds like he's being asphyxiated more times than I can bear. From now on, I think I'll just stick to reading his lyrics. Sorry, James - you seem nice & all but...)

Outside my window...

img by: orangeacid
I live on a main road - the windows are triple-glazed so once it's closed, you can't hear much.

I was taking a bath the other day (as I do every other day!, well, erm, most of the time) and the window was slightly open (no exhibitionism, my friend, just letting the steam out).

I heard a guy swearing at who I assumed is/was his girlfriend. He called her a 'fucking Christian cunt', kept on calling her a bitch, pulling her bra strap, pushing/touching her face but not quite slapping it.

I could tell he was hurting, but the anger, the abuse. There was no excuse (for it).

And she just stood there smiling.

I obviously didn't know these young individuals, their history, etc., but I wanted to say something to stop what was going on. What was the point of just observing, especially as they were right outside my window. I could hear everything.

But then I thought: if I said something, if I interfered, would that aggravate him even more?, would that get her into more trouble?

I wanted to say that what he was doing and saying was not on, that it's not ok, but what would happen if they moved the confrontation to a private place? Was it better they were having it in public where it was (potentially) safer?

I closed my window, hoping to God they'd both be ok.

Queen Bee...

img by: Little Li
The mechanical queen bee
Her beauty is striking
Her aura shimmers – cold, silvery blue

She makes her honey
from my complacency,
my fears,
my doubts,
my procrastination
Then she uses her sting,
harvested from my negativity
to test her potency on me

Her sting is red hot
a pain
too deep
for my body to understand


as I writhe
in a kaleidoscope of pain
I know that,
one day,
I will transcend
Be immune to her sting
and instead,
I will be the one
to use her honey
to sweeten my tea

I know that,
one day,
I will transcend
and move
from a circle of despair
to a perfect triangle
of mind, body and spirit


(I wrote this yrs ago when I was in a job I didn't like - the only way I could escape it at the time was thru poetry)

Only in England...

I can't believe it's snowing.

Shouldn't it be 'April showers'? - something England is known for?

Can't believe it.

Global warming ain't playing. AT.ALL.

That Weight Watchers Ad...

Is it just me or am I the only one that thinks the Weight Watchers ad(vert) is a bit of a piss take?


So there's this woman who's lost weight. They don't actually show her, but they show people who know her.

Cue the people who know her:

The beauty therapist says: Now that she's lost the weight, it takes half the time. (she means exfoliation)

Then a man with his wife says: As a man, I've noticed. Sorry. (he says to his wife)

The woman's husband says: The woman that I married is back. (his face happens to be built like a good idea gone really bad)

I'm not sure what message this is sending out. The ad wouldn't make me wanna join AT.ALL. If my beauty therapist said what that woman said, I wouldn't go back to her salon. And if my man said as a man, I've noticed, I'd grab a pick axe and say: notice this. I mean, how is the wife meant to feel about her hubby saying that? 'Sorry' doesn't cut it. A pick axe does.

And then finally, Weightloss Woman's husband's comment:

The woman that I married is back.

At least she can lose weight. What's your excuse for being ugly?

The message I was getting from that ad was:

- lose weight and people will treat you better
- lose weight and there's a chance your friend's husband will find you so attractive, he'll say it in front of his wife
- lose weight and hear what your beauty therapist REALLY thought about you when you were fat
- lose weight and your husband (who is still the ugly mug you married) will notice you. (because when you put on all that weight, your personality was abducted by aliens)

Thank you, Weight Watchers. Can't wait for your next ad. Oh goody.


img by: Hamed Saber

I saw a young girl y'day - white - pretty - big butt - pushing a pram. And it really saddened me. She looked SO young. Her face hadn't completely matured yet (her body obviously had). She still looked cute like you could just squeeze her cheeks, like you just wanted to wrap her up in a protective hug. She had that kind of face.

I mention her butt 'cos, yes, I noticed it...

...and it made me wonder if things would have been different:

- if she knew how to handle (the changes in) her body
- if she knew how to handle the attention she got
- if her self-esteem was up to scratch

It might not be true for her, but all I could see was a girl - a very young girl - who responded to a guy because he was paying her attention.

For all I know, she could be in a steady & loving relationship, and the baby could be born from that union, and if that's the case, I'm happy for her ...but what are the chances? The UK has the highest teen pregnancy rate and I think Newham (where I live) is somewhere towards the top (must check).

If we (women) tell young girls how beautiful their bodies are, then maybe they won't seek approval elsewhere (often with life-changing consequences). If we teach them how powerful their bodies actually are, then maybe they won't give that power so readily to others. But the thing is, if you don't know the coin in your pocket is worth a million bucks, you'll treat it like the penny you think it is.

I wish I had a magic wand. I wish I had a bigger hug to give. I wish I was balanced enough emotionally and spiritually with less drama in my life, less work to do on myself, so that I had more of myself to give.

What ever Happened to Heavy D?

pic by: aymlis
Remember him? He was this big cuddly rapper - came out in the early **90s (or was it the 80s?), light-skinned, always wore dark glasses, knew how to mooove.

I don't know why but I just thought of him - one of his songs (the one he did with Al B Sure) was playing in my head:

I want somebody to love me for me

Can't remember the rest of the song. I think it starts:

I search low and I search high
trying to find me a cutie pie

Well...something like that.

Oh, I just remembered another bit:

They say when you wait, one never finds
they also say that love is blind
It ain't that blind that I can't see
somebody out there who's perfect for me
somebody who's gonna love me for me

Then Al B Sure sings: I know you want love

Heavy D replies: Love, that's what I'm talking about,
a relationship, a commitment, something to live for

Then Al B: Maybe we could take our time

Err, don't remember the rest.

Come to think if it: what happened to Al B Sure? He sang this wicked song - can't recall the title but the chorus went: I can tell you how I feel about you night and day....   Was a really nice song.


(**p.s: I ain't gonna apologise for my age - we all have to be born some time)

Dear BBC: you obviously ain’t done your homework...

pic by: GirlReporter
I was watching BBC News 24 a few hrs back (a sub-program called 'Your News'), and there was a report about a Poetry Idol competition in Abu Dhabi called 'The Prince of Poets' (you might wanna read this too) (If the comp's open to both sexes, then why call it 'Prince' of Poets?)

Any-hay-way, after the report was aired, the presenter asked a guy (male, middle-aged, white - now why doesn't that surprise me?) if a similar sort of competition was possible in Britain.

The guy says he's not sure something like that was possible in Britain as he felt Britain has lost its oral tradition.

Three things:

1) Dear BBC, there is an event (in London) called Poetry Idol - a spoken-word competition organised by Shortfuse.

2) Dear BBC, don't you remember you've been running a BBC Poetry Slam every year since 2005?

Is a poetry slam not modelled on the oral tradition? Pray, tell me, BBC?

Or, wait, maybe there's a BBC pretending to be you with the same website? Stranger things have happened (like showing black programs in the wee hours of the morning).

3) Why didn't they interview a cross section of poets, not just a middle-aged white poet who runs a poetry event in Ealing? I mean, there are a whole range of poetry events out there. Here are just a few:

- Word4Word run by Kat Francois (who, coincidentally, won the BBC3 Poetry Slam back in 2005)

- Speakeasy run by Baden Prince Jnr

- The Poetry Café in Covent Garden have a poetry event for almost every day of the week.

- 'Sounds Like' run by TShirt and Jeans, performance poetry org Apples & Snakes, the funky Poejazzi, Process at the RoundHouse in Camden.

- The Rise London Youth Slam

- The London Teenage Poetry Slam

- Hammer & Tongue who run a series of poetry slams & regular poetry events in Oxford & Brighton

(**Most of these are in London. There are loads outside London though.)

So why weren't the poets/poetry organisers of those events interviewed? Or is that just too much work, BBC?

I often look at the world through Martin-Luther-King tainted glasses. I'll hug the hell out of any human (as long as they don't smell, ya get me?, or aren't looking for a grope). When colour becomes the sole reason for one person or persons to gain (or be given) an advantage (or disadvantage), then as we'd say in pidgin English: na problem oh.. Art should be a playground for everyone, not exclusive.


Me and the sun:
we know what it's like
to wake up
when the whole world's still sleeping
when your lover's still sleeping
in your arms

'cos the gods leant me
a spoonful of sugar
in the shape of the woman
laying beside me
Her sweet honeysuckle breath
caressing my face
each time she exhales

My queen sleeps...
but I know her spirit
is awake
and she can see me
watching her - intently

I can't help it
My soul plays jazz melodies
on her skin

and she wakes...

She wakes from her feline slumber
and we rise
and fall
and sing

Yes we rise
and fall
and sing

Inhibitions long lost
boundaries long surpassed
we rise and fall
and sing our bodies
with sweet violence...

© ebele.

Sofa-flavoured Ice Cream, anyone?

Ok, so I went out and got my 2 bountiful bars of Bounty ice cream, talked to and caressed them on my way back. Took my trainers off, dashed the keys somewhere, curled up on the sofa and got down to business.

Tore open the wrapper, admiring its milk-chocolate frame for a few moments and the sheer genius of its capability to hold me captive (soon, very soon, we shall be one).

How I Normally Have It...

...well, I tend to eat mine in layers - First, I'll nibble off all the chocolate to expose the ice cream, and then I'll eat the ice cream. That way, it feels like I'm having two desserts (sad, aren't I?)

Anyway, so I'm doing my sumptuous 'peel-off-and-eat-the-choccie-bits-first' ritual, only to find that the ice cream's quite melted inside. I'm none too pleased with this culinary hiccup of a revelation as it now means the ice cream won't hold once the chocolate gives way. Grrrr.

Feeling a bit robbed of the opportunity to savour the moment - my moment - I feel like going back to the shop to complain, but how silly will that make me look? Upset over a £1.10 Bounty bar? They might call the police and have me arrested for being a twat.

And so, being the eternal optimist that I am, I carry on, my fingers now getting messy (but gloriously so).

I'm watching Scrubs on TV - someone's just said something funny (haha)...

the next thing I know, half of the ice cream's on the frikkin sofa...

Oh shit... f*ck, f*ck, f*ck...

Now... what do you think I did?

Erm... let's just say I've always been a bit 'experimental' with my food ;-)

My Body Wants Ice Cream...

img by: lafy4k

- serious craving for all things fish (tuna in sunflower oil, peppered fillets, etc.)

- found myself crying my eyes out to Donna Summer's 'She Works Hard For Her Money'.


- I'm going through a 'I've grown an extra sweet tooth in the past frikkin 24 hours' phase.

- Bought myself a pack of Thorntons chocolate yesterday. Yum!

- I want some ice cream NOW.

- Been having ice cream dreams for the past 4 hours. Can't think. Can't cone-centrate. Can't breathe. I'm choking. Help meeeeeeeeeeeee.

- How my keyboard isn't completely soaked with my 'mouth-wateredness' is beyond me.

- So that's it. Me and my swollen belly are going out to get some ice cream.

- Mmmm.... Bounty ice cream. Two packets. One for each twin. (I'm a Gemini).

Will she make it to the cornershop on time? Will she slip on a slug before she gets there? Will she make it back with her big Nigerian ass intact?

Find out on the next episode of IceCreamYouScream.

Her name was Jessica. She was only 54 days old.

Authorities failed to realise that a baby who was sexually abused and murdered by her sadistic father was at risk, an inquiry found.


If I start crying, I don't think I'm gonna stop.

It's official. Victoria Climbie died for nothing.

Rest in peace, Jessie.


Elvis Lives in Nigeria...

pic by: RBerteig

I remember in Nigeria, when I was little, my brothers & sister tried to hold a seance to try and communicate with the ghost of Elvis (my brother was a big Elvis fan, you see).

They put a glass in the middle of the table and lit a couple of candles.

I didn't want them to go ahead with it. I was 8 yrs old for Cris-sake. Absolutely bricking it.

But I had no choice but to hang around 'cos I was too scared to go off on my own.

Just as they were in the middle of the seance, the candle flickered, there was a voice outside the window and the glass broke.

I'd never screamed so frikkin hard in my whole life.

The 'voice' turned out to be the landlord's kids outside our window - they'd been eavesdropping all along.

Beneath the Bravado...

Back in December, I ran one of the most challenging workshops I think I've done in a long time with a group of Year 10 students. I've never come across a group of kids so resistant to writing. And yet, most of them ended up making such a transformation within the time I was with them. I was left amazed, humbled and honoured.

Before I started, I was warned (embarrassingly, apologetically) by a teacher that I shouldn't expect too much from them - that these children wouldn't do very well. How the hell can I go into a workshop thinking like that?

The kids came in dragging their feet, talking, not sitting where they were supposed to, dazed, rude, nonchalant, not participating much. It just all seemed disjointed. One girl just plain refused to take part - she vocally said it. So I asked her to leave. And as she left, she started mouthing off. Another student, quite firmly, told me to leave him alone. And when I asked a teacher to ask him to leave the workshop, she didn't. Instead she asked him to join her so he could work around her. He just sat next to her and didn't lift a finger. One student just kept on staring at me, not smiling or looking away when I noticed.

As the workshop progressed, I was beginning to feel out of my depth. I can't say there weren't times when I wasn't tempted to walk out.

Turns out the students were more pissed off than usual because they hadn't been told they were coming to a workshop. I assumed they had been told. You'd think they would have been. I felt I owed them an apology as we'd both been put in the dark about that. Some students do have a thing about creative writing, so not being told they're going to be in one, for a double period, well, I can imagine that would lower the mood somewhat.

Somewhere amidst all the chaos, most of them eventually got into it and an amazing amount of work was produced. These weren't the worst of the bunch at all, these weren't 'underachievers' (I don't believe in the word anyway) - these were very intelligent kids who were rebelling for whatever reason. Maybe rebelling makes them feel they have immediate power - 'cos if they're disrupting a class, they're having an effect on something, albeit negative.

I worked with 2 students whose circumstances almost broke my heart. I hate having one-off workshops with those type of students - they open up to you and then you say bye.

I also learnt that boys have as many self-esteem issues as girls do - just that they face different challenges to girls.

Beneath their bravado, these were really beautiful, highly-intelligent, creative kids.

(poem): Yes...

Handsome smile
Lightning-white teeth

He'll shake your hand
with so much warmth
as if you've just saved
his life.

'You're special', he'll say
'Beautiful', he'll say
'I've never met anyone
quite like you'

He'll whisk you away
if you let him
to a place
where the sun sets
over a white dome,
where stars cavort
with the sea.

And you'll let him
oh, you'll let him
'cos no-one's ever paid you
that much attention,
twirled you around as much,
no-one's ever looked at you
that hard
or that long
or with such intensity

no-one's ever rubbed flattery
into your pale skin.

no-one's ever told you
just how good you are.

Yes, yes, his hands
are warm
So warm.
And, yes, he has
a handsome smile

But have you looked
into his eyes?
Really looked at them?

Yes. His hands are warm.
Yes. Handsome smile.


But have you looked

into his eyes.

© ebele

Anarchy is...

...eating a big tub of tiramisu while watching Celebrity Diet Secrets on VH1. ;-)

Which is what I did last night.

And ooooh it felt guuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuud. :-)

What? Not All Nigerians are Scammers?

Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather - I tell you, I almost dropped my cup of tea. Had to sit down and take a breather – did my calm-me-down mantra like they taught me at last week's class.   Breathe. Breathe.

It didn't help.

Neither did the Bach flower remedy.

Not all of them are scammers, you say? How do you know that? Have you met them all?

Ha!, who told you there were more graduates per capita than scammers?, and that there are actually hardworking Nigerians out there making an honest living?, AND there are video diaries on youNube to prove it?

Whoever told you that ....was a scam artist.

You think their flag's green for nothing?

Scam artists, the lot of them.

Besides, we never covered any of that in our Diversity Training course. So, no. I will not treat every Nigerian on merit.

They're all the same.

Every bleeding one of them.

(Conversation secretly taped in a locker room near you - brought to you live & direct on the StereoHype Channel)

Haiku: on da Central line...

pic by: Mr Delgoff

I know it was you.
Suited man. Metro in hand.
You... who just farted.

© ebele

Strange film I watched. Strange.

I watched this weird film the other night – a French film. I didn't catch it from the beginning, but it was about this guy, an artist, who was staying in a hotel for a night or two. I caught it where the guy was taking a walk. He heard an animal in distress, it was coming from a shed. When he looked in, the poor thing was being buggered by a couple of guys.

He walked away.

The hotel owner who initially seemed ok, increasingly got weirder. He was meant to fix the artist's caravan, but instead went through his things and stole nude pics of his girlfriend. He then told the guy that he still hadn't fixed the van when the van was in perfect working order.

When the artist was ready to leave, the hotel guy insisted that he stay for another night (which he did).

During dinner, the hotel guy started talking about his wife, Gloria. She'd left him years ago. She was an artist too, really talented artist. He missed her a lot - when she was around, nothing else mattered, he felt complete.

He then asked the artist-guy to sing for him. The artist said no. He insisted. The artist said no again. He insisted again, saying that the artist owed him for the dinner he'd prepared especially for him..

Reluctantly, he sang.

Then, stopped half-way. Saying he must go to bed now as he had an early start ahead of him.

Why stop now?, the hotel guy said – after the story I've shared with you in confidence – did I tell you half a story?

So the artist sang the rest of the song.

Hotel-guy thanks him for singing such a beautiful song.

Artist-guy heads off to bed.

The next day, hotel-guy goes completely WAWA, pointing at the artist-guy, shouting "I'm not going to let you leave me again, Gloria. Not again". What?, this f*cking guy thinks the artist-guy is Gloria?

He hits the artist real hard on the head with the battery from his van then torches the van. He then drags the guy, unconscious now, back into the hotel, up the stairs into a room where he dresses him up with his wife's clothes.

When the artist comes to, sticky blood on half of his face, the guy's got him tied up and he's shaving his hair (REALLY badly – a patch here, a patch there).

He keeps him tied up, never cleaning the blood off his face, puts him to bed and.... well... use your imagination.

The next day, they go out to get some wood in the forest, 'Gloria' with him, all tied up in the back of the tractor. "I've found myself again", the loony guy says. "Maybe we should reopen the restaurant", he says.

The first opportunity the artist gets, he legs it, running through the woods as fast as his tired feet can carry him.

He doesn't make it.

When they get 'home', the guy nails 'Gloria' to a post in the barn, Jesus-style.

There aren't many folks in this little town – only a handful – there are no women either – but they are all weird as f*ck too. The hotel-guy warns them that if they come anywhere near him or Gloria, he'll shoot them.

Turns out the real Gloria had an affair with one of the guys. That night, this guy Gloria had an affair with and 'his crew' ambush the hotel and there's a shoot-out. Before that, the hotel-guy had untied 'Gloria' for dinner, so while the shoot-out's happening, 'Gloria' bashes hotel-guy on the head and the real Gloria's ex-lover finishes him off with a bullet in his skull.

The hotel guy's dead. Yippeee! The artist is safe. Sigh of relief.

Err. No.

Turns out this guy and his crew think the artist is 'Gloria' too. The guy presses a gun to 'her' cheek, saying "Why did you leave me, Gloria? Was I not good enough?" Then he says to the rest of the crew "make the bitch suffer".

In the midst of being raped, 'Gloria' escapes, running through the woods again but this time being chased by not one, but a bunch of lust-ridden loonies with guns. They send a pig ahead of them to trace 'her' tracks. Yes, people, a sniffer pig (like a sniffer dog.) Oh and this is the same pig they buggered previously.

It's below zero outside, snowing and dark.

It's now getting light and after several hours of trying to track down 'Gloria', the crew give up. But the ex-lover keeps going. He sees 'Gloria' ahead of him. Walking over a frozen lake, he falls through a vulnerable crack of ice. He's reaching out, asking 'Gloria' to help him. 'She' turns round, walks slowly toward him and watches him. He begs. 'She' crouches down and watches him.

He asks 'her' why she went away, whether she loves him.

The water is sucking him under.

"Say you love me".



"I love you"

'Say it louder'

'I love you'.

The guy goes under.

'Gloria' stares.

(A few snapshots of the village)


Well scripted, directed and shot. I can't remember the name of the film but boy was it weird, interesting, disturbing. The whole production probably needed therapy afterwards.

haiku: 4 da elusif summah...

i fling my arms wide
sun melts my chocolate skin
my face becomes jazz

© ebele