KékéliLand

Daddy's Girls

2009-09-17T22:54:00.003+01:00

Always and forever.
You are missed.

Procrastinating I

2009-02-19T18:59:00.003+01:00

You know the Bible 80%!

Wow! You are truly a student of the Bible! Some of the questions were difficult, but they didn't slow you down! You know the books, the characters, the events . . . Very impressive!

Ultimate Bible Quiz
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I am truly baffled by this result.

You can get the girl out of the Catholic school but seems like you can't get the Catholic education out of the girl.

Time Travel 2

2008-08-29T17:15:00.002+01:00

Wonder Woman by Terry Dodson

3. Our sister Killjoy (read the original from AA Aidoo)

I'm travelling solo and I'm enjoying it even more than i thought I would!
I can go where I want, when I want and do whatever I want to do.
To be honest though, the practice for a young black woman is slightly more eventful than that.
I sit at a table in a restaurant and I'll always be asked if I'm waiting for some company.
As I'm obliged to admit that I'm lunching, dining, drinking by myself, that's when things get interesting.
Waitresses have a tendency to disappear thinking I won't have the balls to make myself notice or a fuss if the service is bad they dont know me...); or they try to be my new best friend like.. poor sweetheart...no friend, no man...all alone..).
Waiters are overly nice, will give you freebees (on the house) and try to see you after their shift (yeah right...).
Male customers are the most hilarious though: Black men here must think they're straight out of videos because I actually had drinks sent to my table by that guy who after a while came to introduce himself ... well he said he wanted to "holla atchu" and left saying " yo who you giving that attitude to?"
White guys scan me from head to toes and then ask... how much...

I sometime feel like an alien here (in the etymological sense: I cannot relate to people and they cannot relate to me).
I'm watching the inhabitants, studying customs and beliefs systems, sampling the food and trying to understand the local languages.
This country is literally wonder full and I'm.. Wonder-woman.

America is the country of "here and right now".
Patience is a default and greed is good.
Rudeness is called efficiency and ignorance is … patriotism.
Things seem to be either black or white but people are categorised in 1001 shade of colour.
No shame, all gain and God is on their side.

I have issues with how people use God's name to justify whatever might raise the common believer's eyebrow...
Crusades and Gaza Strip, slavery, Louis XIV and Henry VIII... all in God's name...
I have issues with the American... Because when they are not talking about guns (the NRA, Bin Laden, Saddam,Vietnam veterans... already maddening stuff) they are talking about God...
The Americans believe they are the true children of God, the 13th Tribe of Israel, the Anointed:
" Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent allotted by Providence for the free development of our yearly multiplying millions" ...
this was written in the Democratic Review in 1845 (...) and displayed in the Museum of American History in Washington DC.
If there were a need for the slaughter of the Native Americans, the slave trade and the "War on Terror" look no further...
I still dont understand though, how this self-proclaimed
God-loving people manage to behave so... ungodly!

Which brings me to reality TV.
Big Brother 4, Plastic Surgery: Before and After (or how people are really really mad, I've seen a man getting silicone calves implants!, surgery is better than dieting but can go terribly wrong... )
Love or Money 2 (a woman (the winner of the 1st edition of the show... and yes she chose the money over love...1 million $...) has to choose from 50 guys the one who "truly loves her". If the man chooses her instead of a cool 2 millions $) she keeps the man AND the money... if the man chooses the money well she loses everything.... (confusing and all that whitihn 5 weeks))
Temptation Island 3, Who Want to Marry my Dad, and my favourite: Meet my Folks (basically the family of a young (and rich) man get to choose his "fiancee" from a bunch of women...
In all those shows, there's loads of naked flesh, curses (blipped of course), and sex...
Well, actually no. Not really.. here as long as there's no penetration there's no offence
(that's how Bill got away with it...)so in that regard, indeed, you wont see a sex scene on american TV.

The only thing I found, worse than TV is the relationship americans have with food and their bodies.
Half the commercial are about fat, sugar/salt and artificial colouring-clad junk food. the other half...
miracle pills and creams, home gym machinesthat you can owe for 9.99$ only ( a month, over 60 instalments, plus interest....).
Does it require a rocket scientist to see that fried pickles (yep), fried ravioli (indeed)
and double chocolate banana cookies will kill your heart,not mentioning your tastebuds?

Anyways... I'm hitting the freeway once again, leaving Minneapolis
where I'm spending a long weekend,
and should be getting to Tampa, Florida (via New York ... again..)soon.

I never made it to Florida.
On our way back from Minneapolis my sister and I were involved in a car accident and i was flown back to the UK.
I had a good giggle re-reading these emails though: five years on i'm still hooked on bad tv, still travel on my own and still have a bit of an attitude.

Time Travel 1

2008-08-29T17:09:00.003+01:00

Artwork: Atsoupé Kpognon

Was trying to clean my inbox/procrasinating when i stumbled upon these emails i sent to a happy few while traveling the USA five years ago.

Vintage 2003 spelling mistakes included.

1. Once Upon a Time in America

I can hardly believe it's been two weeks since I've landed in New York.
Feels like I've been here for an eternity and at the same time feels like I've just arrived yesterday!

I had the brilliant idea of arriving a friday evening which meant that after a 11 hours journey, 2 planes, 5 hours time difference,
I found myself hopping from bars to lounges drinking Cosmopolitans...

A few hours sleep and by a bright saturday morning, I'm in Harlem for the African-American Book Fair.
In spite of the jetlag and the alcohol still in my system, I've managed to follow a couple of conferences on morality, self-abuse,
love and the future of my Brothers and Sisters (amen!).
I've even managed to takes notes (even though re-reading what i've scribbled, i can hardly make sense of it. must have been pretty hagard because all i've got is stuff along the lines of:
"I'm choosing my direction by making the right connections" what the hell that means...dont have a clue.. just sound really cheesy right now!).
Then, some more socialising and drinks and .... i collapsed. Spent the entire week sleeping! Something between 16 to 18 hours a day.
The rest of the time was spent getting some tan in the Park or watching TV ( my friend got 1032 channels. Whether the access to such an amount of channels is a sign of progress of technology, or of the decadence of a vain society that drown itself in a constant flow of images to escape its vacuity, is an other question... will have to come back on the subject later after more field work...).

Since Monday, after some deserved rest, I've set out to discover the Big Apple.
In practical terms, it means walking a lot (like a hell of a lot... miles and miles, blocks after blocks, from the lower est side to the Village, from Chinatown to Tribeca, around Brooklyn (where i live), just a lot of walking...).
It also means a lot of shopping .
Oh gosh a LOT... why are they having sales ?!
life's so unfair... how can i resist so much temptation ?? Well... i cant.
I thought i came for some serious soul searching but so far, seems like it's been some intense shopping experience althought i think
it's part of the therapy... some kinda comfort/compulsive shopping
(bought my 8th pair of red shoes), and I'm actually discovering my inner self: true: that girl buying and... wearing (yup!) mini dresses and mini-skirts is... me!

I like New York and its frenzy. I actually feel quite comfortable here.
The city smells of roasted nuts, garbage, fried onions and hot pavement.
New York is loud, and crowded, the people, rude, diverse, plain fascinating (it's all about the style baby!).

Need to be going now. More to come but I'm in a bit of hurry:
I'm off to Washington and Maryland for 2 weeks and
need to get some stuff done before I leave.

2. A poor lonesome cowgirl

Well, I've been really lazy lately and I feel like I owe some news...
Spent some time in Washington DC (will narrate my adventures in my next mail... word!) and instead of going back to New York, I changed my mind and decided to get a taste of the "real" America...
So here i am in the wild wild west, somewhere at an equal distance from LA and NYC.... Omaha Nebraska.
The good side of being in such a remote place is that i escaped the blackout on the East Coast.
Ah the midwest... the most interesting thing was the trip from DC which took me 27h, 3 different buses, screaming kinds and the most boring country side ever....
from Cleveland (check your maps people...) to Omaha, there're just cornfields... endlessly...
I dont ever, never want to see, eat, smell of cornbread, sweetcorn, popcorn, cornflakes... ever again.
The major feature of the landscape (exept corn field i mean) is.. american flags... here, there, everywhere... really spooky...
Now, the people... here in the middle of nowhere.. sorry America, they do look like they're coming straight out of a Jerry Springer show... I'can hardly undersand the accent of those folk, and even if I sound mean and narrow minded, when i do understand, i wish i didnt.
They're so suspicious of black people here that it's actually funny...
do I seriously look like a mugger, a crack add it or something?!?
Because people are always asking me, frowning and hands on the hips, what (the heck) i'm doing there, what (the heck) i'm looking for etc...

Might sound like I'm having a horrible time but actually it's all the contrary...
I came here to see my sister. The fact that my sister lives in Paris is totally irrelevant... we love that kind of meetings in the familly...
Between observing the exotic habits of the inhabitants of the area and the swimming pool... it's all good!

back to my rest chair now.

Ideas on Ideologies

2008-04-29T18:16:00.004+01:00

Working in the area of Gender as an African women has really got me thinking about "isms", "ists", "ies" and "mnt"

- patriarchy
- racism
- empowerment
- ideologies
- activism
the list is long

I work for a feminist organisation because of my affinities with the work they do: the defense and promotion of human rights for African women, but i am not sure i am a feminist.

I went to a feminist meeting and i came out thinking just like Latoya at Racialicious:

" if feminism is about women and is race neutral, why do I still feel like such an outsider? Feminism is supposed to be a refuge for women, but the kind of woman I am is marginalized or not represented at all. So now what?"

I don't know yet

La Plume Verte

2008-01-21T19:45:00.000+01:00

Atelier d’écriture, Lomé 5 Mai 2007

Contraintes :
~ Un texte poétique
~ Un moins un couplet et un refrain
~ Mettre l’accent sur la sonorité même si au détriment du sens
~ Si possible in chiasme à la fin du refrain

L'inspiration: les quelques semaines passées chez Gran'Maman, ses chats, et sa peur de les voir disparaitre de sa cour pour apparaitre dans la sauce des voisins...

La Mémé monomaniaque

Mémé monomaniaque manie la manivelle
Mamie mémère mélancolique
Mêle pêle-mêle à la moulinette méthane et méthyle,
Mélange maléfique, mais elle s’en moque :
Mémé affamée est de méchantes mœurs

Refrain :
Méchante mamie
Mémé mérite une camisole molletonnée.
Mégère mélancolique aux méninges misérables,
Mémé morne merovingienne
Mijote une merveilleuse merdique mélodie.

Miaou miaule le matou de la mémé.
Miam miam fait la mamie matant le minou.
Mielleuse jérémiade mais Mémé s’en moque.
Mollement elle matraque la minaudante miniature de Méphistophélès
Et la mange goulument, mélangée à du manioc, la mie d’un pain et demi et la meilleure des béchamels

Refrain :
Méchante mamie
Mémé mérite une camisole molletonnée.
Mégère mélancolique aux méninges misérables,
Mémé morne merovingienne
Mijote une merveilleuse merdique mélodie

Quel malheureux ménage que Mémé et son matou matois.
Le minou est maté et matraqué.
Mémé n’est plus affamée mais migrainée
Mamie à la mirette de musaraigne
Muse sur la mésaventure du miaou-miaou couleur miel qu’elle a rétamé

Ah si Mémé avait pris ses médicaments !

Letter To Father

2007-09-17T16:15:00.000+01:00

Dear Dad
It's hard to believe 7 years have passed since you left. It's feels like an eternity. It feels like yesterday.
For a long time i was angry and bitter and self-destructive. If you had ruined my life as i knew it, as i had planned it, I refused to rebuild.
Well intentioned people told me to pull my socks off. Time would heal the wound. You can't grieve forever. Get over it.
Well intentioned people, who've never experienced loss, for most part talk rubbish.
Off course you can grieve forever. Off course the pain doesn't feel so raw. But it doesn't disappear. Nothing fills the void. No one fills the void.
I waited for a phone call or a card for my birthdays although i knew it couldn't be.
I resented (and still do sometimes) "complete", "whole" families no matter how dysfunctional.
You broke my heart.

I went home last year for the first without you. I've just come back.
I had my first hands on experience of the whole NGOs and development business in Africa. You were right: it is messy, it is incoherent and sometime (often) harm full, it is frustrating. And just like you, I can't stand by and do nothing.
I'm working with an African Women's charity now. We've got everything to make our life difficult: Women, Black, speaking out on gender-based violence and talking about accessing positions of leadership!

I'm better now you know. I worry for the little sisters but that what big sisters do I guess.
I think we're doing more than OK. I think they are doing great. But that's normal they are my sisters. It has been hard but we've managed.We are stronger than we thought we were. And we have each other.
I wish you were here though. I wish you could see the person I have become and be proud of me.
I went home. Where i was born, where you are buried.
I went on your grave.I didn't remember the road was so steep. I didn't remember the cemetery was so small. I didn't remember the trees were so tall.
It took me nearly seven year to realise you would never be coming back.
I'm not angry anymore Dad. Not so bitter. I am trying to grow. The void is still there.

Unsettling settling

2007-09-11T17:17:00.000+01:00

I haven't posted anything for the longest while. I have been lazy but i have been very busy. Really busy. Starting a new job, commuting to and back the new job, settling into the new job, house-hunting, moving into a new flat, buying furniture, moving into new offices, unpacking at home and at work....
In the next few weeks when i have an Internet connection at home I will be able to post the content of my Togolese notebooks and rectify the fairly bleak image i seemed to have painted of my time there.

In the mean time, being a London girl is no easy task:

In the train at peak time one morning, a handsome man dressed in a sharp grey suit, white shirt, grey tie, with a leather brief case. I'm already fantasising about our lavish life style in our £1 million property.
Ticket inspectors come aboard and ruin my imaginary romance:
Prince Charming didn't have a ticket and got fined.

Last week in the bus, sitting next to a dashing, no ring on his left hand, young man, reading!
My heart skipped a beat.
And another
He was reading Diametics: The Original Theory" by L.Ron Hubbard, founder of the Scientologist Church.
I do read Science-Fiction but I am not ready to make it my religion.

More geographies of home: Modern African

2007-07-05T00:49:00.000+01:00

I've been back in Europe for a little over a week now and suffering from culture shock.
It's hard being in the minority again even if since we are so conspicuous because of our skin colour, now in France we have become the "visible minority".
A few days back and I'm finding it hard dealing with French racism: brash and aggressive. At least the British keep their meanness to themselves and get on with it.
Maybe it's because I'm coming back from "home" that i find it hard to shut up and brush the humiliation off.
Saturday, I went with two of my sisters to the birthday of a relative in Neuilly, "ghetto chic" of Paris: the wealthiest borough of France they say. Four generations of relatives present, Black, White and all sort of Browns. African food and champagne. We had a real good time.
Which ended the minute we left the building. In the street: eight Black young people and already a (White) woman commenting very loudly "they are invading us".
The walk to the underground: the streets growing quieter as we're proceeding, pedestrians crossing the street to avoid us, people staring and whispering. A wall of hatred we all physically felt .
Stark reality check. Of course I'm not a person anymore, since I've stepped back into Europe I'm a Black Person. More melanin, less humanity. Guilty until proven innocent of being inferior.

I didn't realise how much of an identity crisis I was going through until I went back to Togo.
How much my soul was weary, how mentally tired i was of living as a Black Person in the Diaspora.
In Togo I wasn't a Black person! I was just a person and it felt good just being a person.
Being me in the place I was born in but didn't grow up in hasn't always been easy. I got questioned about what kind of African I was, having spent so much time in Europe was i actually still African.
I spent weeks thinking about it, thinking about me; over-analysing things and myself (as i tend to do). The answer came while I was spending some time in villages around my home town of Notsè. Places where when you introduce yourself you give your name and the place your family comes from.
Places where I remembered i belonged to a lineage, a history and a geography.
Places where people were grateful to me because i had been away but I was back.
Places where they made me feel it was OK to be like them but different because our world in Africa has become bigger as the same time people in the West thought their world was shrinking into a global village; OK to re-create, re-new and re-define what it is to be African.
Places where I realised taking in the new/different doesn't necessarily mean giving up the old/home.

Yours truly: Kékéli, Authentically Modern-African

Debout, les cheveux dans le vent

2007-05-31T20:11:00.000+01:00

Sur RFI coincée dans les bouchons de Lomé. L'interview d'une jeune femme noire vivant en France. Sa conclusion: "c'est pas facile de vivre le cul entre deux chaises". Et le présentateur de glisser: "autant vivre debout et les cheveux dans le vent".
J'approuve!

Hard to translate humour...
Coincidence: received an mail from a friend about identity yesterday, and the answer to his question came through the radio this evening. Sometime just being is enough. The answer to being painfully "sat between two cultures" might be living standing tall, enjoying the stoke of a gentle breeze

Ghana at 50

2007-04-27T19:07:00.000+01:00

I could have been Ghanaian if the French had not been so keen on "maintaining their area of influence" in West Africa, synonymous for pissing of the British really. In the end, Britain got gold, and cocoa, the French created us.
Was in Accra a few weeks ago. A 3 hours and a world apart from Lomé.
They have roundabouts which is in my eyes the epitomy of progress! Roundabouts and three lanes freeways and a rather positive story to tell 50 years after gaining independence.
Of course they have slums next to gated communities, cocoa and coffee farmers are not getting a fair wages. Although they are doing much better economically, there is poverty and inequalities in Ghana just like in Togo. But the one thing that makes Ghana different is the dynamism of its people: they get up and try while we sit and wait.
Accra was joyful and busy and it was a nice change from sleepy and depressed Lomé.

An anecdote: I met a in two separate occasions, two young white girls (British and Australian) straight out of university, and each time we got talking about Ghana. Each time the same conclusion about Accra: too busy, too developed, not like the real Africa enough.
You just got to love those white liberals coming to Africa ready to "save" us, expecting to see naked indigenous living in mud houses, and getting a real shock when they discover TV sets in people's houses. The myth of the pristine savage still lives strong. In the mean time, us in Togo are really looking forward to the day we'll have made out bit of Africa less "real" and a bit more developed.

Curiosity killed the cat

2007-04-04T20:22:00.000+01:00

Didn't feel like writting for the past few weeks, so i just didn't.
Lazyness and the sheer inability to grab a pen or sit in front of my laptop.
Too much going on in my head.
On my "discovery journey", i felt like I had discovered just a little bit too much. I know things i'd rather not have known about life and myself.
What do i do with my findings?
More things to try to make sense of.
This cat's trying to stay alive!

Rain clouds

2007-04-04T20:20:00.000+01:00

The first clouds announcing the first rain of the rainy season.

Photos 1

2007-04-04T20:10:00.001+01:00

A little before and after the harmattan (a few weeks when the winds blows from the Sahara) from my bedroom window

My Aunt (Part II)

2007-02-08T13:28:00.000+01:00

My aunt goes to church every morning at 6.30 before going to work and on Sundays. Before that, she makes devotions at home in front of shrine to the virgin. She prays with ostentation. It makes me smile because from what I remember from the Gospel is that Jesus clear dislike for that kind of attitude. But hey Jesus is dead so I guess people don't have to stick to what He said… I'm no going to get started on religion and Christians in particular because it is one of my pet hate. I wont say a thing on the reigning hypocrisy, the judgmental attitudes, and in the case of some Born Again, Pentecostals etc…, the hijacking of God who find Himself reduced to signing pre-death salvation insurance contracts the minute someone stands up in church and declare "I'm saved", forfeiting His right to the Last Judgment, renouncing His own words which say that salvation is an ongoing process (if God is really that cheap I'm not interested would be my stance). Nothing on the unbelievable dogmas, the far-fetched interpretations of texts, the gilt-riddling message of the Roman Catholic Church and the self-hatred that comes from never being good enough (we're already born stained and then the Devil/free will -same thing really- are thrown in the mix just to make things that little bit more interesting). I won't say anything on religion except that I kind of like what Jesus actually said. He's on my list of cool and misunderstood people.
So, my aunt at home in the living room has a shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary. A shrine that makes me think of the voodoo shrines of the Haiti or Brazil dedicated to Yemanja, goddess of beauty and rivers. There's a tall statue of the Virgin, an abundance of white and blue cloths, flowers, rosaries, holy water in a phosphorescent Mary look-alike container, incense, pious images and a candle burning all day long. I wrote once an essay on African religions in the New World and how slaves used the Christian pantheon to camouflage their African deities. I'm not sure of how to interpret my aunt shrine though. She'd rather die than admit any link with voodoo because as she said many and many times, it is the worshipping of the devil. I cooked up little explanation: she is coming from one of those costal dynasties created by free black Brazilians returning to set up their own trade in slaves. These returnees must have come back with their syncretic religion of Christianity and African religions. Back here they got "re-christianised" or “de-Africanised” by French Roman Catholic missionaries and the second layer of meaning of the syncretic New World’s religions disappeared, leaving us with the weird kind of Catholicism my aunt practices. Funny twist of history really.
My aunt says she is a Christian, but it is very ironic that she would lack so completely what I think is the basis of Christianity: charity.
For my birthday she offered me a piece of cloth and ask her seamstress to make me a dress out of it. A couple of weeks later the seamstress came back with the dress and asked for her fee. I had to pay for my present.
My aunt resent me for staying with them for the duration of my stay here. No direct attacks, just a continuous stream of little humiliations. From not allowing me to dish my own food and counting herself the pieces of meat I’m allowed, to forbidding the maid to wash the plate I use to eat but letting her do the washing for every other member of the household, also forbidding the maid to wash my clothes or run my errands even though there are no such restrictions for the rest of the family. Sly remarks on my hair, my clothes, what I do and how I do it. I never say a thing.
I take a deep breath and think to myself: if Heaven is populated with Christians like her, please God let me go to Hell.

My Aunt (Part I)

2007-02-08T13:10:00.000+01:00

My aunts never smiles. She’s always mumbling to herself, complaining about one thing or the other. And she is stingy with money, love and food.
I don’t care much for the absence of smile, or the constant bemoaning. One of the things that it is getting to me is the stinginess. Because it means that often I go hungry. And it’s not because the family finances are tight (she‘s a program manager for a foreign NGO, my uncle runs his private hospital), it’s just because my aunt is stingy to the point of meanness.
Right now, after lunch, I am still hungry. They don’t do breakfast in this house, and lunch was a meagre plate of left-over casserole. The solution will be to send someone buy me some food later on. Things aren’t’t so bad today though because we have fruits in the house. A very rare occasion indeed, because they tell you fruits and vegetable make you fat. Not eating white rice 5 days a week though. I’m craving vegetables. Spinach, aubergines, carrots, leeks, green beans, you name it, I miss it. It here that for the 1st time ever I ate a Djollof rice without any sort of vegetables in it. Just rice cooked in tomato purée. What happened to the cabbage, the carrots, the peppers? I'll never know…
We eat our akoumé (sort of polenta made with corn flour and staple food here) nearly dry because the stew must last for a few meals even if it means adding water to it to augment quantities (and killing most of the flavours).
I felt uneasy at the idea of buying my own food and cook it for myself but after today to the hell with inhibitions. My body is already telling me I’m lacking vitamins and minerals: I’m having bad cramps in my legs at night, I'm thinking magnesium deficiency.
Buying my own stuff for my own use will perfectly fit into the system already in place in the house: the husband gets steaks and vegetables, grilled fish and fruits, the only son gets whatever he wants, the teenage girls (who barely eat anything anyways) 2 cousins living here and me get rice, cheap meat cuts, tripe (cant stand the smell, taste or look of it… on those nights it means eating plain white rice), skinny chicken wings and feet. Missing my mother’s cooking, my guardian’s Italian cuisine and the little dishes I’d cook myself miss tasty creative food. missing food prepared with love .

What I actually do (Mail From Lomé to London)

2007-01-20T18:57:00.000+01:00

Once again I'm cutting and pasting...

Hiya

At last the long awaited mail to let you know what i'm up to in this God forsaken little place.I'm not doing much although it might sound like i'm busy saving the Earth!!
One thing to start is I don't know if Togo can be saved since the President is the Antechrist!!! seriously the man was born on june 1966: 06/66 and people say he was born on the 06/06/66....
I'm on the process of getting a small and symbolic promotion: from intern to assistant project manager on the child trafficking project. I'll know monday for sure. It would just mean loads of reading to catch up on the child trafficking situation in Togo and what had been done etc. It would be a welcome change because some days i just seat at my desk and watch flies pass by. I've knocked at all the doors at WAO's headquarters to get something to do in vain. People dont seem to know how to delegate.
Up to now, I've participated to a seminar on capacity bulding on children's rights and protection addressed to security forces, customs officers etc...I've translated WAO's newletter (11 pages in 2 days....), brainstormed with the ECPAT representative for french speaking West Africa.
2/3 days a week i work as a youth worker in the Centre de l'Espérance, a transit camp for children and young girls victim of abuse or trafficking. There were 17 of them friday but as i was leaving for a meeting i was told that 10 kids coming from Côte d'Ivoire were on their way. In the Centre I supervise playtime, conduct interviews with new kids, participate to the reintegration of some in their famillies, try to make people understand what child trafficking is and some people really don't have a clue that they're actually selling their children when they send them away with strangers to unknow destinations to do some unprecise type of work for an unknown amount of time in exchange for a small radio player, a bag of rice and some soap...!! Poverty indeed but my question since coming here is: can poverty rob people entirely of their morals and principle?
Sometimes the days are frantic but since the festive season it's been fairly quiet and i've even had time for an occasonal under the mango trees in the afternoon.

Last but not least I'm Global March representative in the Togolese Human Rights Defenders Coalition (CTDDH). It's a grouping of NGOs working in the field of human rights including Amnesty International.I was sent for a meeting and I thought i would be a one-off thing, but I found myself coopted to be part of a "redynamisation" commission because as a chauvinistic tosser said, I was a woman, and women all learn to type at school don't they? We are just 2 women among 17 people, and since my colleage is off sick for a month i'm on my own, and i'm going in a couple of weeks to be alone with 30 odds men to participate to a week long workshop. I hope there will be women speakers...because being a women and being young is no easy task here where it is the oldest man who prevails.Was very disappointed when AI general secretrary, a young man of 30, after 3 professional meetings felt free to ask me to stay in Togo for good so we could make a life together as a couple!! Men are so corny really.

Other than that, Togo is a funny little country... Sometime I start wishing we actually were Ghanians...From the moment you get up you have to start to fight and argue: to be charged the correct fare when you get a cab, to be respected by the policeman who has to stamp your passeport, even crossing traffick at at red light involve shouting and being shouted abuses at. If all this negative energy was channeled towards doing something more constructive maybe we would stand a chance. In the mean time we're crawling backward.

Anyways Happy New Year to you again because the new year here really start the 13/01, bank holiday to celebrate the miraculous survival of the former president after the crash of his plane in the 1960s, and occasion for a military parade. There were banners saying: "we thank you president for your humility and the efficiency of your actions". You've just got to laugh...We've got plenty bank holidays coming: 24/01 when The former president regained the capital (the crash was in a small town inland) the 02/02 ( i think it's surviving an other coup a different year), 24/04 (an other failed coup i think by Ghanians actually) etc... Seriously they all look even more like a joke since the man who fixed those ridiculous holidays is now dead.When i'll be President my birthday will be bank holiday, and yours too if you want. The people will love me because i'll distribute money on those days just like they do here....
This is a very long email so i will stop now!! Let me know what's going on in London etc...à bientôt
Kékéli

The Coconut

2006-12-16T13:39:00.000+01:00

Today as i was reminding my 14 yeart old cousin that Africa is a continent and not a country, she started shouting that I was a coconut, I didn't know anything about Africa, and all I could do was to come here as a tourist and criticise.

It always pissed me off to hear " go back to your country Africa". If you've been to school you should know it's a continent compsed of many countries.

What upset me wasn' t so much the bit about Africa being a country, not even the bit about me being a "fake african", something i've heard many time. Going to the white man's school and land robbed me of Africanness. Being in favour of democracy, questionning the fact that "a black child is stubborn and the only way he can learn is by being beaten", also disqualify me as a real African.

What upset me was being rejected for telling the truth. Africa IS a continent. That much I know about Africa.

People who stayed know the guilt those who left for different not necessarily better shore, feel. Denying the returnees the feeling of belonging is I suppose due to resentment, a feeling of having been left out, a way for those who never left to reassert their own status face to some hypothetical threat posed by the newcomers? I don't know I'm no psychologist.

I am expected to go along and pretend all is fine here, and things are so drastically different in Africa, I need a different set of morals to appreciate things. It is normal there are no roads because it's Africa. It's ok not to have electricity for 16 hours a day because it's Togo. I'm shocked by the hypocrisy of it all. And shocked that only if i stop pointing at discrepancies than I'll be reinstated as an African. Because it seems the real African does not do self-criticism, doesn't try to assess what needs to be improved, doesn't do anything to change the status quo. In that light, our neighbours in Ghana and Benin are not real Africans either.

If I wanted holidays I would not have bothered coming back to Togo I wanted to tell my cousin, there are much nicer places to go to. I criticise because I want things to change and I cannot live in denial of the obvious. I'm not pretending to be more than I am: someone who have a lot to learn on all things Togolese, and willing to give a helping hand wherever I can. But if things are so good here that none of the contribution the million of Togolese abroad can offer is needed at all, then maybe I shouldn't have bothered coming back after all and neither should they.

From Lomé to Wales

2006-12-04T17:12:00.000+01:00

Since I wrote all i've been up to in an email to a friend in Wales, and time's running out, I'm cutting and pasting.... pictures coming soon.

Hi there
Hope they dont read our mails but i think they can check where people go the most, forbid access to some websites etc... they also know where people are using phones!! on the screen of your phone your location shows and changes according to where you are.
(State control on access to communication and apprently the reason why there's no plans to implement high speed access to the Internet for example. In the week leading to the presidential elections last year, no calls could get in or out of the country. Now that's an achievement...)

Work is interesting although some time i just sit around reading and som days im out all day looking for children's parents, double checking their stories, going to the police to get children who've been brought in because of abuse or domestic violence, going to visit families where there's a suspected case of abuse etc...
I'm off tomorrow to a town inland for some sort of training but don't know what will be going on yet. Spending a lot of time observing and gosh... people in the West have no clue of what kind of help people here need and how to deliver it. But then most people in the West don't have a clue about Africa.

I think it's been actually way warmer than 27° for the past couple of weeks !!! the weather is changing and the wind from the Sahara ( the Harmattan )is starting to blow so it's a bit cool in the morning (23 ish ) and scortching hot at midday (35 37)

Missing england some time but not too much yet!! missing vegetables but i think it's just the cooking in the house who's different from my mother's cos i see loads of vegs at the market but just not in the pot!! my aunt is kinda stingy so i think that's why... Eating pounded yams and some polenta type of hard porridge made with maize and we eat it with loads of different stews, too much rice for my liking (but that's because i'm from the bush... im more the porridge thingy or yam type of girl.. it's sophisticated people who eat rice)
I'm at the the moment with my doctor uncle and he's not the one with the cook and the luxurious house but on the + side i've got the company of my cousins (25 19 14 12) and it's actually quite nice to have a house full of people i can talk with.

Dont go to church but my aunt does every morning and the youngest kids on sunday. But it's funny how as the country is growing poorer churches and mosques are mushrooming... i guess it's because the message is that in the next life in heavin things will be different, and it's undertandably tempting. Quite a shock to see women wearing the burqah just like in Birmingham!!! That's quite new and shows how far and fast radicalised islam is spreding. Same deal with End-of-the-World type of churches very popular and i'm not down with their tune either

As i was too tired to do anything saterday night, spent the evening of my birthday at home with my cousins watching Miss Ecowas (Miss West Africa basically). Quite a long way from the Michelin starred chef owned restaurant of last year, but still very enjoyable.
The event was publicised big time and it was held in Lomé because here is a country where peace, stability and democraty reign... but the venue was empty. I guess people saw through that one!
The show was tacky, the musicians all sang in play back, the camera crew of one kept on giving us stills of the empty stage of shots of random people and the for the girls.... Miss Nigeria was quoting the Bible like no tomorrow to tell us that the role of a woman is to submit to her husband (we booed...) an other girl said that polygamy was a practice to be defended because since there were more women than men, it gave all women the chance to be housewives!! (we booed too... but she actually won! 2 25kg bags of rice, a few expensive cloths to makes dresses with, some money, and the chance of meeting our President the next day...).

Nice to be home, where i'm not even a black person anymore, just a person among a lot of people looking just like me. The other day the cab driver didn't even pick up the fact I was just coming back from abroad (sometime my rusty Mina give away the fact i havn't been here for a while) and I was quite chuffed!

That's the latest new from far far awy geographically and culturally

On the field

2006-11-26T19:02:00.000+01:00

Until end of january my schedule will be 3 days in WAO Afrique transit centre, and 2 days in the offices. I've started work on wednesday at the transit centre, a place where young girls victims of violence or abuses stay until they can reintegrate home or placed in foster homes. The youngest girl at the centre is 8 years old. She is here because while she was placed as a servant with relatives, she stole an egg because she was hungry. Her employer burned the tip of her 10 fingers.
I've spent these first few days getting familial with the girls at the centre and their stories(15 at the moment but they can accomodate up to 32), participating to a few staff meetings, observing the day to day running of the place. I was worried I'd get bored since the first two days were fqirly quiet, but friday afternoon, I've participated to my first rescue mission. A case of child abuse was reported to the centre, and we went to the child protection agency to collect a girl who had been severly beaten by her uncle. We went back to the centre we logged her story in the files, the nurse checked her and then we were out to the girl's house to get some clothes and school stuff. There was confrontation with the family who tried to follow our car to the centres location but thanks to the chaotic traffic in Lomé lost our trail.

I wasn't all that familiar with the area of child abuse and here I got to dive straight into it. Very distressing stories, and many of them. Here the fight for the right of children is nowhere as advanced as in Europe and ther US, but then again neither are economical and political structures and if there one thing I have learned in the past few days, it is that the two issues are intertwined. It is economic desperation that sees parents sending to town 8 years old to work as domestic servants. It is the same desperation that drives an educated man to beat his daughter with a heavy pestle (used to ground maize or pound yam) because she's a "witch" and caused him to lose his job and the means to feed his family.

Much more to come on this topic, my rantings on NGOs, the state of Togo today but i'm in a cybercafe and running out of time.

1st impressions of Lomé

2006-11-18T14:17:00.000+01:00

It is hot.
I was expecting Lomé to be humid and hot, but not this hot.
Picking up the phone and dialling numbers makes me break a sweat
Towelling myself after a cold shower too
so I don't do a thing.
It is HOT.

Il fait chaud, vraiment très chaud.
Je transpire a grosses gouttes au moindre geste alors je ne fais rien!

I had forgotten how sweet pinapples really are. I was bracing myself for the usual tang that comes with the canned stuff, instead it tastes like honey but nicer. Canned pineapples are only good for piña coladas anyways.

J'avais oublié que les ananas étaient sucrés! plus jamais les ananas en boite à part peut être pour faire des piña colada

Just like I discovered in Tai Chi classes, it is very hard to slow down and adopt a slower pace. Here things happen "soon", "later", "in a while", tomorrow. It is difficult to adjust when coming from a place of here and now.
Six years on, things havent really changed in Lomé, or more accurately things havnt changed for the better. The city is looking shabbier than ever. Wednesday I experienced my 1st power cut. The electricity went down at 6 pm on the dot and i ended up helping my cousins do their homework under the light of one of those rechargeable lamp. The electricity goes out every other day or so exept for the weekend I have been told, and each neighbourhood at a different time. Wednesday it was from 6pm till 2 am, Friday it was from 8 am till noon. Consequences of old and decrepit power plants, and the country's unability to pay its bills to the neighbouring country producer of energy.
Things havn't changed really

Ici on fait les choses plutard, demain, bientôt. Débarquant d'un monde ou tout se passe maintenant et tout de suite, ce n'est pas facile de ralentir la cadence.
Lomé ne s'est pas améliorée en 6 ans. Les choses ont l'air un peu plus miteuses a vrai dire. Le seul vrai changement sont les coupures de courant un jour sur deux. Il parait aue cela fait quelaues moi que ça dure. Chaque quartier voit son alimentation en électricité disparaitre quelques heures a tour de role.
Je me suis retrouvée a aider mes cousines a faire leurs devoirs a la lueur d'une lampe tempête mercredi soir car il n'y avait plus de jus de 18h à 2h du matin , et privée d'éléctricité vendredi de 8h à midi. Comme dis mon cousin, le Togo est un pays en voie de sous développement.

At The Movies: The Departed

2006-11-11T11:00:00.000+01:00

Went to see the last Scorsese The Departed yesterday. I was quite looking forward to the movie, having seen some pretty exciting trailers. It turned out to be a remake of the 2002 Hong Kong thriller Infernal Affairs, a movie as it happens, I watched on tv tuesday night ( wednesday morning 12am till 2 actually).
In an interview, Andrew Lau, the co-director of Infernal Affairs, said very diplomatically that Scorsese had made the Hollywood version more attuned to American culture.
What he meant is that his psychological thriller had been dumbed down into action movie.
The Departed is also longer (friends I went with and hadn't seen Infernal Affairs pointed out the fact that it dragged a bit), more violent, and sex scenes were thrown into the mix ( I will not even get started with the treatment of the female characters in The Departed, let's just say women seem to be treated better in Hong Kong) . The Departed is a less subtle, less atmospheric, not as visually stunning as Infernal Affairs (great photography and I usually dont even notice stuff like that).
Once I realised I was watching a remake, I really tried to enjoy The Departed. I thought Scorsese would have made the movie his. Great performances by Mark Wahlberg and Leonardo DiCaprio, Jack Nicholson his usual self, interesting soundtrack. But I just could not get over the fact he made a nearly scene by scene and word for word copy of Infernal Affairs.
But then again it might be my fault, what was I doing at early hours of the morning watching a brilliant and original Chinese cop movie in Cantonese with subtitles? I should have known a remake was on the way. After all Hollywood doesn't create anymore, it just snatches ideas from the world over, "americanize" them and distribute them at a watchable hour.
I should have just gone to bed.

Loose Ends

2006-11-08T14:19:00.000+01:00

Should have been in a warm place right about now but instead I am sitting in a near empty flat that just wont get warm enough, with a lousy internet connection because my internet provider got their dates all wrong and they're telling me I'm lucky I still have a phone connection.
I am starting to believe thing happens for a reason, especially this delay in my traveling schedule (caused by a South-African gangster.. long story). Yesterday evening I finally tied some loose ends. Had I traveled as planned, I would have left with wrong impressions, false hopes, unfinished business. Now I can go away and really mourn, and celebrate, and start a new chapter without too many regrets.

Lost Without Translation

2006-10-16T21:45:00.000+01:00

Traveled to Liverpool for my last interpreting assignment at the Women Hospital. It is a funny thing to be the middle woman between two people who need to deal with each other but cannot understand one an other. A bit like the filling in a Custard Cream biscuit.
This last job could not have been more different from the first one I did. It wasn't about recounting a story of abuse, death or desperation, although I guessed from a few words here and there that the young woman story wasn't an easy one. Alone, recently arrived from north Togo, she had an appointment in the ante-natal clinic to run some tests and determine when the baby was due.
I assisted to her ultrasound, and saw with her for the first time the baby's face, fingers and toes. I have been involved in other intimated moments while interpreting
(the most memorable until today being translating the modus operandi of masturbation from a fertility doctor to a middle aged man. I've discovered that a lot of people assume that because a person doesn't speak English they also must be dim-witted.)
but nothing as amazing as seeing a baby in a womb.
It was harder than usual to switch emotions off once the task accomplished today. She told me before leaving how things seemed daunting at times, and how nice it had been to speak to someone who could understand her. For the next few weeks , especially around her delivery date, I'll be wondering what will become of this woman and her baby, and their new beginnings.

History and Geography

2006-10-11T13:23:00.000+01:00

Today I meant to write about the fact that i have received my open ticket from London Gatwick to Lomé leaving the 07/11, and how I have been taking a day off doing anything departure related because the chase for the the cheapest, as direct as possible, valid one year ticket has left mestrangelyy exhausted. Or how preparing to move this time around is so much complicated than 5 years ago when I crossed the Channel my own Rubicon. Or something that would have to do with the realness and the imminence of this new little adventure of mine. Basically, a topic in line with the "true" reason for starting this blog: keeping in touch while I am away.
Instead, I'm continuing what I've been doing from post one: breaking the only rule I'd set to myself of not writing about anything personal.

After calling my guardian to tell her the news of my departure, I started thinking of my family history. I never liked explaining it to people. When I was little, I would have had to say: I live in Paris with my white guardians and one of my younger sister, and I have parents and two younger sisters living in Burundi/Togo/RDC wherever they would be at the time. 2 sets of parents, 3 sisters.
Now if I were to give a complete picture, I would have to say: I leave in the UK, my guardian lives in Paris, her husband died in Peru, my sister also lives in Paris, but not with my guardian; my mother and my two younger sisters live in greater Paris, my father died in Guinée.
Of course don't give the complete picture, I just say I live in the UK and the family is in France.
For a long time I had only limited contact with my "African family", meeting relatives while on holidays in Togo, or a few awkward visits in Paris from un familiar Uncles and Aunties.
Since, I have discovered the two very different and feuding segments that compose my African family. We use to think of it as a Romeo and Juliet type of story: the Proud but Modest family living in the village (my father's), versus the Proud and Well-off trading family (my mother's). The hinterland versus the coast we would hear.
Things fell into place one day while researching on the Slave Coast of Africa. The well known fact of my father's people being transported throught the Middle Passage, and suddenlly, my mother's family name in a history book, recorded as traders of other human beings. Unlike the writer Ekow Eshun, I am not shocked because the clues were there all along: how else an old family could have made its money on the coast of West Africa?
The past lives on and fosters dislikes and inimities generations on.
Going home in a few weeks means going back to all of my family, their histories and my human geography.

At the Birmingham Book Festival

2006-10-10T22:24:00.000+01:00

Tonight event: Writers without borders: Identity: Our writing World. Poetry in English, kiKongo, Ndebele, Farsi, Croatian, Urdu and Jamaican patois + music. Sounded interesting.
Tina reserved the seats; Rico, Ellen and Vanessa joined in.

Too tired to put anything in any real shape or form so I'll just more or less reproduce what I scribbled in my note book during the course of the evening.

The literary scene in Birmingham is small, nearly a year since I went to any literary event but same familiar faces still. White middle class and Black "conscious" Nubian queens and Dread Brothers. With my Afro today I am right in my element.

Some poets are better read than heard...

Why does identity related writing so often is so bleak?

After a perfomances from an Enlightened Sister Sue B
That is it! I will embrace the cliché my hair style seems to suggest: African Queen, Nubian Princess, Lesbian Black Panther if I ever cut my hair again.
Oh Erykah B, you've spawned so many lookalike, wannabes, caricatures. Renegation of ourrhythmss of life, fighting miseducation, breaking the bond of mental and spiritual slavery she says. I must be too cynical and "sold out" because I'm not impressed nor moved. I've heard way too many times that commitment to the "cause" that doesn't go beyond a few laborious verses and the "alternative" clothing. Would the poetry get as much applause if it was not for the frail, light skinned and dreadlocked Sue? Her yellow, red, green bubble is not mine. Mine is all shades of grey.

Our row composed of Rico, Tina, Vanessa, Ellen and Ireallyy ruined a performance. A sax player, a dancer, a poet: an improvised piece. A white woman screaming with different voices "I have an identity"and wildly gesticulating, pulling her cheeks (!) for more than 3 minutes. I'm stunned, I'm giggling, tears streaming, loosing my breath, rocking the chair. How awful of me, i know but I cant help it. I look around: Tina and Rico are laughing uncontrollably, Vanessa and Ellen are trying to keep it cool with some difficulty, the people behind us are laughing at our reaction, the rest of the audience is dead quiet. The sax is screeching, the white woman is loudly imposing her identity on the audience. We are laughing, and resisting at the same time. I have an identity too.

Romeo and Juliet and Reality TV

2006-10-07T20:19:00.000+01:00

Just watched on TV and a saturday night Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet as performed by the Birmingham Royal Ballet and a group of young people from rough parts ofBirmingham, who underwent classical training from 18 months. An other reality TV stunt I thought, and didn't bother watching any of it until last week, the penultimate episode. Rebellious youths, tragic personal stories, big egos and the discipline of ballet... it made for great drama. It turned out to be more of a documentary than yet an other reality TV show.
In terms of numbers, the experiment wasn't a a resounding success: of the 200 young people who started, only 60 made it through to the end performance, and except from the satisfaction of performing a challenging work in front of family and audience, there was no other reward. What did they take from 18 months of interesting and enjoyable at time I'm sure, but more likely tedious and repetitive training? How does it feel to be back to everyday life in middle England without the support coaches and youth workers, and a hefty dose of encouragement? That could be a documentary even more interesting than the original installment but I have little hope of ever seeing it made.
I'm not sure the project would have worked if it wasn't for the choice of a play ane troubled teenager could relate to: Romeo and Juliet, the most famous of family dramas, which can be read this way:
I like him/her/my Goths friends/hard rock
the parents don't agree
everyone in the family gets involved
I'll get shackled up with the unsuitable boy/girl friend/study music instead of dentistry/pierce my eyebrow just the same
they don't understand
I'll make them regret, I so want to die
I die/ go away and make it big and never speak to you again
they/parents/rest of the world/ spend the rest of their lives regretting/being green with envy
who's laughing now?

Real grown ups gloss on the inevitability of Fate, the use of deception and it's consequences etc... But the "yobos" and I know better: for once the kids got the last word and the opportunity to make everyone feel as miserable as they did.
Every teenager's dream.

All Clear

2006-10-05T19:41:00.000+01:00

Nth visit to the hospital this afternoon.
Since Fall 2003, hospital appointment have been a recurring event in my diary.
Right ankle, left knee, neck, left knee again, right ankle again and finally right calf.
Surgery, x-rays- MRI, physio, more MRI, more physio, Ultrasound and finally re-surgery.
But now it's all over. Today was my last visit to the hospital. The knee pain is here to stay, the ankle will remain kind of stiff and with time the calf's swelling will go down and wont hurt as much.
The brand new second hand me has finally received the "all clear".
The last obstacle between me and Lomé (Togo) has been removed.
I've been thinking about going away, talking about it, but now I am going. The wheel is at last/already in motion.
Driving back from the hospital, I felt stunned and overwhelmed and quite sad. I could only think: That is it then. Up-rooting again, leaving well threaded streets and relationships behind. Getting ready to be alone and lonely again. Why? What for?
Not yet gone but already missing people, and places. A sinking feeling on a rainy day.
Physically "all-cleared" but mentally and emotionally still in need of treatment. Maybe until I have been and come back I will remain a patient of my inner psychic ward.
In a few weeks I will have given notice on my flat, sold my car, put my stuff in storage, and be on my way to Togo for anything between 6 months and a year, to do charity work.
That's big news... even/especially for me.

Boobie Trap

2006-09-26T14:56:00.000+01:00

I've realised this morning while I was getting dressed that I've got big boobs. Not that I never noticed before (duh!), but because they're part of my anatomy I tend to forget about then, in the same way I forget I'm wearing glasses because they're always on my nose. I have big boobs, huge, ginormous breasts.
When I was a teenager, instead of cute pastel colored cotton bras, I was stuck with white synthetic grannies stuff because the other alternative: lacy sexy grown up stuff was not deemed appropriate by my somewhat (very) prude guardian who, because bras for larger cups women were expensive, had me at her mercy. I was fine with my bigger-than-the girls-in-my-class breast, until the "it's immodest/to big to be decent/ it's too womanly/it'll attract undue attention and lead to your downfall" remarks became too much to bear, and I wore nothing but oversize tops for a while.
But big boobs can only be hidden for so long, if only because they are staring at you all the time, jumping out of your chest, and after getting rid of a few hung ups, my boobs and I are happy together having replaced the granma stuff by a collection of colourful (black is a colour) and lacy bras .
There are the odd days when I wish they were smaller so I could wear those cute low cut, backless numbers that only (in my views) a smaller chest can do justice to, but that wont stop me flaunting my cleavage. I've discovered ugly bras make beautiful cleavage!
Oh that cleavage... attention seeking cleavage. I guess it's that slit in the middle that attract the eye. I've seen some men drool, some trying their best to look me in the eye and fail (brownie points for trying though), I've been ask for cuddles, I've been groped (in the underground in Paris, the train in Italy). I attract children to me because my néné's big. I am "comfortable" and huggable they say. I've even been advised breat reduction surgery by an aunt of mine because she said as if revealing a secret: you know your breat are big!
At least I'm proportionate is my silent answer. Big hair, big eyes, big breast and big ass and if you continue bugging me i'll be big mouthed too.

Reality check

2006-09-25T18:19:00.000+01:00

Today is the collapse of me.
been good at pretending it didn't hurt. Or didn't hurt too bad. but today I cant pretend.
Too weak to distract myself. Wild thoughts going through my mind cant erect barriers.
tears streaming and all the rest of it. So ridiculously cliché.
today it fucking HURTS.
I should have seen it coming but I just didn't thoughtI could not crack this time round. Hold it all bottled in, stored away until it would just be a memory.
why does reality always has to come bite you in the ass when you least want it or in this case need it? todayI cant deludee myself, cant pretend im ok, im over it or whatever pleasant bullshit that makes me believe im strong, in control.
I've closed doors and now im banging my head on those damn doors. wish i could go back. kinda. not really.I dont know. would be easier. wouldnt be so lonely, or lost i think
oh well.. onward and upward in a trail of tears.
at some point i'll stop being miserable, and angry for feeling miserable in the mean time, all i can think of, all i can feel is how much it fucking hurts

The Day My Father Died

2006-09-17T14:05:00.000+01:00

The day my father died
I could not cry;
My mother cried,
Not I.

His face on the pillow
In the dim light
Wrote mourning to me,
Black and white.

We saw him struggle,
Stiffen, relax;
The face fell empty,
Dead as wax.

I'd read of death
But never seen.
My father's face, I swear,
Was not serene;

Topple that lie,
However appealing:
That face was abscence
Of all feeling.

My mother's tears were my tears,
Each sob shook me:
The pain of death is living,
The dead are free.

For me my father's death
Was my mother's sorrow;
That day was her day,
Loss was tomorrow.

Mervyn Morris The Pond, 1973

Post Betrayal

2006-09-09T18:32:00.000+01:00

Want to trust again. Me. You. Us.

Want to stop my mind going back over and over again to that moment when my heart sank.
Want to get back to the surface of love and not drown in the murky waters of jealousy, anger, bitterness and doubt.
It's been a while, but today everything reminds me that you hurt me.
A comment on the tv, the shape of clouds
the taste of a square of chocolate.

Today I don't have much faith. In me, you, us or the rest of humanity for that matter.
People (some) say:
It's all pure and simple
It's black or white
If I were you I wouldn't... If I were you I would...
Experts of all sorts, are you any happier than me?
Do you follow your own advice?

The tale of my real fairy life:
Dirty and complicated
All shades of grey
As I am me I will.. do whatever I decide to, change my mind and change my mind again.
Whether I trust you, us, again only time and I will tell.

Tomorrow I will have faith. In me, you, maybe even the rest of humanity.
Some days, everything reminds me of how much I love you still
a comment on tv, the shape of clouds
the taste of a square of chocolate.

Here we go then...

2006-09-08T12:00:00.000+01:00

This is me. Haven't changed much since that picture was taken. The eyes are still mischievous, the cheeks still baby-like and I am as curious and opinionated as when i was 7. Only have more doubts, more questions and less satisfying answers. Not sure why I've created this blog but I guess in time things will shape themselves out.
It feels a bit odd and very self indulgent to be claiming a space dedicated to dear old me and whatever happens.

I don't know what will happen here. Bits and bobs, thoughts and rantings, whatever crosses my mind at the time. Work in process...