Mango Tongue...

Good Morning, World...

2010-08-12T07:42:00.008+01:00

There's this guy. I see him often.

Like clockwork, at around 10.30am most days, he'll walk past, empty the remnants of his beer can down his throat and chuck it in a wheelie bin.

Same routine. Same wheelie bin.

Today, he walks past...opening a fresh can...at 7.36am.

Meanwhile, minutes earlier, a prostitute pigeoned round the bus stop looking for cigarette stubs.

A car beeps her.

Minutes before that, a woman who's lost her mind doesn't get on the bus like she usually does. Or the one after.

She disappears behind a tree. Down a rabbit hole.

The Last Airbender...

2010-08-02T20:51:00.016+01:00

I don't go pictures that much. I think the last film I watched.... shoot, I can't remember. It's bugging me now.

Must remember. Must remember. Or else I won't sleep. FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

Anyway, there's this new fantasy film adaptation coming out called The Last Airbender (a child, Aang, who has the power to control the four elements).

Oh, little Aang, taking public transport means that sometimes I too wish I could control the wind.

You know what The Last Airbender reminds me a bit of? The 80s film, 'The Golden Child' (remember The Golden Child? With Eddie Murphy? He had to rescue a Tibetan child with special powers).

Having watched a clip, I also think it has a slight 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon' feel to it. Thought it might have been the same director, but it's not. It's directed by M Night Shyamalan. His films are a bit hit-and-miss with me really, but I loved 'The Sixth Sense' though, so we'll see how his latest production pans out.

Still can't remember the last film I watched :-(

Come. Come see.

2009-12-23T19:22:00.006Z

I watched a film documentary on Channel 4 a few weeks ago: about people who chose to end their lives by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Unfortunately, it's apparently a frequent occurrence. In 2004, 24 people fell to their deaths. As I read through the names of the 24 in the end credits, I noticed that most were men.

Of the film, one person sticks in my mind: a man in a leather jacket, his long dark hair blowing in the wind, smoking a cigarette, walking up and down the bridge. If I'd been on that bridge same time as him, what would I have said to him? How would I have sold life to him?

I was at the Royal London hospital a short while back and there was this man who started talking to me. He was drunk. Within 5 minutes, he'd told me his life story: his ex wife, where they got married, his 2 beautiful daughters whom he hadn't seen in years, their names, their ages, his sexuality, his boyfriend. He'd even been a martial arts practitioner for 20 years. His eyes were so sad. Deeply. He'd tried committing suicide before by jumping off a bridge. He said he needed help which was why he’d come to the hospital.

I can't remember what I said to him. I didn't say much. I listened.

Who knows if he was telling the truth; he could have been a pathological liar or schizophrenic. But what I saw in his eyes was no lie.

The doctor called out his name.

I happened to be in the cubicle next to him. The doctor asked him how he was: his reply was he planned on committing suicide by Xmas and that he felt like killing himself and everyone around him.

I hope the doctor listened. Really listened.

On the Channel 4 docufilm, a shot of the Golden Gate Bridge was shown from afar and it looked really beautiful. It must be quite high 'cos I could see a rainbow beneath it. I also saw the glow of the sunlight and greenery on the landscape. I remember seeing the bridge from that angle and wishing I could tell the guy with the long dark hair: come, come see.

3.09 am...

2009-12-05T05:00:00.011Z

img credit

The prostitutes walk the streets like zombies looking for their next feed. I feel a mixture of anger, curiosity, amazement, sadness, irritation and pity for them. I can't begin to tell you the things I've seen over the past year and I'm just a bystander – just seeing glimpses of what they do. The whole picture must be much darker than that.

I had a dream the other night. For some reason, I dismantled my front door. I couldn't put it back together no matter how much I tried. I then looked out onto a roof which seemed to be on the same floor. It was like one of those roofs you see in New York. Suddenly, I noticed movement and three prostitutes came out from makeshift camps they'd set up. They'd been sleeping there. Weeks before that, I had a dream they were living in my block's basement – a basement that I didn't know existed. There were loads of rooms – as if someone had built a hideout for them.

I've been looking into the history of where I live as I want to find out why prostitution, drug and alcohol abuse are rife in this area. There must be an historical energy about this place that’s feeding the now.

If you're an early sleeper, a heavy sleeper or sleep with your windows shut, then you won't notice a thing. I know this because one of my neighbours didn't have a clue what was going on on her doorstep. During the day, the air flows freely and people generally go about their business. But at night, it shifts. It's still possible not to notice, but once you see one thing, you notice the rest.

Sometimes, the nights spill into the days and some prostitutes stand out there from 6.45pm 'til 7am and approach people going to work. Now that winter's here, it's likely they'll make the most of the extra dark hours it brings. A friend of mine who I recently bumped into and who lives in the same area as me told me that weeks ago he was propositioned by a prostitute at 10 in the morning.

In some ways, believe it or not, things have improved. The police appear to be stepping up, catching and charging some kerb crawlers, patrolling the area, etc. But it's kinda on and off. They don't seem to patrol late enough or frequently enough. Like rats, when the police disappear, the prostitutes and their watchers come out.

The area might get a total breather in the time leading up to the Olympics as there's apparently talk of money being pumped in to do a clean-up. I'm not sure how true that is, but if so, it would seem someone's got their priorities slightly wrong. It shouldn't take the Olympics to do a thorough job of something they should be doing anyway.

I was thinking of moving but I love my flat and in spite of what's been going on, there are good people living here. I hear the cutest little girl every couple of days. And there's a boy with a mop of red hair who sometimes rides his little scooter down the road, secure in the knowledge that his mummy's right behind him. I don't like dogs but I see two beautiful ones walked by their owners every evening. I see a fox every now and then. People still stop and say hello to each other. There's an old woman I say hello to – she reminds me of my mum. The other day, I complimented an old Eastern European woman on her hat and she reached out and held my hand as she pushed her trolley. Her hand was plump and soft. She let go and we walked and talked 'til I got to my flat. There's a nutty woman who seems to have a fondness for me - I find her enthusiasm really overwhelming at times, but her heart's in the right place. I love my shopkeeper. And though we all tend to keep to ourselves, most of my neighbours are quite friendly.

I like where I live. But I don't like what's happening to it.

Sometimes the sun deliberately sets where I can get a good look at it from my back window. The clouds don't need to join in either, but they do.

From Bad to Worse…

2009-06-30T09:59:00.008+01:00

img credit: dcJohn

The prostitution in my area has actually gotten much much worse. It's reached the point where one of my neighbours is moving out.

I can't go into much detail for now as I'm pissed off and a bit upset. What I do know is that it's reached a whole new level. I feel disempowered because I feel enough isn't being done about it even though I and some of my neighbours have constantly complained about it to the police, the neighbourhood ward and our housing association. It's one thing for the prostitution, the pimping and the drug dealing associated with it to happen - it's another to watch it fester because the people who can do something about it don't appear to be putting 100% into it.

After a while, I knew that it would take someone getting physically hurt for the police to step in and that's, unfortunately, what happened at 7.30 this morning.

I love my flat, but today's the first time I've actually thought about moving. But then, why should I be the one to move?

Made myself a cup of herbal. Need to shake off the morning I woke up to.

Just Seen a Prostitute Giving Someone Head...

2009-04-30T03:08:00.015+01:00

Unfortunately, we have quite a few prostitutes in my area (and most of them are drug dependent, I suspect, 'cos a lot of them don't look well AT ALL). The level of activity wasn't that noticeable to start with, but over the past few years, especially this year, it's gotten particularly bad.

They usually use our communal car park. You hear a car parking around 1, 2, 3, 4am. Then they look for a couple of blind spots to do their business.

Tonight, they weren't really hiding. If anyone else had looked out the window (like I had), they would have seen A LOT. It's one thing to use the space, a space that you have no right to use - it's quite another to not care if anyone sees you while you're at it.

Tonight, I couldn't take it. I opened my window and told them they ain't doing that in my backyard, to which they scuttled off.

Then, when I closed my window, I heard voices IN THE BUILDING. I opened the door and a couple of prostitutes were sitting on the steps smoking. I said "excuse me, could you leave please?" to which they did. I don't know why I sounded so damn polite but that's what literally came out.

I remember the look on one of their faces. She looked so young. Nothing like the rest of them. Healthy. Like she was new to it.

I closed the communal door after them - making sure it was really shut (which is part of the problem, you see, because the door closes sometimes but doesn't shut and I think they've cottoned onto that).

As I went back up, I saw a piece of tissue on the floor. It was a bit bloody.

Great.

That's what I get for being a night owl.

I spoke to the police about the problem some time ago. They said they had wardens who patrol the area 'til 2am or so. WELL, THAT'S NOT BLOODY GONNA HELP, IS IT - not if the real activity happens around that time and continues through the night.

I KNOW the police see them on the streets because I've seen them drive past without so much as slowing down.

I don't think the solution is to clear the prostitutes off - as much as I'd rather not have them in my area, they'll just reappear in another part of town if they're moved on - and the inherent problems won't really have been dealt with.

But something has to be done.

What the Night Sky and I Saw...

2009-02-21T23:09:00.009Z

img credit: Solar ikon

I'm a real late sleeper.

Late last night, around 2am, I heard some voices behind my building. I looked out and saw 2 men holding a man down. I initially thought it might be plain-clothes policemen but it didn't take long for me to ascertain that it wasn't. The 2 men looked like they were trying to take something off him and he was really trying to stop them from doing that.

I called 999.

They were hitting him in the face.

I was trying to explain to the operator what was going on. And I don’t think I was doing a good job of it.

Eventually, one man left.

The other followed.

And the man on the floor stayed there for a while.

He was conscious.

I could see that he was.

A woman approached him – she was on the phone – and said something to him. I imagined – or hoped - that she was asking him if he was ok.

She walked away.

He stayed. On the floor.

The operator asked me if he looked like he needed an ambulance.

I didn't know. Couldn’t tell.

I opened the window and asked him.

He said no, got up and walked away.

The operator asked me what the men looked like. To describe them.

I said one was black …one was white. And the other, I couldn't remember.

I felt stupid.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember more. "He had on a black jacket" "I think" "His hair was short"

"How short?", the operator asked me.

"Short", I said.

"What did the woman look like?"

I told her what I could remember. Which was little.

She thanked me for the call.

I could see two wet patches on the ground where the fracas had taken place. Wasn't sure if it was blood but I suspect it was.

Later on, during the day, I looked out my window. And sure enough, it was.

As I walked down the road, on a white boarded-up area close to where I live, I noticed 5 thick lines of bloody prints that his fingers had left.

I could see small drops of blood on the pavement – trailing along every now and then like bread crumbs.

A week ago, someone sprayed 'Free Palestine' in blue on the other side of the same white board and the following day, it had been removed as quickly as it had appeared.

I wonder how long the bloody prints will stay there.

The Little People Down the Drainpipe...

2009-01-16T18:47:00.014Z

img credit: aeruginosa

Sometimes, when I'm doing the washing up, I imagine there's a family of teeny-tiny people that live at the end of the drain pipe...

...a community even...

...and that whatever escapes down the sink will feed them, sustain them.

So when I'm washing the rice and some of the grains go down the hole, I'm there thinking 'yes, I'm doing my bit for charity'.

Bits of sweetcorn, bits of fresh meat from when I'm giving the chicken a good rinse, water drained from the can of kidney beans and tuna, the coffee/tea I didn't quite finish.

When I run the tap, I imagine said little people have some kind of medieval but highly-efficient mechanism that separates the hot from the cold water and preserves it at said temperature.

I apologise to said little people for my washing machine. For every time I turn it on, it smells out the place when it reaches a particular point in its wash cycle. It can't be that pleasant for them at their end.

I'd try pouring some bleach down the drain to stop what I now call 'washing-machine farts', but I fear for the safety of my little friends. I don't think they could cope. And even if they could, what if they crawled their little butts up the drain in anger and tried to kill me in a Gulliver's Travels stylee?

Not good.

Drama...untelevised....

2008-06-20T05:07:00.012+01:00

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.

ebele.

Which Came First?: the McChicken or Egg McMuffin?

2008-06-03T22:13:00.014+01:00

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
Tox-In-The-City
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...

2008-05-18T16:37:00.006+01:00

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...

2008-04-27T19:56:00.011+01:00

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

but

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

©ebele

(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...

2008-04-06T12:51:00.004+01:00

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...

2008-04-03T19:42:00.009+01:00

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

THE AD...

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.

Woman-child...

2008-03-30T05:59:00.010+01:00

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?

2008-03-29T15:08:00.020Z

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.

Anyway...

(**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...

2008-03-09T04:33:00.019Z

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.

Sun(Rise)...

2008-03-01T21:13:00.006Z

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?

2008-02-22T12:45:00.010Z

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...

2008-02-19T23:04:00.010Z

img by: lafy4k

PRE-PERIOD...

- 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'.

AND NOW THAT I'M ON...

- 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.

2008-02-13T21:23:00.004Z

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

source: http://news.sky.com/skynews/article/0,,30100-1305327,00.html?f=rss

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

It's official. Victoria Climbie died for nothing.

Rest in peace, Jessie.

xxx

Elvis Lives in Nigeria...

2008-02-12T01:41:00.000Z

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...

2008-01-27T19:07:00.000Z

img by: Hamed Masoumi

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...

2008-01-14T15:18:00.000Z

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.

Yes.

But have you looked

into his eyes.

© ebele

Anarchy is...

2008-01-11T22:24:00.000Z

...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?

2008-01-10T04:51:00.000Z

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...

2008-01-06T13:22:00.000Z

pic by: Mr Delgoff

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

© ebele

Strange film I watched. Strange.

2008-01-05T11:00:00.000Z

(pic by: Jose Miguel Serrano)

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".

Silence.

"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)

THE END.

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...

2008-01-03T01:37:00.000Z

pic by: Seamus Murray

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

© ebele

Channel (Sex) Surfing...

2007-12-31T15:57:00.001Z

(pic by: Fran-cis-ca)

I'm a late sleeper. Really late. So I was channel surfing, nothing much to watch at that time of the night - the further up I went, the crappier the channels got. Then I got to the sex channels, crap, crap, crap, most of them were geared to men, even the gay channels.

There was this particular channel that I found sad, cheap and highly tacky.

There were 3 women on a bed waiting for phonecalls - 2 white women, one black, each holding a number '7', '8', and '9' respectively (err, excuse the pun). The idea was that they were meant to do whatever callers asked them to do. It was really sad. One was a beautiful surgically-enhanced skeleton with boobs to match, the one in the middle seemed to be having fun, and the other looked bored.

It just looked so sad as they sat there waiting for calls to come through - sometimes not getting any for a while, one getting plenty, the others having to sit there and wait, staring at the screen, holding up their number, waiting for a call.

When the 'skeleton' got calls, it looked like every caller was asking her to bend over and simulate being f*cked from behind really slow, then really quick. That's all most of the callers were asking her to do. And she looked as skeletal from behind as she did from the front, her butt bones were jutting out. She just looked really unhealthy and I found the whole thing extremely disturbing let alone someone calling in to see an anorexic do something like that - she looked like a prisoner of war.

The bored one dropped the phone like she was about to die of monotony and walked off the set for about 5 mins. She came back a bit chirpier. Maybe she'd had some chocolate.

And the one that seemed to be having fun just kept on 'seeming to be having fun', spreading her legs, rubbing her tits, talking and laughing down the phone like she was talking to her best friend.

I watched it for about 15-20mins because I wanted to remember. I didn't want to forget how I felt watching it.

Untitled...

2007-12-24T02:48:00.000Z

my alarm clock pours ice cubes down my back
i'm a 33 yr old angst-ridden teenager

my boss is Hitler with perfectly-manicured nails
bitch-red lipstick
dagger heels

i roll my eyes to the back of my head
suck my teeth in my mother-tongue
i want to cut her hair

she catches me looking
i hold her stare
and lick my lips slowly.

I Don't Get It...

2007-12-19T15:21:00.002Z

Why do ITN & BBC News think it's their duty to update me EVERY DAY on the inquest into Princess Diana's death? I'M NOT INTERESTED. I normally switch channels straightaway or press mute the minute I hear her name, but this time, they caught me unawares. Just now on the BBC, the news guy said a witness at the inquest said Diana was using contraception in the weeks leading up to her death. AND? I mean what the heck does it have to do with Diana's death? And why do I need to know? I think it's in very bad taste, is very personal information that has nothing to do with anything.

I really did expect better from two news stations that really should know better - do they really have nothing better to slot into those 2-3mins.

I can see the importance of the inquest, but why do the public need to be updated on every single development?

And don't get me wrong, I loved Diana, even went to her funeral, cried my eyes out, but I've had enough of her being used at every opportunity - it's symptomatic of the media - and I wasn't expecting ITN/BBC News to be part of the tongue-wagging. I find it all quite sickening and I just think today was the last straw when BBC News of all people reported she was on contraception.

If ITN/BBC News really can't think of anything better to report within that 2-min time slot, I'll give them something to talk about, like why I'm increasingly walking into schools that have lost their soul, like why the truth isn't being told about 'immigration' (that in fact we're all a nation of [im]migrants), like why Canary Wharf is called 'Little Africa' (walk past there at 5.30am and you'll see why).

ITN, BBC - if you're twiddling your journalistic thumbs in ho-hum boredom and are stuck on what to report, filling 2-mins of your daily air-time with news of a woman who probably just wants to kick back with a great big bar of chocolate and chill in the afterlife, why don't you get your newscasters to ACTUALLY REPORT THE NEWS.

But PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, leave the Diana inquest within the confines of where it is - where it should be - in court.

If you could be ever so kind as to do that, I tell ya, it would really make my commerciaLIEsed, Jesus?-who's-Jesus?, PSP-is-every-child's-mother-tongue, Christmas.

Thank you...

Ebele Ajogbe, 'Me-MySelf-I' News, London.

The Hoosiers...

2007-12-13T16:53:00.002Z

There's this mad British group I've recently come across - I think they are KER-RAZY, funny, playful, talented and highly creative - I think even their name suggests how crazy they are - 'the Hoosiers' - now what the hell does 'Hoosiers' mean? - I don't have a clue - but it sounds silly - and I like that.

They've got this song called Mr A (or is it called 'Goodbye Mr A'?) - it's about a classic superhero who's kidnapped, attached to a propeller and blasted off into space 'cos he might be a superhero but he has no soul, no personality, no human touch.

I love the musical arrangement for this song, the lyrics - and their video alone is a great creation in itself. I think it might be interesting to use the video in a workshop with the sound turned off and get the kids to write their own lyrical version of what they think is happening.

'Bout time we had something refreshing in the charts - I love Timbaland, very talented guy, but I was getting a bit tired of the creeping monopoly of Timbaland-produced songs - if it ain't a Nelly Furtado single produced by Timbaland, then it's a Justin Timberlake single produced by Timbaland, or it's a Timbaland song with one of his proteges, or wait, look it's Timbaland with Justin (again) and 50cent.

Then add the bands making a comeback (Spice Girls, Take That, Boyzone (or is it Westlife?). Take That I can 'take' for their initiative, but I think the other two are just jumping on the bandwagon. Oh how convenient, my dear Watson, they're coming out in time for Xmas too). And then you have the slew of British groups who all of a sudden seem to think it's the in-thing to sing with a Cockney accent. Hello?

So, yeah, I find it refreshing to come across a group like The Hoosiers. They might not be everyone's cup of tea, but I like 'um.

Spare a Nostril for Xmas...

2007-12-12T18:36:00.000Z

I have a blocked nose. (everyone say a sympathetic aaaaaaah).

Yep. One of my nostrils has up and baled on me. I thought it loved me. But obviously not.

Anyone got a nostril to spare? White people needn't apply (obviously. Black body, white nostril. Erm, no.)

It ain't fun breathing outta one nostril, I can tell you - it's as much fun as watching Gordon Brown do... actually, it's as much fun as watching Gordon Brown. Period.

So, this Christmas, while you're breathing in car exhaust fumes, b.o on trains, and everything in-between, please spare a thought for the woman with just one hairy nostril to keep her warm at night.

Breathe for me, people.

Breathe.

If Someone Else Hands Me a Free Newspaper, I Swear I'll, I'll, I'll...

2007-12-10T23:55:00.000Z

Dear London Lite/ Metro Newspaper Person...

Why do you insist on handing me a paper:

a) when you can see my hands are FULL of shopping

b) when you can see I already have a frikkin free newspaper in my hand

c) when you know and i know i'm blanking you

d) when you're blocking my entrance to stratford station during rush hour

Please LEAVE ME ALONE.

Thank you.

ebele

Royal Variety Performance, Scrapheap Challenge & Boyzone (or is it Westlife?)

2007-12-09T22:31:00.000Z

One of the good things about feeling a bit under the weather is that while you're recuperating, you get to watch TV. Plenty of it. So this program called Scrapheap Challenge came on and I really couldn't be bothered to get up, grab the remote from the other sofa and change the channel. So I just watched what was on. And I tell ya, Scrapheap Challenge ROCKS!!!

In the past, I'd always changed the channel when it was on, but I love it!

Right, Scrapheap Challenge is a weekly program about two competing teams going into a scrap yard and building machines from bits and pieces of scrap they can find. This week, the teams had to build paddle boats, I found it fascinating – I think it might be the same part of me that loves going to charity shops, fetes and car boot sales. One of the teams built the base of their boat from an industrial boiler, the other got their engine from a big van. I thought it was so cool how they were able to recycle old abandoned parts into new working machines – like mechanical reincarnation. Loved it.

Then it was onto the Royal Variety Performance. I know some people might find this annual show for the Queen quite tacky, but you're talking to someone who loves watching Eurovision Song Contest (and will mourn when Terry Wogan stops presenting it for whatever reason). I don't know why I like watching both, but I do. On the Royal Var Perf, my highlight of the night was when Joan Rivers said f*ck infront of the Queen. Great! That should pull the wax out of old queeny's ears. Thank you, Joan! I love ya!

Do you know – I tend to get confused b/w Boyzone and Westlife? Anyway, one of the aforementioned boybands recently came out with a single called 'Home' – yet another cover – I don't know why they can't come up with their own original songs. Anyway, just to say the original by Michael Buble is a gazillion times better – I'm sorry Boyzone, WestLife, WestZone or whatever your name is, you've destroyed a good song, WHY?, WHY?, WHY?

Have a good week, y'all - may it be soaked in a bubble bath of your choice...

E to the B to the E to the L to the E.

A Saturday Well Spent...

2007-11-30T03:37:00.000Z

Imagine. 100's of women marching from Trafalgar Square thru Tottenham Court Rd to University College London chanting 'Whatever we wear, wherever we go – yes means yes and no means no'.

Yep! I went to a women's march last Saturday called Reclaim the Night. Marching against male violence & rape. I found it quite empowering to just be amongst so many women - there must have been at least 700 of us.

I was disappointed at the lack of black women there though - when we congregated at Trafalgar Sq just before the march, I made a point of walking around counting the amount of black women there - there were 15 on my count. But then there is some history behind that which I'm not completely versed about (but I won't go into it in this post). But I did think that for an issue that is unfortunately far reaching, affecting so many women - black, white or green - that there would have been more black women there.

Couple of things that stuck in my mind:

- bystanders taking pictures of the march; some of them, women - and wishing they'd join in

- an elderly woman placing a banner in front of an adult sex shop and the owner calling the woman a rude word and promptly kicking the banner away.

- Stringfellows (a nude-dancing club) was en route - some of us chose to sit/crouch down in front of the building for some time and demonstrate.

- a woman at a bus stop giving us the dirtiest look I've ever seen in a long time - a prolonged spiteful look

- chanting/singing til my voice kinda said 'time out, hun'.

I saw a couple of women I know that I hadn't seen in ages - a teacher from a lovely girls' school I had a residency at (I still miss that school), the lovely women from The Woman's Trust, and even a fellow poet, Jay.

After the march, we gathered in the student hall of the university. I wish the speakers on the panel had more time to speak and the audience were given a chance to ask questions. I didn't necessarily agree with everything the speakers had to say, but I did see that essentially everyone's hearts and thoughts were roughly in the same place. It was also great to see a couple of men coming out to support as they are part of the solution.

I left before the after-party, picked up leaflets on FGM, signed a couple of petitions, added my names to mailing lists on my way out - went home preoccupied, pensive but thankful to be safe, a roof over my head, healthy, loved and supported.

(p.s: Transport for London were giving out free safety alarms – I picked up 5 for the women in my life. If you'd like one (or more) sent to you, pls get in touch with Darren Crowson at Darren.crowson@pco.org.uk)

Peace... in whatever colour you imagine it to be...

Wow - Your Mobile Phone is More Important Than Your Life?

2007-11-23T17:29:00.000Z

Today, I saw a woman crossing the road - a main road. She was on her mobile. She didn't even look up to see if a car was coming.

A car almost knocked her over, but she was so engrossed in her phone conversation, she was oblivious to what almost happened. She just kept on talking.

Amazing.

Go Figure...

2007-11-18T17:35:00.000Z

London doesn't disappoint - it's about 6 degrees out there. Very windy. Cold. Wet.

And then I hear music from an ice-cream van.

I'm like: are you for real?, you really think a mum's gonna press some change in her child's hand to go buy your ice cream in that kinda weather?

Amazing.

Black History: So Much Things to Say...

2007-11-08T20:54:00.000Z

I ran a workshop over 'Black History Month' with a group of women - I'd been invited by Inspired Word, a women's collective.

I guess some people assume that you go in as a workshop leader to inspire a group, but in all truth, it really is the other way round for me - I have gained strength, insight and inspiration from many groups. There's a particular workshop experience I will share in a later post about a girl whose wisdom & insight has never quite left me.

I have to say that it felt great to be amongst women - strong women. I've always loved creating/talking/being with/amongst women. We all wrote pieces inspired by Lauryn Hill's version of Bob Marley's song So Much Things To Say. We also talked about the personal significance of the whole commemoration of the passing of the abolition of the slave trade act. It meant different things to each woman. One felt that it was an opportunity for her to really acknowledge the pain her ancestors went through but to also acknowledge their strength, while another felt the commemoration was a sham. I, on the other hand, felt a mixture of anger and boredom at the whole thing - instead of the usual month, in 2007 we have a whole year in which we are reminded we were slaves. It's never really sat well with me.

I took the opportunity to roll us back - to take the focus away from slavery and to write about a time before that. We were never slaves even when we were deemed as such. A rose by any other name...

When they wrote, such truth came out. Such truth about who these women were, are, have always been.

If any of this speaks to you, I'd urge you to try this exercise yourself: imagine who you were before slavery. Write about it. Or paint it. Sing it. Or dance it. Smile over it. Build a shrine over it. And think about what is stopping you from being that person in the here and now. What part of who you were back then can you transfer, transform and embed into who you are now.

When I did the exercise, I wrote this:

I stood solid          big mampy feet       unshaved armpits
looking out over....

      farm   sunset

play      children   sisters

green / connected to the earth

   men & women ruled together (actually, they didn't rule, they presided)

short orange dusty hair

a runner.

                   South African.
We lived
not survived.

                   Cheeky smile
                    joker.

We Are the Children of Those Who Chose to Survive...

2007-11-01T17:24:00.000Z

The above title is a quote by Nana Pouissant in Daughters of the Dust. Though I'm yet to read this book, Nana's quote is mentioned in a book I own called Acts of Faith (Daily Meditations for People of Color) by Iyanla Vanzant.

We are the children of those who chose to survive...

I haven't read Acts of Faith in ages, but today I picked it up on my way to work - it had been whispering my name for a couple of days. I've never really read it from back to back - I tend to just randomly open a page and read - somehow I feel that whatever page I choose is the one I'm meant to read.

Well, today I flipped open a page - and I felt it was so relevant to my previous post about 'Black History Month' particularly where I wrote:

... and if you're gonna teach a black student about slavery, why not also teach them how strong & stubborn their ancestors were to have survived it, to have held doggedly to language and customs and rituals - and that that strong defiant gene exists in them, the student.

I thought I'd share that page with you. Because it resonates. Because it (re)confirms. Iyanla writes:

If you have ever doubted your ability to survive, look at who you came from. Don't limit yourself to parents and grandparents, go all the way back to the root. In your family line is the genius of those who were born into a barren land and built the pyramids. In the oasis of your mind is the consciousness of those who charted the stars, kept time by the sun and planted by the moon. In the center of your being is the strength of those who planted the crops, toiled in the fields and banqueted on what others discarded. In the light of your heart is the love of those who bore the children who were sold away only to one day hang from a tree. In the cells of your bloodstream is the memory of those who weathered the voyage, stood on the blocks, found their way through the forest and took their case to the Supreme Court. With all of that going for you, what are you worrying about?

My History, (Not) My Month...

2007-10-18T18:17:00.000+01:00

Ask a lot of UK-based working black artists - 'Black History Month' is when they earn a significantly bigger chunk of money than most other months. I'm no exception. And I'm grateful for the opportunity.

However, as each 'Black History Month' has come and gone, I've grown increasingly dis-satisfied with the whole event. I don't think there should be a Black History Month at all because I beleive it should be spread out throughout the year. I've worked in schools - and as much as I appreciate their initiative to have a yearly BHM event at all (and some are really good events, doing the best they can with the budget they have), sometimes it all seems very 'tick the boxes so we can be seen to have done something for BHM' to me. Superficial.

There are a lot of students who don't see their faces reflected in their history textbooks and when they do, it's invariably about how their ancestors were slaves (and if you're gonna teach a black student about slavery, why not also teach them how strong & stubborn their ancestors were to have survived it, to have held doggedly to language and customs and rituals - and that that strong defiant gene exists in them, the student).

I don't think it's enough to bring a black artist in for one day in October. I also think it's quite ironic and unfortunate that some artists encounter ignorance, stereotypes & racist undertones (subtle or otherwise) in the very schools & organisations that have invited them to their BHM event in the first place. It's happened to me a few times and that's a few times too many.

I commend all schools and organisations that recognise that black history (any history for that matter) is much more than a month, than slavery, and do their best to address it on a deeper level.

When One Door Closes...

2007-10-05T13:25:00.000+01:00

I'm not the richest of people in monetary terms, so when someone cancels a paying gig on my arse, my skeletal wallet feels the pinch on a profoundly deep level. (All artists/freelancers/self-employed angels out there know what I'm talking about)

Which is what an organiser did this week. Cancelled a performance gig on me.

The thing is though, I wasn't upset or disappointed about it - not one bit - I genuinely wished him and the event a big success and got on with whatever I was doing at the time.

A knowing...

I knew something else would come along - I'm usually not that clear about things. But I knew.

And today, Friday...

I get a call to run a day of workshops in a girls' school. I'm really into empowerment (particularly with women) and using Creativity to enable that. So this is right up my street!

So I'm happy.

Lesson Learnt...

Maybe I should learn to go with my own intuition a bit more, though it's hard to do that when you're financially challenged. To tell the truth, I was never a 100% keen on doing the performance gig - and I wasn't totally sure why - foresight, maybe? - but I went ahead and agreed to do it - that'll teach me to go against the grain of my own sway.

The thing is:

a) how do you differentiate between intuition and fear?

b) you'll only ever know if your instincts were right after the fact (on hindsight), not before, so how do you learn to trust it?

Anyway...

You've Gotta Luv 'Um...

2007-09-20T16:06:00.000+01:00

Me: What did you just call her?

Him: I call her bitch all the time.

Me: Not in front of me, you don't.

Him: Sorry, Miss.

(an exchange I had with a student today)

Eye Yoga: What I Saw Today…

2007-09-12T03:58:00.000+01:00

1. a black couple walking with their cute little girl. The mum was helping her walk across a little wall and when she reached the end, the dad carried her on his back.

2. another couple - white - getting on the bus at Bow with their little daughter who looked about 4. The girl flying into a panic when one of her little shoes drops on the pavement as she gets on. And the dad shouting 'Hold on, driver!' while mum, dad and daughter get off the bus to look for the shoe. They find it, then get back on.

3. Me, looking at the girl, and thinking 'aaah, I'd like to have a little girl'. At the same time, a funeral car drives past in the opposite direction.

4. a woman wearing a fluorescent-pink hijab. I'd never seen that kinda pink before. It was so vibrant, so beautiful. She looked beauty-full in it.

5. A white woman sitting next to me on the bus and me thinking: how many people fought for this?

6. a little girl in her pink pram, looking in her pink bag.

7. a little Asian boy, holding his mummy's hand, looked at me as he walked past. Beautiful little boy. (I wanted to tell him he was amazing.)

8. a black man in a white singlet casually standing outside his front door.

9. a white woman – a teacher – in a hijab. A black hijab. It lit up her face.

10. a group of black students talking about High School Musical and Africa and sand and plantain and green banana and jollof rice, and the librarian telling them to shush every 5 minutes.

And today, for the first time in a long time, I loved London inspite of its contradictions and addictions, inspite of its blooming crime rates, its diss-connected government and disillusioned scape-goated youth.

Her Own Truth...

2007-09-03T14:23:00.000+01:00

When I look in the mirror,
I see a goddess,
with mangoes for earrings,
and armpits
shaped into    the map of Nigeria,
Fela Kuti   pulling & swaying her hips
to her own truth.

Her truth ain't produced by
mechanical smiles on TV who blah-blah about
wrinkles & shaving creams & grey hair

Her truth sits knee-deep
in the knowledge
that she was born   already enough.

© ebele - 2007

Britain's Next Top Model...

2007-08-28T13:33:00.000+01:00

What I watched yesterday:

1) a woman who's CLEARLY had plastic surgery done on her face

2) a man who CLEARLY looks like he likes his doughnuts

3) a man who CLEARLY looks like he could do with a doughnut or two

4) a woman who, well, looks kinda average to me. (And I don't care if she's been out with George Clooney).

These are your judges for Britain's Next Top Model, people.

and

5) 4 semi-finalists, 3 of which could REALLY do with some feeding and some sleeping to clear up their skin. If you don't look good WITHOUT makeup, then what's the point? Makeup, if you're gonna use it, should compliment you, not hide you.

I was quite embarassed by the whole show. Judging a bunch of young women whose self-confidence isn't solid is cruel - that's not what they need - these women are at an age where they're still trying to figure out who they are. Hell, I'm still trying to figure out the sum of my whole parts and I'm in my 30's.

The Visitor(s)...

2007-08-20T12:47:00.000+01:00

Hip-hop
paid me a visit last night
no: bling
gold teeth
designer gear
just hip hop - a man
and a woman
at the foot of my bed
holding hands
naked as the day they were born
Adam & Eve

merged as one.

© ebele

Lullaby for a Lost Griot...

2007-08-18T12:10:00.000+01:00

i do voodoo, so
dope beats cannot protect u
i'm comin for u

'cos your legacy breeds
boys with super-size hard-ons
unripe wombs with thongs

Now, when did it go from
'yo' momma is sooo fat' to
'yo' momma is sooo slack'?

do you go down on your mother
with a tongue like that?

When did it go from
'she's 21' to
'uh, but she looked 21'?

Sleep with one eye closed tonight, my friend
'cos I guarantee you
tomorrow, the future won't look so bright
with one eye missing

Now if you can boast openly
about what you wanna do to me
b/w the sheets,
then I can boast openly
about what I wanna do to your balls
(...but that's a whole different poem;
think I'll call it 'And Then There Was One')

It's not your fault, you say
it's the lingo, innit, we use it everyday,
well lingo this:
i do voodoo, so
dope beats cannot protect u,
got my cowrie beads in my left hand
the tail of a dead cow in my right
All I need is a picture of you
to make it complete
That shouldn't be so hard
I can grab one off my 8 year old niece

You better run
'cos with devil's chalk etched 'round my eyes
and gin in my mouth, I spit on you
Now quick, quick,
detach yourself from your latest 'bitch',
pull your trousers up
and run
Now who's the bitch now?, BITCH!?

Let me tell you this...

griot. misguided.
you are 50 times better
than you think you are

drink green tea. It will cleanse your tongue.
suspend ego. unmask truth.
it might seem like a long hard slog, my king
but I believe you can still create music organically...
You are talented
for I was there when She blessed you
when We blessed you...

See? I knew you wouldn't listen
blocked up by all the bling
the women
the millions

I.AM.SO.TIRED of loving you
defending you
being hurt by you

boys with super-size hard-ons?
unripe wombs with thongs?
...you know I can't allow that

so, you are no longer my king
(oh, I'll mourn you for a while,
but I'll get over you)

a mouthful of gin, I spit on you

for you are a wolf in sheep's clothing

You are not Hip-Hop.

i do voodoo

i do voodoo

i do voodoo, so
dope beats cannot protect u
i'm comin for u...

© ebele ajogbe

I'm Not a Hip-Hop Head but...

2007-08-12T11:31:00.000+01:00

(The blog I read couple nights ago - seems to have done something to me - brought up stuff - thrown more logs on the fire in my belly. I wrote this piece some time ago - was an email convo I had with a friend - which I then expanded. So here it is.)

NOW, I'M NOT A HIP-HOP HEAD...

...as I can very well imagine that one day someone will probably challenge me and say that I know nothing about hip-hop (implying that I have no right to challenge it). What I do know is that I'm not into lyrics that degrade women – it just so happened my subject of choice is hip-hop – it's as good a place to start as any, methinks.

I'm not prepared to watch certain artists give what is a great artform a bad name, riffing off with the mentality that 'that's just the way it is'. Now I might not know a whole heap about hip-hop but that's not what I imagine encouraged its initial growth – I think the growth of it might have started out of desperation, out of a need to say "Hello World, I have a voice", out of a need to say "if no-one's gonna tell me I'm beauty-full, if no-one's gonna give me the time of day because of the colour of my skin, if I'm gonna be shoved off to the ghetto and left to rot, if the money I spend does not enrich my community, but continues to suck the life out of it, then, hell, I'm gonna tell myself I'm beauty-full even if I have to exaggerate the hell out if it, this is my Capoiera, this is my gum-boot dance, this is my Oriki".

I draw the line when what you say presents a warped view of women (and romanticises gangster'ism and the ghetto), when you know and I know that you have a whole heap of talent and yet you choose to denigrate, when you know and I know that a lot of the people buying your music are young people and you wouldn't be where you are today had it not been for them – what?, a teenage girl scrapes pennies together to buy your latest CD to listen to you call her a bitch and a ho? - a boy buys your latest CD to listen to how you smacked your bitch up, fucked her from behind, bought her ass (out) with Gucci & Krystal? If this wasn't so serious, it'd be childish and boring.

(Parental Advisory stickers on CD covers – erm, what's that?)

So, my cute 7yr old nephew comes up to me the other day and says "auntie, look how girls dance!", and he starts wining up in front of me – I'm like 'what?' – my soul sank to the bottom of my feet. I thought: hmm, do I hit him now or later when his parents ain’t around? (Or do I practice my karate skills on his folks instead?)

I argue with myself in my head and sometimes I think "but what some of these 'rappers' are rapping about is their reality, it's their way of expressing themselves, of venting - it's what they know". Then the other side of me thinks, "BULLLLLSHIT – no-one's that one-dimensional – and if what they're rapping about is harming just about everyone involved, including themselves, then what's the point? Really."

(You can take the man out of the ghetto but you can't take the ghetto out of the man – that's bullshit too. I don't know why. But it is.)

So, as far as I'm concerned, what some of these artists do is not hip-hop in my eyes. A wolf in sheep's clothing is still a wolf...even if it becomes a vegetarian!

(p.s., is Lil Kim fuelling or quenching the rampant level of misogyny in the industry?)

(p.s.: If you find yourself getting defensive over my take on things (though I don't see why 'cos I'm sure you've heard it all before), and you feel like 'labelling' me a 'feminist' in the same way women were branded 'witches' back in the day, then please form an orderly queue behind 50 Cent, R Kelly and the rest of the gold-teethed bo-zoes that Africa's slowly becoming too ashamed to call one of her own.

Should your defensiveness upgrade to aggression, please convert said emotion into monetary energy which you may donate to a charity of your choice – lord knows there are plenty of women's centres, youth centres, children's homes, empowerment projects and support phone lines that could really do with the money.

The Aggression to Monetary conversion rate depends on the amount of r's in your Grrrrrrrrr. Each 'r' converts to a pound or a dollar. So, for example:

GRRR = £3

GRRRRRRR = £7

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR = £49

***

pps: ahem, you might be thinking "she's all talk and no action - what is she doing about it?" And that would be a good question. An even better question if it came from someone who was actually doing something about it. )

(ppps: do you know how many souls hip-hop has saved? Honour the religion or STEP THE FUCK OFF IT. )

Sexism, Misogny - the Great Sex Divide...

2007-08-11T13:07:00.000+01:00

I was reading this blog last night.

And it made me think of my experience in the world of women & misogyny & claiming our tongues.

Some men don't realise when they're being sexist - everything about a woman is for their sexual pleasure - you can be a lesbian as long as they can watch, you can masturbate as long as they can watch. When you choose to pleasure yourself for yourself, it becomes a problem 'cos they're not part of the equation.

I performed at this event once - where most of the people were into hip-hop - the woman that came on before me had a short skirt on - whining up her waist and stuff - the crowd was cheering - really getting into her & the music.

Then I came on with a long jeans skirt & a t-shirt saying 'Phenomenal-Woman', asking the ladies to say they love their vaginas. You could have heard a pin drop. I moved on and did my poem.

When a woman claims her sexuality for herself, when she uses it to honour herself, it doesn't wash with a crowd that's used to seeing women objectified.

It really hit me hard - I went into the toilet and cried my eyes out - so much for a Phenomenal Woman.

Took me a while to get my groove back. The energy in there made me feel like I'd said something wrong, like I was dirty.

A couple of months later, I was performing at this other event and another performer approached me – turns out he was at the other event I did – he was a Christian - and he challenged me about using the word 'Vagina', then asked me what religion my parents were. So. Apparently. It's ok for a woman to whine up in front of you, but it's not ok for me to say the word 'Vagina'? OK.

The woman that writes this blog has had enough – she's about to shut it down. She's worn herself out – which is what happens when you give energy out and less comes back. I know the feeling.

Go read her blog – you might not agree with everything she's got to say or with her approach, but if you love it, like it (or just like parts of it) and you can see yourself going back every now & then, please send her an email to let her know.

Have a nice weekend, y'all... men & women...

ebele

Dear Reader...I have nipple hair...

2007-08-06T01:12:00.000+01:00

Two to be precise - just above my right nipple.

Potential health hazard if you ask me - imagine if you will:

Scenario 1: I have a baby. My baby chokes on my nipple hair while I'm breastfeeding him/her. I'll never be able to forgive myself (neither would my baby - poor kid could be traumatised for life).

Scenario 2: I shave my nipple hair - baby's lips get seriously bruised by the stubble.

WHY ME? WHY ME? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY......

ON THE BRIGHT SIDE:
Maybe I'm special.

ON THE NOT-SO-BRIGHT SIDE:
Is it a bird?, is it a plane? - no, it's The Woman with the Bearded Nipple.

Great.

(Isn't it bad enough that I'm so beautiful? Why God, Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.)

------------

On a serious note, I'm ok with it. I've had it for so long that I am now at one with it. Sometimes I shave it off. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I bunch it up in a ponytail. Or a side parting.

I find it all freakingly interesting though - my nipple hair - same way I was amazed at the intricate way my stretchmarks grew on my body - like creeping plants.

My book 'How to Love Your Titty Hair' is available on Amazon and all good bookstores, including barber shops... except my local barber's - he's a perv.

HairSpray!, HairSpray! - Go watch HairSpray!

2007-07-27T19:35:00.000+01:00

OK, the new HairSpray film might not be everyone's cup of tea - why should it? - but I LOVED IT! It made me feel good to be voluptuous - I do a lot of the time, but it was just great to see a film that celebrated that - I'm tired of the production-line of beautiful fit dumb 'teenagers' running scared, then being bludgeoned to death in some shape or form.

HairSpray was refreshing, funny, and fun to watch. Some bits were REALLY tacky but I think that was intentional - 'cos it's set in the 1960's. I found the very well-fed lead actress cute & energetic & agile as hell. It took me a bit of getting used to seeing John Travolta play her voluptuous-looking big momma 'cos (s)he looked kinda WEIRD. But, the thing is, after a while, the character he was playing started to grow on me and it really didn't matter as the film went along - maybe it's something a great actor is able to do, I suppose - make you forget the actor & appreciate the character.

You know, if I could afford it, I'd take every teenager that's insecure about their weight to go see it - boy or girl. 'Cos if I can come out whooping & cheering, then surely it can't do them any harm. I was even high-pitching to some of their songs!

Loved it, loved it, loved it. Would go and see it again.

(p.s.: Queen Latifah represented! Definitely held her own, in my view. Well done, woman.)

Momma, I've Just Been Kissed by a Woman!!!

2007-07-23T10:40:00.000+01:00

...and a very nice bubbalicious MWAAAAAAAAH it was too :-)

And who oh who descended on me with a nice big wet joowsey smackeroony?

Well, none other than Bloggrrl herself!

and it was guuuuuuuuuuuuuud.

She likes my blog, Momma! She likes my blog!

ebele

Momma, Am a Rocking Girl Blogger!!!!!

2007-07-22T12:54:00.000+01:00

Sundays are my new Fridays, I tell ya! First I read a lovely blog which really resonated with me, then I have me some sweet bread with soya butter (yum!), AND THEN I find out I've been honoured by a sista called Vanessa Byers with an award - not just ANY award, no, but a ROCKING GIRL BLOGGER AWARD - Oscars are sooooo yesterday. (I've never met Vanessa, but you know when sometimes you just 'feel' people?)

There's an Igbo saying: "Aka ekpe kwo aka nni, aka nni akwo aka ekpe" meaning "The left hand washes the right hand, the right hand washes the left" - so I'm gonna pay it forward & extend the honour to 5 other women whose blogs I admire the bras off of.

[the words in brackets are Igbo - 'ofu' means 1, 'ibuo' means 2 and so on...]

ofu) it goes without saying: Ms Straight No Chaser Vanessa Byers!

ibuo) Kristina Wong: Creative. Loopy. Sensitive.

ito) Kirsten Anderberg: Fearless Tongue.

ino) Kumiko: Not afraid to stand on her own.

ise) Bloggrrl: Funny. Sarcastic. Well written. Creative. Non-prescriptive.

isii) I know she said she shouldn't be added to the list, and I know I'm only allowed to recommend 5 women, but this woman initiated the whole Rocking Girl Blogger Award thingymejig, so she's gonna get one - she has no choice, yes, it's you Roberta Ferguson!

Pass the love-loaded appreciation on - if there are any female bloggers out there whose blogs you love reading, why not show it by giving them a Rocking Girl Blogger award? Let's get the mangoes rolling, people :-)

Here's a stretchmark I made earlier!!

2007-07-16T21:51:00.000+01:00

i luv my stretchmarks /
nature has made her tattoos /
what a work of art.

My stretchmarks are x-mark-the-spots - marking exactly where you should kiss me.

Must.

It ain't a myth - it's a fact. Not a request - it's an order - Sir - ordained - by she-angels with cherried tongues - who are watching you if you make the wrong move - on my oh-so-deliberately-gratuitously-plumpified body.

So. Be careful how you kiss me, Sugar.
Or where the hell you kiss me, Sugar.
Or else I won't even call you Sugar.
I'll just call you Salt instead. Sugar.

Now... you have 3 chances to get it right - I'm feeling particularly generous tonight - don't know - must be the full moon with her belly hung so low I can touch her.

So here's what?, I'll give you 5 goes instead of 3 - and you know what?, ya don't even have to thank me, see?

But 5 times wrong and I'm sorry - I'll have to turn you into a piece of cheese, a mogwai ...or Donald Trump.

Take your pick.

But don't worry, if you get it wrong, I'll tell your momma you wen' on a NASA expedition or something. (I'm thoughtful like that. She's very old, I know).

So, best gets to working, Mr - get it right - and you won't smell the faint scent of cherries - or hear angels giggling in the corner of the room.

And if ya really lucky, Mr.
If you're reeeeeeallly reeeeeeallly lucky, Mr
I might just marry you twice, Mr.
I might just marry you. Twice.

And carry you over the threshold my own damn self. Picket fence, DIY tools from B & Q, wide-screen Sony TV, the whole works for you, baby. You - barefoot and pregnant with Nigerian Guiness; Me - bringing home the bacon & jollof rice.

And we'll have our very own pole in the very middle of our very own room ...

and you'll sing for me and I'll dance for you...

and I'll clap for you and you'll strip for me...

and I'll sing, My Mr, I'll sing for you:

i luv my stretchmarks /
nature has made her tattoos /
what a work of art.

I said I'll sing for you Mr, I'll sing for you
Oh Lordy, lordy - I'll sing for you:

i. luv. my. stretch.marks.

then you'll look at me
you'll look at my body
look up to the sky
and mouth: thank you, Jesus

you'll look at me
lights off - moon bright
every kiss - on every mark:
a validation.

I cried when I read this...

2007-07-14T12:51:00.000+01:00

...there are just no words.

I shall call her by her real name - Saartjie Baartman.

I SAID I DON'T WANT A PLASTIC BAG, WOMAN!!!

2007-07-10T10:25:00.001+01:00

[what happened when I went to the butchers...]

I said I don't want a plastic bag, woman! What's wrong with you?

Yeah yeah I'd love me some chicken wings, but please please don't wrap it up like it's some EGYPTIAN MUMMY.

I mean, first you wrap it up with polythene & polystyrene so it won't fly away - (does it look pretty in polystyrene, er, no). And then upon my purchase, you put the polythene-&-polystyrene-wrapped chicken wings in a baby plastic bag – is that cute, no.

AND THEN finally, to finish off your masterpiece (because by now you've got a whole circle of customers marvelling at the ignorant genius that is you), you put the polythene-&-polystyrene-wrapped, baby-plastic-bagged chicken wings in ANOTHER plastic bag – no, this ain't a collection of Russian dolls, darling - you do not need to wrap & wrap & wrap it up like we're playing musical chairs. (Oh dear, you'd think the way you’re wrapping it up, it was poisoned. Hmmmm.)

And so I say to her, 'no plastic bag, please'.

And she says to me, 'if the wings aren’t in the 2nd plastic bag, yeah, security will think you nicked it.'

I'm like 'what planet is this woman on? (obviously not the one I'm doing my bit to save)'

And so I say, more firmly this time 'No, I don't want a plastic bag'.

(I mean, you'd think that PAYING FOR IT and HAVING THE RECEIPT would be enough.)

This is about to turn into a battle of wills – I reach into my bag for my SuperWoman outfit and my watch which sends people back in time to give them a chance to redeem themselves. I also reach into my bag for some water to parch my throat to prepare my voice to give her a good telling-to 'cos oh boy she ain't seen nothing yet - I am my mother's daughter, oh yes, siree, Nigerian through and through, I'm rolling up my SuperWoman sleeves now, I’m rolling them up - someone stop me 'cos I'm about ta, I'm about ta...

Oh wait. If I am my mother's daughter (for which I am), all I have to do is give her 'The Look' like my mother does.

And so I give her 'The Look', yeah, and say "Step away from the plastic bag".

The Look's got her all hypnotised. She steps away, eyes wide, lips trembling.

I, in my SuperWoman outfit, say: "Now repeat after me: Plastic is Tragic".

"Plastic is Tragic".

"I can't hear you".

"Plastic is Tragic".

"Again".

"Plastic is Tragic".

"AGAIN!".

"Plastic is Tragic".

"Now... if I EVER see you triple-wrapping my chicken or anybody's chicken for that matter, you, my dear, will spend the rest of your life... on a landfill site. GOT IT?"

She nods desperately.

And I. Fly out. Triumphant.

Mangoes, Bats & Keyboards...

2007-07-05T19:50:00.000+01:00

I had a mango an hour ago. Swallowed the sun a half hour ago. Preached to bats 5mins ago. Smashed up & threw my keyboard to the dogs - chose to blink straight to the screen instead.

'Cos keyboards are for lazy people who don't trust their fingers. I trust mine.

My long ET-like fingers have touched God and known that (S)He is real, stroked a multitude of birds into flight, beckoned & held spirit-children 'til they stopped fearing life, stopped fists, redirected locust, comforted a crying man, pleasured a woman, muffled the sounds of bush-babies who were intent on robbing the souls of our children, mixed chalk for the witch-doctor, fetched water for the clouds, fixed the broken wings of angels, turned the smiling face of a neighbour to another.

Yes. My fingers are long - for a reason.

[to be continued. maybe.]

Going Solo...

2007-06-28T15:01:00.001+01:00

I did a part of my solo show last night. It was intense and emotional. For one of the pieces, I was playing a character called Mahri. She's being bullied in school for being 'ginger' and 'fat'. Somewhere in the piece, I leave it open and let her do her thing - yesterday, she went into the audience asking them if she was fat, and when they said no, she called them 'LIAR'. Then she called everyone LIARS, called herself Ugly, Fat; lifted her t-shirt so the audience could see just how fat she was, then went back on stage and pigged out on food, while saying through her stuffed mouth that she was Ugly and that she hated the audience. 'I'm ugly, I'm ugly' she kept on saying. And then it all ended with a deep cry, almost like a howl, and she just crouched over the table in a dishevelled heap.

I'd never tried that part of the script before, so when I finished presenting my work and came off the stage, I was a bit of a wreck. The crying continued in the toilet, but this time, it was me Ebele crying for Mahri.

So, yes, that's how last night went.

I'd like to get hold of every bully out there and tell them to stop, to deal with their own shit.

After the performance, a woman came up to me and told me I was beauty-full and that I shouldn't do what I did again - that it ain't right - that it made her cry - that I really REALLY shouldn't do it to myself again. She also said that her partner had to leave because it upset her.

But, I'm like, this is life. This is the reality of being human. This is a facet of someone's life. This is their reality. Life is beauty-full and ugly and funny and exquisite and unfair and complete, and I just showed one facet of that.

It's great to take an audience on a journey whether it's through being funny or surreal or downright goofy (and that's in the show too), but we all have the ability to face the music and step outside our comfort zones. Yesterday, Mahri chose not to go on that journey on her own.

I'm proud of myself for:

a) actually remembering most of my lines!
b) going with the flow (some of the bits I did yesterday were improvised).
c) for giving Mahri a voice

I guess with more experience, I'll learn to deal better with what could be unleashed on stage, but yesterday, it was a lot for me to take in. I knew where the performance could go and I was willing to let it go there, holding back wasn't an option - but the extent it got to did take me aback – I felt like an observer – 'cos after a while, I became Mahri and I could feel what she was feeling – ugly, dishevelled, hideous, angry, extremely emotional – the way she cried, I can still hear it, so much pain. And when she raged at the audience 'I hate you', what she was really saying is that she hated herself.

Mahri is a beautiful, intelligent, funny young girl - in pain. The bullies don't need to bully her anymore. She's internalised their ruthless tongues. She bullies herself now.

Her mum will never know. She will stay an intelligent funny little girl for mummy.

The food helps.

Yesterday, it would have been nice to have a shoulder to come home to - partner, friend, sibling - 'cos I still felt quite tender and the flat felt too silent. Instead, I was washing the f**king Glastonbury mud off my f**king suitcase! Ah well...

ebele

GLASTONBURY, HERE I COME!!!

2007-06-20T13:49:00.000+01:00

I'm off to Glastonbury tomorrow. Last time I went to the festival was back in 2004. I remember when I was asked to perform there, I really didn't wanna go, I really didn't – the rain, the mud, the huge crowds, sleeping in a tent, smelly toilets, why the hell would I wanna put myself through that? I love the comfort of my own bed and a clean bathroom, thank you very much. Do I wanna wake up and find a worm staring straight at me? NO. And do I wanna manoeuver myself into the smallest toilet ever known to man? HELL NO.

But...I ended up going, 'cos I figured... there was a reason I was being asked to be a part of it. AND IT WAS GREAT!!! I made friends, learnt to live with the smell of pee & shit drifting from the nearby toilets, exercised my muscles thoroughly from trying not to slip in the mud and generally had me a blast! Thousands of people and the energy was great, peaceful, free and laidback. I remember back then I was thinking of quitting my job – just leaving the corporate world behind and going after my dreams – and the energy at Glastonbury made me feel that anything was possible. So when I got up on the mike, I told the audience that I was gonna quit my job and they all clapped. I quit my job that September.

So, in a way, going back to Glastonbury 3 years later is my way of saying thank you. I owe Her a lot. There are people I met there that I'm still really good friends with. And some of them are performing there this year too! So it's gonna be lovely chilling with them. And you know, thru Glast., I've gotten further gigs, been part of projects & groups, some of which I'm still a part of – these have been invaluable in sustaining me as an artist, both creatively and financially.

So bring on the mud!, Glastonbury, I am ready for you! Now I might not see a proper toilet for 4 days, but I, dear reader, have mastered the art of holding my breathe for 10 seconds at a time - besides, after a while, the combined smell of shit and methane-loaded piss can be quite therapeutic. And what if I'll only get to take a shower, like, once throughout my whole time there – baby wipes are the new showers, I say! (ps: thank god, I won't be on my period. That would be the worst thing.)

Anyway, I need to go pack.

Laters...

What I've learnt today...

2007-06-17T13:01:00.002+01:00

...that when I confront things, they're almost not as bad/challenging/scary as I think they're gonna be. This is something I should have known in over 3 decades of laying on Earth's belly, but it's never too late to learn, I say.

I'm working on my solo show - it's a good show, but I've been dreading the memorisation part, so much that I'd been putting it off for weeks. Yesterday, along with the busy time schedule I know I have ahead of me over the next 3 weeks or so, I knew I just had to take my finger out of my curvaceous behind and face the music. And, the thing is, the music didn't sound that bad.

So, I managed to memorise a piece yesterday - it's not 100% perfected but I'd say I'm 97% there - the other 3% is just going over it again and again, but it's in my head, and that's good.

And now I'm onto my 2nd piece & I'm getting into the groove of it and it's not half as bad as I thought it was gonna be.

I also learnt that I'm better at memorising paragraphs than I am at memorising lists (which is crazy 'cos lists should be easier), but go figure, that's how my brain apparantly seems to be working.

In the script for the solo, there's a 'character' that's suddenly made herself known in one of the pieces, she has an American accent, she's very condescending, talks real slow as if everyone's stupid - she doesn't seem to see she has her own flaws.

She's always sitting down - doesn't move around much - most of her expression is in her voice, the tone of it - and in her face.

She's kinda scary but funny. Though she doesn't like to be regarded as 'funny' 'cos she's hell bent on being a serious, law-abiding individual.

I can hear her accent in my head, her mannerisms, facial expressions, how she pauses between her words, everything - and I just hope I can do her justice and portray her as clearly as I see and hear her.

Pixie Philosophy...

2007-06-13T16:06:00.000+01:00

So I was thinking, erm...

...if you sprayed shit with perfume, will the flies still come? - are flies selective like that? - hmm? - or does it depend on the type of perfume you spray on it?

...and what about mosquitoes? - are they somewhat bourgeois too? - will they bite you on your arm, but not on your bum-crack?

Come to think of it - all those women that want their lips plumped up surgically, can't mosquitoes be used instead? Or bees? A sting here, a sting there and voila, you're all plumped up, m'lady! Much cheaper, me thinks. Using Mother Nature to her full potential. Then you can use the rest of the money you would have used for plastic surgery to buy me thank-you mangoes. Hey!, I'm happy, you're happy, we're all happy. Happy, Happy, Happy.

So, ermmm...I was also wondering if the sky would fall if shaved eyebrows were left to grow? - letting them find their own pathline every once in a while. I was speaking to an eyebrow the other day and it was sobbing its little follicles out, saying: "Ebele, you know, sometimes I....I...I just need to know ...that I exist."

(Eyebrows are victims in all of this, you know, like a cute little dyed-pink chihuahua caught up in a vicious divorce battle.)

OK. Pixie Philosophy over. Until the next time, take care of yourself

... and ya eyebrows.

(p.s.: The above ain't empty questions, you know? I WANT ANSWERS. My soul won't rest 'til then. I mean don't you want my soul to be at peace - don't you? Don't you? So if you know, don't keep it to yourself. Share. You have my most-sought-after permission to remain anonymous.)

Nothing...

2007-06-12T09:50:00.000+01:00

If I had nothing
and everything
to say,
I'd choose

silence.

I'd spend the weekend
washing the noise
out of my hair,
drying it in nature's breath,
oiling it with self-meditation,
twisting it into corn-rows
of silence.

I'd want you to come
be with me.
Let discomfort
tighten its grip
round our necks
while we sit
in silence.

I'd want you to come
be with me
know me
understand me
love me
as we say nothing
and everything

in silence.

©ebele

Recipe: Baninger Soya Smoothie...

2007-06-11T20:33:00.000+01:00

Definition: 'BANINGER' = Banana + Ginger

I am going through a Banana & Ginger Soya Smoothie phase at the moment - well, it's more than a moment, it's more like a couple of months! It's a pretty basic recipe, only takes a couple of minutes - so I thought I'd share it with the world!

It's ok. You can thank me later.

Don't say I don't help y'all...

NOW, WHAT YOU NEED:

375/400ml of soya milk
3-4 bananas
a generous amount of fresh ginger
Smoothie maker

1) Pour the soya milk in the smoothie maker
2) Peel & break the bananas into pieces with your hands. Add to the soya milk.
3) Peel & cut up the ginger. Add that to the mix.
4) Blend until smooth

NOTES:

- add/subtract bananas according to how thick you want the smoothie. I like mine pretty thick so I tend to add 1 banana to every 100ml of soya milk.

- likewise, adjust ginger to taste.

- you might also wanna add some honey - it's your call.

- if you don't have a smoothie maker, I guess you could try it in a blender - I personally haven't tried it in a blender so I don't know how it'll turn out.

Happy blending!

Happy birthday to me...

2007-06-08T15:05:00.000+01:00

It's my birthday tomorrow...and I'm in a very reflective mood - a bit melancholy too - and a deep lull - that lull is telling me that I'm not satisfied. What with? - oh, a number of things - it's just that birthdays tend to bring it to the fore for me (thank you, birthday).

I don't feel like celebrating - I'm not gonna pretend I do (it doesn't help that my period started today too - I don't get painful ones, but I do tend to feel everything a whole lot more when I'm on - if I'm happy, I'm extra happy, if I'm sad, I'm the epitome of it - if I feel like giving you a hug, I'll give you two - you get the gist.)

I don't feel like being around people for my birthday, neither do I wanna be on my own (go figure, it's the Gemini in me).

If you can imagine, I have a collage of pictures, cards and inspiring emails stuck on the wall behind my computer. I look up at them now & again. And as I'm typing this, about how I'm feeling, one of the sheets have come unstuck. It's a poem a woman wrote for me in one of the workshops I ran:

Enigmatic, is the knowing smile & charming look she gives
beauty personified, the perfect example of womanhood
embodiment of love, care & joy
love embracing in her words, gestures & reassurance
exciting to be around

Coincidence? Or divine intervention?

All of a sudden, I don't feel quite as bad. I still feel reflective (and I think this is good), but I don't feel quite so boo-hoo'ish.

You know what? - I was given a big dirty chocolate & cognac cake yesterday for my birthday - I was saving it for tomorrow - but you know what? - I'm opening it now!

Hold on...while I go get it.

LAWD JESUS!

IT.IS.GOOD. I know it ain't particularly good for me, but today, I AM GOOD FOR IT!!!

Anyone want a piece?

Actually, no, pretend I didn't just say that. THIS IS ALL MINE. MINE. MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE.

I was Born.to.Be:

Beautyfull, Brilliant, Bold, Bodacious, Bedazzlingly Brown, Billowing Brightness, Brimming with Bucket-loads.of.Phunk

Armageddon...

2007-06-03T12:12:00.000+01:00

Ever since I can remember, I've always had dreams about the end of the world - it's usually quite dramatic and feels so real that I'm usually quite shaken up when I wake up from it. (I read in an interview once - can't remember which one 'cos it was a while ago - that Missy Elliot has/had those kind of dreams), and I remember thinking: thank God, it ain't just me.

The first dream (or the first couple of dreams) I remember having was when I was around 8 or so:

There was an earthquake, and when the ground split open, I looked down and there were giant maggots in the earth's core. There was also a blood moon, a rainbow, and Jesus in the sky - Jesus was MASSIVE - have you watched Independence Day? - remember how big the alien ships were? - that's how big he was.

I included those dreams in a poem I wrote last year:

In her world,
Jesus appeared gigantically over the earth
with a blood-moon for a crown,
and the ground split its legs open
to reveal giant maggots
made out of McCain Oven Chips

I've been having a couple of dreams lately about the world (or parts of it) being submerged in water. I've had them before and two of them came true which I find scary. I usually don't remember or understand the dream until it happens for real.

In one of those dreams, a massive wave was coming towards me - I knew it was the end - I knew I was gonna die and I was f***ing terrified. There was this man in a cream cloak in front of me - I couldn't see his face, but I knew that if I held onto him with all my might, I'd die, but it wouldn't hurt as much - I'd be ok 'cos I'd be going wherever he was going - and where he was going was a good place. And so I held onto him like a pitbull terrier! Next thing I knew, I was standing in a small chapel. I can't remember if he was there too. I think he was. There were people sitting on benches with their backs to me.

And that was it.

Anyway, enough about my dreams. I really could go on.

I've just had a banana & ginger soya smoothie - yum! Now what's for lunch?

In other news, my next door neighbour's been going absolutely mental with her music (and her friends) since the very early hours of the morning, going 'yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey' and 'oh yeah' every couple of minutes and singing VERY BADLY and telling the neighbour downstairs to 'Fuck Off' everytime he comes upstairs to complain that the music's too loud. Amazingly, he shuffles obediently back downstairs.

She's playing a Micheal Jackson oldie at the mo'.

Now she's playing Thriller...

ebele

If someone tells u you've put on weight...

2007-06-02T13:56:00.000+01:00

I drew this after growing tired of (certain) people telling me I've put on weight. For example, my cousin told me I'd put on weight.

He's bigger than me.

My reply to him was that he'd put on weight too.

And his reply was and I quote: "it's ok for men".

A friend of my mum's who hadn't seen me for a while got VERY vocal and dramatic about my weight. I was feeling particularly vunerable on that day so it was the last thing I wanted to hear from another woman.

I believe there's a way to say it, but definitely not as an Oscar-winning performance.

If I've put on weight, don't you think I know?

If I've put on weight, did it ever occur to you that I might just be ok with it?, that I don't think it's the end of the world?, that you seem to be more upset about it than I am?, that it might just say more about you than it says about me?

So... where do I stand on my weight???

I am beautyFULL regardless of whether I put on, lose some or stay at the weight that I am now. Regardless of how I feel or how you feel about it.

I am beautyFULL by default.

And that's what I choose to focus on.

Coffee & Definitions...

2007-05-28T16:58:00.000+01:00

I like the smell of coffee when I'm writing. For some reason, it makes me feel like more of 'a writer'. Peppermint tea doesn't quite cut it (though I do like that too).

I've never felt like a writer, though I've sometimes called myself that. And people have called me the same - 'a writer'. Sometimes it's easier to just say I'm a writer - some people have asked me what I'm into & when I've said 'poetry', they reply 'say that again?' or they say 'poultry' and I've had to repeat myself like 2 or 3 times. Ho hum...

Do you have to write everyday to be a writer? Do you have to feel like there's an intolerable itch you need to scratch if you don't write for days at a time? I don't write obsessively, not the way I used to - when I first got into poetry, I was like a nympho - poems scribbled on anything I could write on with anything I could write with. I've calmed down somewhat, almost like a couple who've emigrated to the Caribbean to retire, spending the rest of their days enjoying the simple life. But, I don't dream any less - I dream as feverishly and abundantly as I used to, just like I did before I got into poetry.

I feel 'the itch' if I don't dream everyday though, if I'm not creating things in my head. I have a handful of ideas a day, it's what sustains my spirit - sometimes it's secondary whether these ideas come to fruition or not - it's just the joy of it panning out in my brain - it really quickens my blood.

I'm willing to accept I'm a poet, but not a writer, though I do write. And it's not a confidence issue, you know, of me not feeling I live up to the title - I used to think that that was it, but it isn't. I'm not a poet because I 'write' poetry - I'm a poet inspite of it. I was dreaming in poetry way before that - I could have created music, dance, paintings, film out of my dream-thoughts, but, for now, I (mostly) cho(o)se to 'write' it - 'for now' being the operative word - 'cos 'now' ain't even a constant, not in my world anyway.

Maybe that's why my mind throws a hiccup when I'm called:

- a performance poet
- a performer
- a spoken-word artist
- a writer

and I'm sure I'd feel the same way if, upon exploring music, I'm called a musician or singer.

Two things I know - I'm a poet (in the widest sense possible), I'm Ebele (oh yeah, and I'm a woman). A poet who has chosen to write her poems for now. Next year, I might choose to paint my poems. Hell, year after that, I might dance 'um. Or do all three together. And I don't have to be brilliant at them either - just wanna do what my soul feels to do and not argue with it (did you know my soul has a six-pack?).

So, yeah, I'm a poet (she smiles - a smile so wide, so beauty-full, it distracts you from the spinach lodged b/w her teeth).

ebele (black pixie/ mango ho'/ heart as big as her backside....

( and that's a lot of heart ;-) )

A tradition lost...

2007-05-23T00:59:00.000+01:00

I'm Igbo (Nigerian). I was doing some research on an old traditional art form practised by Igbo women called Uli which is (from what I understand) a symbol-based form of body painting & wall painting - symbols can range from nature & everyday village objects to dots & triangles. The idea is to 'go with the flow' and go where your chi (god) takes you - there are no mistakes, everything is as it should be - and so the artist cannot 'correct' her work (nor should she want to, for that matter).

In Igbo mythology, Uli is believed to have been passed down by the Igbo Goddess of Fertility & Creativity to her Chief Painter who then passed it on to women-folk. There are two (or maybe 3) things that upset me:

1) the form has since been adopted (& dominated) by men

2) however, it is a dying art form as it's not practised as widely as it used to

3) however, in its adoption, the traditional form has been adapted into a more contemporary expression (which is cool, but I think the practice should also be expressed/honoured in as close to its original form as possible).

4) there is an organisation (German-based) who specialise in saving old art traditions from extinction who have taken on the revival of Uli; however, they've split the artform into two calling the wall-painting 'Upa' & body-painting 'Uli'. I find this upsetting because although I appreciate their much-needed role in saving this artform, it feels like they've patented it by renaming a part of it.

In exploring my cultural heritage, I've unearthed a beautiful, spiritual art form, but with it comes a history of demise & exploitation that I had no control over - I felt proud to have descended from and to be part of a people with such an artistic legacy - some things about myself had been answered, but I also felt helpless, frustrated and angry that Uli art had been allowed to wither away.

And so I responded/coped by painting into the early hours of the morning.
I am not a painter. I didn't have the tools or the colours for Uli, but I painted with the same spirit.

The picture you see above is what I came up with.

My dad...

2007-05-19T10:21:00.000+01:00

My dad turned 75 today...and I am so so proud of him for breathing this long, for sticking around, for being fit & healthy, for being a living testimony to the fact that at a quarter to midnight, the bar ain't closed yet!, the fat lady's still singing. I'm glad he's met his grand-children & great-grandchild and that his life hasn't been squeezed into a story I have to tell them because he’s no longer around. They can meet him, feel him for the man he is.

I'd also like to think the love of a good woman had something to do with it too! My mum & dad have been together for over 40 years. I watch them – he adores the woman! – would do anything for her – he's like a love-sick puppy – and my mum still plays hard to get at times like she ain't interested. They go through these cute phases together – one minute, they're obsessed with nothing but fried rice, next minute it’s fruit smoothies, a couple of months ago, it was a 'let's-stay-up-til-insane-hours-of-the-night-watching-Nigerian-films' phase. It's not always share-and-share-alike though (no, that would be a Hollywood film) – my mum LOVES these cereals called Jordans. He doesn't. My dad boils and drinks the juice from this really bitter leaf called Onugbu which he believes 'invigorates' him. My mum hates it. But I’m like, if she gets to benefit from this renewed sense of energy (if you get my drift), then it's all good! There was a time when they were both glowing and I KNOW she ain’t touched the stuff! More power to 'em!

He's a strong, funny, very very loving man, my dad - he tells me he loves me all the time – in a world where men aren't necessarily encouraged to express their true feelings – are told to bottle them up - 'be a man', whatever that means – well, it takes a human 'being a human' to be a man.

I remember back in the days in Nigeria when it was an abomination for a woman to wear trousers, you were considered an 'ashawo' (a whore) if you did. But my mum put on her jeans and a pair of shades and strolled casually down the street – and my dad walked beside her in his jeans and shades – holding hands. I was about 9 when that happened and it's an image I'll NEVER forget – will always be grateful to them for that.

I saw him in a pair of jeans the other day - for the first time in a very long time. He looked adorable – kept on asking me if the jeans looked good with the trainers he had on.

I wrote this for him a while back:

THIS MAN...

I was born with Kente cloth wrapped round my umbilical cord, a brown spoon in my mouth to match my skin, and dirt under my fingernails, hands defiantly clutching the soil I once danced on.

The entrance into the world was relatively easy for me - familiar. I had already rehearsed it four times through the eyes of my older siblings. But yet, when the time came, I thought it would be best to cry like the rest of them, for I'd been warned by my brothers and sisters, that if I didn’t cry, I'd get pinched by the nurse. If I didn't cry, I’d be known by all the brown-sugar babies in the world as the 'Un-cry' baby. My reputation would be ruined before I could even crawl. And so I cried and cried and cried. I cried 'til the whole hospital knew I existed, 'til the walls were encrusted with my tears, 'til the cows came home and went back to pasture. I cried…

...and then I stopped

'cos this man - called himself 'Da Da' - picked me up.

'Cos he was crying too...

I felt his afro-haloed face move towards mine, his big, beautiful, black nose press up against my cheek, and his lips press sanctuary onto my bloody forehead.

I didn't have to be washed - his tears did that. Didn't even have to be weighed - his undying affection for his sweat-tired Nigerian queen matched mine for his - pound for pound.

His ‘Da Da’ breath escaped an 'Afum gi n'anya - I love you' into my ears.

I knew we'd be best friends for life.

I love the guy – I think he's an amazing human being. Glad I met him.

Plastic bags: an addiction - end of wk 4...

2007-05-13T21:35:00.000+01:00

final week! fresh plastic bags used = 1

well, i've proved that i can do it! Over the past month, i've used 5 new plastic bags which is a hell of a big improvement on the amount i used to use. i'm proud of myself! Now, when i go into a supermarket, i don't feel awkward when i say 'i have my own bag thanks' - i say it with an acquired boldness now. Ok, so my month of setting myself this task is over, but you know what, i'd like to think i've acquired a new change in lifestyle that's here to stay.

Hmm, now what task should i set myself next! :-)

i returned into mySelf...

2007-05-10T19:45:00.000+01:00

traced my footsteps
crusty-toed and all

back to a place
situated just left of my breast

back to the sound of my mother cackling
as I told a dirty joke in igbo

beating a rhythm across mother nature's soft-skinned backside,
slapping the words 'live, goddamit' into the souls of the fearful,

teaching presidents

…to write poetry.

(for kelechi...)

Plastic bags: an addiction - end of wk 3...

2007-05-06T15:30:00.000+01:00

update: week 3 - fresh plastic bags used = none! Double Yay!

what more can i say?! :-)

Love is... melted cheese on a pea-grape...

2007-05-02T00:46:00.000+01:00

Love is... kissed stretch-marks.

Love is... when he farts ...and you smile.

Love is... my nephew when he sleeps.

Love is... oiling her grey dreadlocks.

Love is... watching her hips sway by.

Love is... mangoes that don't bite back.

Plastic bags: an addiction - end of wk 2...

2007-04-29T19:26:00.000+01:00

FRESH BAGS USED = 1. Yay!

...and it was 1 because:

I went to Sainsburys PREPARED i tell you, PREPARED - Big white plastic bag from my cupboard & everything - told the woman @ the till that i came with my own bag (and she smiled at me like i was some cute baby learning to walk). So there I was happily packing stuff into my bag AND THEN she goes & puts the chicken in A FRESH BAG. GRRRR....

...and that's how i ended up with 1.

...oh and the big white plastic bag snapped on the way home so i had to hold it like a sack... not pretty

task: buy one of those durable shopping bags made out of cloth. see? now ain't i clever?

Me? A feminist?

2007-04-25T23:48:00.000+01:00

Oh thank you!, thank you!, thank you! - no one's ever called me a feminist before! (sniffle, sniffle) - someone please pass the tissue - thank you so much.

(looking down - wringing my fingers)
I've always felt I was a feminist but i was too scared to tell anyone - not even my best friend, Georgina. Been keeping it to myself all these years - heavy burden to bear. I went to the pastor once... to confess... & he told me: Do 10 Hail Marys, 10 Our Fathers & 10 sit ups and you'll be just fine. I said: Oh thank you, preacher, I mean, pastor! Thank you! God Bless You! And he said: What do you mean, God? I AM God. And I said: OK. I'll leave you to it, then. and made my exit walking slooowly backwards.

So how did you know i was a feminist anyway? I thought i hid it quite well. I mean, my hair's not short, I wear sacks of make-up, wear stilettos with heels taller than a palm tree, I luuurve cooking & i have a gazillion bras.

What? You could smell I was a feminist? How the f**k does a feminist smell? Like what? - like a woman.

You're funny.

Plastic bags: an addiction - end of wk 1...

2007-04-22T16:20:00.000+01:00

FRESH BAGS USED = 3. Why?: 'cos:

(a) i wasn't planning to shop that day, but found myself going into a supermarket

(b) when i did have a re-used plastic bag with me, wasn't enough as i bought more stuff than i expected

...BUT 3 fresh bags in a week ain't bad! - just need to be more 'on it'.

So i went to one fruit & veg stall, bought myself a whole bunch of bananas - asked the guy to put it in my duffle bag - he said 'no, i'll put in the plastic bag first' - i said 'no, just put it in my bag, please' - he said 'ok, love, whatever floats your boat'. hmmm...

Am I evil???

2007-04-19T23:41:00.000+01:00

i live on a major road - opposite a bus stop - and every so often, you get a swarm of ticket collectors & police-folk there checking for fare dodgers.

Confession: I like seeing people get caught.

Is that really bad (of me)?

And since we're at it... i like seeing people miss the bus too.(bad girl, ebele, bad girl)

i hardly ever run for the bus (or the train for that matter) 'cos i know there'll be someone on it, just as evil as me, smiling & rubbing their hands with glee, waving from the back of the bus, going WO-HA-HAAAA.

...so i just don't bother ...unless i'm AAABSOLUTELY sure i'm gonna make it (but that would involve me doing some juju to project myself into the future to check if my ample-African-woman run for the bus would prove fruitful or not... and, frankly, that's just too much work. I only do juju on special occasions... like if i wanna break someone's balls...or catch a thief ...or get a really cheap ticket to New York - Richard Branson, you are feeling veeeery sleepy... ).

Random thought...

2007-04-17T15:38:00.000+01:00

I like it when it's raining/snowing and I'm inside. I can see it but it can't touch me....unless I open the window and hear/feel the brunt of its personality, unless I stick my hand, my face, my tongue out and tell it to claim me.

Once, a snowflake dropped on my pillow. The window wasn't open. I watched it die and turn into a raindrop - the quickest transformation I'd ever seen - a caterpillar in a hurry to transform. I wept for it - my tears became part of it. Am I a raindrop - part of a multitude of lost souls that can't remember who they are? I want to know who I am in my entirety. Am I the sun's daughter? Did I scorch my tongue with her solar rhythm? Does the sun see my strength even when I am bat-blind to it. Does a shadow stroke my womb lovingly? Is my grandmum right here, right now, peering over my shoulder, telling me to just get on with it.

I watched a film the other day - called Pitch Black - about these vampires that only come out when there's an eclipse. They were invisible to the human eye - only one man could see them. Do I wanna be that man? Or would I rather not know and fumble around as I go?

I don't want a car, don't want a mortgage, clothes make my spirit gag and food makes me happy. I hug as much as I can & tell people how lovely they are - because they are. I want him to be happy - I really do - even if it's not with me - he was a troubled soul who I feel was born at the wrong time - if he doesn't realise this, he'll spend the rest of his life trying to understand himself.

just writing...

Plastic bags: an addiction...

2007-04-14T15:12:00.000+01:00

My kitchen cupboard's full of plastic shopping bags like i'm some kind of squirrel. I'm improving - there was a time when the hoarding got so bad, the bags were leaking out the other end of the cupboard. But now, i sometimes walk with the cupboard ones when i'm out shopping - when i remember to. I do feel a bit funny when i say 'no, thank you' to a till attendant and whip out my Morrison's bag in a Sainsbury's store, but oh well.

I'm doing well'ish, but i could do better. So, for the next 4 wks, i'm gonna try to:

- listen more often to the ones in the cupboard that are crying out to be re-used - remember to stuff a couple of them in my duffel bag, building up to the degree to which i make sure my keys are in my bag

- make a note of the bags i could have freshly-acquired from one shop or the other...... but didn't! Yey! And when the person at the till offers one, I'll just say 'no thank you 'COS, TA-NAAAAAA, HERE'S ONE I MADE EARLIER!!!'

Is my quest anything to do with global warming, almost-full-to-the-brim land-fill sites, the fact that plastic bags degrade @ a snail's pace? Yes. And no. I'm worried 'bout the environment & the role I play in it. But I also know my level of plastic bag usage is a brainless habit that I want to (and can) nip in the bud.

So there. Let's see how the nxt 4 wks go.

I 'heart' mangoes...

2007-04-12T23:10:00.000+01:00

...so I think it's only fitting (lest the gods strike me down) that my first post should be about the succulent fruit!

Me & mangoes? - we go back a long, long way. I believe when I die, they will die with me. Period.

Nigeria. 1981. I was 7 yrs old. Just arrived from England. Everything fascinated me. From the lizards that would nod a 'howdy do' as they passed me by - to the cockroaches who were really black butterflies. And I watched goats bleat 7 times before pushing beauty-full small dark balls of shit out their butts - and watched the way these dark pellets would cascade to the ground and settle in a unique constellation.

I can't remember exactly when I met my 1st mango but I can imagine I was probably going about my business (as most Little Miss 7 yr olds do) - and the mango came bouncing along saying 'eat me' and I said 'are you sure?' and it said 'Mm-hmm'. So I did.

And the sun shone through my little belly for the rest of the day.

That night, like most nights, when there was yet another sudden electricity cut and my grandmother felt her way around for the kerosene lamp, I told her not to worry tonight, and patted my glowing belly.

Hey, if you've got nothing better to do, check out my mango shrine. (no kidding. I do have a mango shrine.)