Thoughts of An Alcoholic Schizophrenic

Continuing to grapple with feelings of discomfort and agitation around everyone. I wonder, if I Google these symptoms, I'll come across a new mental illness to diagnose myself with.

Everyone is in the other room having lucid conversations yet I can't even muster up the courage to say one word.

I used to wish death upon others. When I was younger, I mean. Back when the veneer of self-assurance sparkled before all outsiders. Back when my love of art was greater than my love of destroying it. Before I had discovered John Green and the miraculous world of self-diagnosis. You should try it sometime. It's very therapeutic.

Ironically, I was happier when I was more outwardly depressed. At least there was a glimmer of hope at the end of that tunnel. Sure, the idea of kissing a cold bullet terrified me but I was always reassured by the image of  blood trickling down my arms.

I long to return to that time. Back when I had less friends to appease and more expectations for myself. Now I'm firmly convinced that a stranger will find me curled up in a ditch somewhere: naked, emaciated and best of all, alone.

I'm sorry that I'm so awkward and choose to remove myself from the current conversation. It's just that I get so worried that I'll leave a negative impression within your mind(specifically that little corner dedicated to storing Polaroids of first impressions of people). Now that my departure from Botswana is imminent, I have become increasingly attracted to the idea of physically attaching myself to the few friends I have. My over attachment could be seen by some as endearing, a natural side-effect of switching continents. Shame they don't see it that way. No. To my friends, I'm acting like an overly-attached girlfriend.

Gah. Too many words. There're too many words. On this page. I'm not writing an essay. I'm simply writing my feelings down. For you. Because you're all that's keeping me sane at this point. You're that angelic voice at the end of the tunnel, calling me towards a serene afterlife. Or are you just a dream: an apparition, a figment of my drugged self conscious? I wonder, if I stab myself with this pen, will I actually bleed? Or will you lay your 'healing hands' upon the burst vein and 'stitch the skin together with the power of love?'

Bullshit!

You'll just stand there and watch me bleed out won't you?

I’m sorry if I seem uninterested, or I’m not listening, or I’m indifferent, she sings—But really, I would rather be at home all by myself.- Alessia Cara

simply titled: a short story

It wasn't the high-pitched beeping of the alarm clock that woke him up: it was his mother. Her soft yet annoying pokes in his ribs were getting to him. Outside, a cacophony of orchestral chirps flowed through the air.

"Wake up sweety, or you'll be late for school," they chirped.

Funny how they sounded just like his mother. He had long since learnt how to block out irritations and obstacles by ignoring them completely. And through meditation. Cain loved meditating. Almost as much as he loved the cool kiss of the shower as he stood under her head. That's what he loved: feeling the icy touch of pure recycled water trickling through the leaky shower-head and into every crevice of his being. He often stood silently as the water gushed out sporadically, enjoying the churning sound and rattling of water against metal.

His clothes were almost always laid out for him. He never wore them. Somedays he felt like taking a felt-tip marker and writing poetry across the front of his shirts. His mum would often freak. His walls already resembled the insides of a halfway house, save for the pastel pink that glowered beneath the lines of Cummings and Plath. They had wanted a girl. His parents. He decided to wear blue today.

Breakfast was a tedious affair. Cain always found it easier to smile and nod throughout his mother's fussing and his father's grunts and sports commentary. Cereal: the usual. After the pleasantries, he would retreat to the bathroom to wage war against personal hygiene...and his mother, who was always armed with a new Afro comb and conditioner. He always won these battles. His mother never knew what to with his hair and ultimately retreated to his father.

"It's no good Eli, I just can't tame that man. We need to find him a good barber, preferably one who's similar in tone."

Drives to school were tedious. He preferred to skip through those conversations in the car by skipping through songs, or reading a good book. Reading was always good. Much better than listening to his dad prattle on about which box he should tick on forms when he gets older, Once he got to school, Cain slipped into the group of individuals he called 'friends.' They weren't particularly close per say, they just shared a few common interests and their parents (well, Cain's dad) all grew up in the same neighborhood. If anything, they hung out together because no one else wanted their company.

Cain hated his teachers. They were all the same,. Condescending white liberals who thought that they could take a crack at indoctrinating 'poor' inner-city kids. If they took a glance around the class, they would see that the minorities were in an even bigger majority, with most being upper middle class. Cain tended to only speak when spoken to and even then his comments were met with enthusiastic 'Well done's and awkward handshakes.Everyone seemed to think that he was either a nutjob or mentally handicapped. If only.

Cain's favourite lesson was English because he got to read peacefully for half an hour if he finished his work early. He always did, not that his teachers would care if he didn't. They always let him do as he pleased in that lesson, for fear he might jump out the window. Again. Lunch breaks were the worst because he didn't know where to sit, or rather, he didn't like where he sat. Cain had the awful dilemma of being stuck with a group of people that he wasn't quite sure that he liked. Today he sat with them anyway, piping up occasionally when they asked him a question. They were discussing the slaughtering techniques of butchers and whether or not this meat was kosher. 'God, if I wanted a whiny commentary on the rights of cows then I would've sat with the vegans', Cain thought. But he kept this thought to himself. He often did.

After pumping enough pills in his throat to rival that of a frequent addict, Cain went to the football field. He so detested these social gatherings. What fun. Watching a group of overgrown meat-heads bashing into one another, their veins pulsating eerily from all those steroids injected into them. Exuberant cheers filled the stands as the home-team scored. Sweaty supporters rose and shot their arms into the air, releasing their heavy hot breath around Cain. He felt boxed in. It didn't help that all these greasy ne'er-do-wells rubbed their sticky limbs against him. Their clothes clung tightly to their skin, darkened in areas where perspiration had accumulated. Cain eyed the particularly sticky back of one of the girls in front of him. It glistened in the sweltering October heat. Tiny hairs jutted out from the sink holes between her spine and shoulder blades. Her tight tank top revealed no trace of the ever visible bra-strap. Sudden;y, a deafening buzz thundered through the stands. The home team had won. A sea of arms and legs and faces and hands and smiles and laughs rose from the stands. The rancid stench of vomit also wafted through the air, as one of the away team members retched violently.

Navigating through the sea of limbs, he found his bag underneath the stands. It had been toppled over and was decorated with suspicious dots of sludge. Cain reached inside and dug out his Polaroid camera and his medication bag, A shuffle of pills accompanied the roar of the crowd. He took two this time. Angling the camera, Cain took a snapshot of the chaos on the field.

"Savages," he mumbled.

***   

Through The Lens

My dislike for the strong influence that pop culture has on our society is a topic that is very dear to me. I clutch my opinions tighter than a woman holding the last little black dress at a discount sale. However, nothing has angered me more than the portrayal of women in this plethora of entertainment mediums. More often than not, we find that women are either portrayed negatively or berated for their ‘illicit’ behaviour by some sexist guy in a music video. We even find that they are praised for acting promiscuously and are even encouraged to do so. Today I will peel away the greasy layers of some of our top pop culture phenomena: music videos and their lyrics.

I recently underwent the excruciating torture of viewing a new rap video: ‘Coco’ by O.T. Genesis.  Seriously, I have never rolled my eyes so often in four minutes. I think I may need corrective eye surgery, along with a mind- wipe like they have in Men In Black. I have never seen a larger show of blatant objectification of women since a Lil’ Wayne video! This video (which is apparently the ‘made-for-TV’ version of the original video), depicts the usual buxom women squeezed into microscopic white bikinis, shaking their posteriors lewdly at the cameras. Keep in mind that this display of more skin than a nudist commune was approved by the big wigs at television stations. The cameraman went to great lengths to tape those women from every possible ‘flattering’ angle, crudely taking shots from the ground looking up as they passed by and zooming into their assets. One girl even ground her backside vigorously against the rapper’s pelvis. Definitely not made for TV. We hardly saw any of their faces and all that I took away from the video was: 1) I need to attend Sunday mass to cleanse my soul and 2) That was a terrible song!

Not only are the videos horrendous and demeaning to us, the lyrics leave much to be desired. Amongst the proverbial racial and homophobic slurs, gang violence and drug selling, therein lies a mix of lyrics about treating women like whores, objectifying them, insulting them and encouraging them to ‘throw that thing round for my boys.’ Whatever that means. Hip Hop culture in itself is a juxtaposition. We ask for more rappers with deeper lyrics yet continue to promote the ones who brag about how many women are waiting in their tour bus. It’s disgusting! It makes us appear to be loose creatures with low or no morals that jump from man to man.

It disgusts me how we women are treated as mere sexual apparatus in music videos. This is very prevalent in rap videos from all generations, though it seems to have gotten worse over the years. With the advent of twerking, rap videos have made a mockery of women across the globe. As more rappers hit the scene and gain more and more success, more and more clothes are stripped from women in videos. More and more women are disrobed of their dignity in said videos, and with that, any shred of respect that the outside world may have had for them. Now if we see that same video vixen on the street, she will be met with cold stares from other women and leering men. Often times these women choose to become video vixens, I would assume, for financial reasons (although in this day and age, they could just be ‘expressing their sexuality’).  According to HipHopWorld.com, video vixens are defined as being ‘Hip Hop Honeys’.                   

"What makes a Hip Hop Honey?

To be a Honey the female must be physically extremely beautiful, educated, confident, simultaneously insatiable and demure. A vixen doesn't need a man to get her the finer things in life, but expects it on the strength of her beauty, and love alone.  A vixen is a woman full of curves in all the right places and a style always befitting. A vixen is beyond a show piece. She is what makes the item sell in a culture that is dominated and driven by sexual presentations and money."

Never before have I associated video vixens (or ‘Hip Hop Honeys’) as being educated and demure. Demure suggests that they are reserved and composed, a far cry from the gyrating, oiled-up bodies we usually see. Sure, they may be demure in real life but I would hardly guess that from seeing how they are made to behave on screen. For all we know, that dark-haired girl in Rae Sremmurd’s video could have a degree in Law from Harvard or is currently studying to be an engineer at MIT. The negative portrayal of these women leads many to think that women are actually like that in real life. We’re not. Far from it. At least I’m not.

We do not waste away our days mindlessly chasing after men, then draping ourselves over their arm in the VIP room of a club. We do not aspire to appear naked to the world, shaking everything moveable on our person. We do not want the views of a certain group of rappers to be accepted as the universal truth for all women. I do not oppose the idea that women can’t be sexual beings. We embrace our sexuality and to be berated universally by sexist rappers infuriates us. Why do these rappers continue to harangue the very beings that brought them into this world?

I am not a video vixen, ho, bitch or chick. I am a woman. And no, I will not twerk for you.

-"Throw Sum Mo!"

Why I'll Never Meet Anyone At The Gym

Gym dating: the easiest thing in the world. You just walk up to guy at the bench and say, "Hey, I need help doing crunches (whilst seductively pushing my chest forward). Would you help me?" He drops his weights and before you can say, 'Steroids', you two are exchanging mouldy leftovers in the back-seat of his car. But I digress.

This idea is absolutely ridiculous! I mean, how do people manage to attract anyone at the gym when your mouth is stretched open like a guppy and there's sweat leaking into every crevice of your body? How do people manage to look so alluring in one layer of ill-fitting spandex? I'm usually buried under three: an extra bra, a tank top that restricts any movement of my torso and a baggy t-shirt that perfectly complements my square figure. I look more like one of those before pictures you see on Herbex commercials than a sensuous, fit sexpot.

And I don't mean meeting someone as in meeting a potential suitor. I mean meeting people in general. How do you make friends at a gym without appearing to be a total creep that breathes on people whilst they do lunges? Mind you, lots of the women I see appear to be prepared for the hunt at gym. They come in all gussied up: full hair (horsehair weave), Kim Kardashian eyelashes, red lipstick, six-inch heels, jewellery and about ten layers of make up plastered onto their  blemish-free visages. Then they do the full runway walk down to the changing rooms in tight pencil skirts, swaying their hips like a dog in heat. 

Now to the point of this post: why I will never meet anyone at the gym.

1. I am probably the most awkward individual ever and as such, I would erupt into a fit of giggles if anyone attractive approached me. In fact, I'd probably be so overcome by the shock that someone admires the way sweat coats my five-head, that I would collapse on the spot.
2. I have no clue how to flirt. At all. The closest I've come to flirting is reading pick-lines off of 9GAG. And even those were shared amongst friends, who gave uncomfortable glances and promptly deactivated their Facebook.
3. For some reason, I have a penchant for making eye contact with complete strangers(then promptly holding that contact until my eyes water).
4.  I flail my arms uselessly on the machines, so I probably resemble a schizophrenic with epilepsy.
5. The idea of making out over the weights (the classic scene) is in appealing. Who wants to kiss some sweaty meat-head anyway?
6. My general anti-social behaviour deters many people from attempting to approach me. 
7. I mean, what else would we talk about? What weights are the best? Where to get the best protein shakes? Can I buy your next workout DVD?

-"Let's get physical."

The Impending Demise of My Self Confidence

It can be said that things only get better in the future, with, of course, the addition of time and work. Can it be so that one can really improve their self confidence or will these things fix themselves over time? Honestly l may be reaching but I've felt this coming for a while now.

Here I am, sitting in the library with 3 boys who are also up for the MaP US scholarship. I have hardly spoken to these people in the past 5 years(save for Tawanda who is actually my friend) but now I feel as if we are forced to interact with each other. (Mr Taylor says that we have to become a family. Yeah, don't force things which are unlikely to happen).

Everyone is poring over SAT books and discussing their futures. But here I am, typing this message and not having any clue as to what I'm going to do in future. I mean, what hope is there for someone like me, who's rubbish at Maths and even worse at the Sciences. I currently have an ACT book open on the 3rd page and I still have no clue what any of these words mean. I have to start thinking of what AP classes to take, what subjects to devote more time to in regards to my future career. I also have to consider what life will be like living with a complete stranger in the bed next to me. I need to contemplate how to arrange my study times and "me times" so that I can avoid people as much as possible. But I also need to consider how to make friends who are somewhat sane but not complete snobs who require a "token Black/Exotic African". 

Grappling with feelings of inadequacy are on my to do list of things to conquer. Overcoming my impending diagnosis of depression and Social Anxiety Disorder is going to be a lot harder to overcome. How will I be able to cope in "the Real world" with all these grown up things like filling in bank details and taking out a loan? I swear that if I have to stand in line at a bank and reach the front, I'll cry. Better yet, I might just break out into a sweat and collapse on the spot. What's going to happen when I have to find a job and shit? How am I going to apply my awkward personality to something that requires brains-which I don't possess- and a strong business acumen. 

I feel as if I'm just letting everyone down. It's not that I'm not appreciative of this opportunity to go study overseas, it's just...ugh. It's a strange mixture of both fear and excitement (and relief). I am expected to know what I want to be at this point. I'm expected to understand the ins-and-outs of the American education system or the system of the country that I wish to study in. 

Here's an example of people who know what to do with their lives:

(Excuse the shitty quality of the picture)

I'm hoping that this stay overseas will better me as a person and all that other corny shit. I'm also hoping that it will help me figure out what I intend on studying. Here's to hoping that I don't subsequently kill myself and have my decaying, drug-filled corpse shipped back off to Zimbabwe. 

        -"Let's look at this from my perspective: I hate you."

The truth about Form 5

Well, it seems that it's time for the obligatory 'Freaky Friday'. The time when we Form 5s have a free pass to terrorise the younger masses and publicly shame ourselves. As usual, I won't be participating in the festivities (BECAUSE REASONS), and I'll be deemed a spoilsport by my peers. *internal groan* I can't seem to please these people.

In all honesty, I already know how this day is going to go. The event is going to be dominated by the popular, talented kids who think they're talented. There's actually not many people who can sing in our year, which is really sad. I mean, we'll obviously be dominated by this rap group thing it whatever called Team BDub who'll most likely rap and make me feel uncomfortable and or embarrassed for my generation.

It may be my inability to conform to society's expectations for people like me. I'm supposedly supposed to fit into the archetype of the stereotypical silent weirdo who doesn't have many friends because she's a social outcast, therefore lacking the basic social abilities to survive. The programmer will be as follows: dancing, dancing, dirty dancing, rapping, irrelevant videos, more dancing and likely even more dancing. Having already witnessed some of the stuff that creeps out from the recesses of our minds, I'm actually rather terrified.

The truth is that our year is separated into cliques. We've all been assigned these cliques from Form 1 and even new students soon adjust to the agenda. We all know our place but occasionally different social groups do interact. Like animals in the wild, we occasionally cross paths and share territories but that's about it. The problem is that half of our year hates/dislikes the other half. It's really quite depressing. Again, I'm able to observe this from an outsider's view.

We have the Popular crew which in itself is divided into various subsets. We have the aforementioned Team BDub, who I really don't understand. A group of make individuals who engage in various activities, mainly rapping, music and occasionally art. They even have their own shirts. I'm not sure whether to interpret this as a form of arrogance but I for one would love to have my own shirt.

We have the popular girls who are constant presences in social media(particularly Instagram and Snapchat). They also tend to be overly dramatic and extremely beautiful. They work in conjunction with the popular boys and serve to make my adolescence an awkward and uncomfortable life stage. Then we have that odd group of popular individuals who attempt to transcend the social norms and be more...deep. In other words, they go on about The Fault in Our Stars; blabber about their supposed intrinsic yet extremely superficial view of the world and claim that The Weeknd is the best thing to come to our virgin ears.

Then there's my group of friends, ranging from awkward stereotyped nerds who surprisingly are rather popular, and insecure girls with good tastes in music. Needless to say, with these groups of individuals all on stage there'll never be a dull moment.

-"That pussy kill be so vicious."

People are places are things

I'm never fond of writing titles for posts before I actually write them. I feel Like it takes away from the general idea of the post and I end up getting writer's block because I feel like the title isn't an accurate enough decision if what I wanted to write. 

I'm currently listening to albums online to decide whether or not to torrent it. Currently I've downloaded FKA Twigs, Neutral Milk Hotel, Wild Nocturne, Kelela, SZA ad several BIRP! albums over the past weekend. 

I fell incomplete and inadequate. Like the world doesn't quite understand the eruption of emotions occurring inside of me. I feel like my friends feel like in pushing them away and the truth is that I might be doing that on purpose. Like a child who has grown tired of their old toys, I have grown tired of the tedious interludes of life. I can never seem to compare to other people, especially my friends. Their achievements far outshine my own and I'm sick of it. 

I want to feel like I'm an integral part of someone's life. Everyone seems to be capable of living without me and I just want to feel special. I suppose that that's rather selfish isn't it? I mean, you can't expect someone to feel like you're their world and expect those sentiments to be reciprocated across the board. 

I crave a physical connection with someone. Particularly an emotional connection that transcends from the emotional to the physical, like a metaphysical hand reaching out of their soul and touching yours.

Could it be possible that I'm growing tired of my friends? I strive to make new friends of a higher social standard to feed my life's ambition of feeling like I can be somebody. And to be somebody I have to turn my back on the people who have groomed me into the person that I am today. I suppose it is rather selfish but I see it as sparing them from pain. 

I mean, we're all going to go our separate ways at a later stage and it seems inevitable that our friendship shall whither away like the flowers at my grandmother's grave. As we speak, I am being shunned by my peers and I feel downright shitty about it. 

I mean, people need places to go and just be alone. To reflect on the day's happenings and mishaps. To register the embarrassments made in front of people who we used to hold dearly, our chests, heaving as they glanced in our directions. We need somewhere to go when we want to shun out our peers in a way that is noticeable enough to attract the attention of our friends so that they can comfort us and give us attention. 

People need other people to pay attention to us. We need them to comfort us and to hold us when we cry. We need them to talk to us about stuff that distracts us from our inner turmoil. As we speak, I'm listening to two girls gush over boys and their strategies of how to get dates for Leavers'.

I feel rather out of place. Like the centre piece of a jigsaw puzzle discarded under the bed from a Family Game Night many nights ago. I feel like no matter how many times I read, new words will never sink in. Everyone else's vocabulary seems to be improving and morphing into some fascinating new phenomenon that only hipsters would understand. 

I suppose that nobody understands me. And nobody ever will. 

Welcome to The Afterlife

Welcome to the afterlife

Where things are not as they seem

Where the lives of the living 

Play out like reality TV

Where the nuances of mortality

Become a bitter nostalgia

Where the seraphims and cherubs are at war

Where the righteous are separated from the  flock

Where the segregation is worse than that on earth

Spirits: separated by their humility

Demons: separated by their humanity
And us
The forgotten.

Below we watch as mortals gather
Clutching cheap plastic plants
And uttering phrases that don't matter
For they are living and we, are not
 For here there are no feelings
Of tenderness or sympathy
No longings for the former life
We reluctantly had to leave
Down there, they pretend to care
And utter vague descriptions of your favourite sports
How you were always there
They vaguely recall a time
When you displayed your talents brilliantly
Not knowing that those talents were,
To you a mere necessity
A formality of existence
A compulsory facet to your character
Prescribed to you by your family.

Behold! They lay wreaths upon your grave
The classmates who failed you
Who ridiculed your outer being
Who pushed you aside in the hallways
The parents that never understood
Who let you slip away between their fingers
Who watched silently as you withered away
A skeleton, wasting away
The teachers who wrote reports
About how you refused to conform
To participate, bow before
To kneel when they walked through the door.

Your shortcomings were critiqued
Your mediocrities assessed
Your confidence shattered
Your achievements compared to those of others
And yet they called this education?
The slaughtering of innocents
Of nights spent reading textbooks
Under the cover of darkness and
Eyes red, minds numb, hearts broken
Bones broken, confidence crushed, friends lost,
Drugs taken, brain cells lost, enemies gained,
Talents hidden, achievements compared,
STUDY. PASS. CRAM. PASS. RELAX. FAIL.
RINSE. REPEAT.
STUDY. SMOKE. PASS. CRAM. DRINK. FAIL.
RINSE. REPEAT.
SMOKE. DRINK. CRAM. FAIL. CRAM. CRAM. CRAM.
SMOKE. DRINK.
INHALE. EXHALE.
INJECT. INHALE. SNIFF. CONSUME. DIGEST.

And before you know it,
You're dead.
Just like the rest of us.

My World (and other pointless observations)

I've gathered that chickens aren't very bright.

People expect you to lead awkward conversations.

Music instantly livens up long trips.

I want to drive endlessly, just listening to music from my favourite artists and never arriving at our chosen destination.

I want to travel. 

Around the world. 

With someone.

And we can drive around these small towns in South America, chatting up locals and listening to their strange tales about the country. 

Then we can try the local cuisine: deep-fried insects; marinaded bushmeat; assorted leaky, rubbery vegetables; meats adorned in spices of the world and of course: rice.

We'll explore the countryside. 

In a busted up little red truck with dust collected in every crevice of it's exterior.

And then the car breaks down but we hitchhike a ride from a passing vehicle driven by a local who doesn't speak a lick of English. 

It will all be so deliciously dangerously inviting.

And then we'll return to our dingy hotel room that we found on the Internet and I booked the tickets even though you advised me not to.

And then we'll make love or fuck, depending on our mood.

We fuck.

Then after that, we'll eat unhealthy junkfood: naked whilst watching Latin-American soap operas in Spanish, laughing at each other as we attempt to untangle the web of lies sewn by the attractive daughter.

We'll visit historic landmarks and take dozens of pictures of ourselves pulling faces and kissing in front of statues.

Most of these won't be posted online, as my insecurities cause us to have a fight and not talk to each other for the whole night. 

In the aftermath of our fight, I realize how stupid I was.

I turn to you and run my nails down your back.

I apologize. 

You promise to take new pictures, with us dressed in all black.

You turn to me and pull me close.

And this time, we make love.

                  -"XO".

The Unappreciative Cancer Survivor

(On another note, please go and enlighten yourselves and read my friend Mzwai's amazing short story http://hellopoetry.com/poem/852957/an-open-letter-xanax/  :) )

OK, so I'm reading The Fault In Our Stars and I've reached that part where she's looking up Caroline Mathers and reading about how strong she was in her battle against cancer and how much of a good person she was. It got me thinking: are all people who battle against cancer changed in some way? If they survive, do they dedicate their lives to helping others? Are they nicer to their friends? Are they more appreciative of what they have?

Is it possible to live with a disease that is almost always fatal, and still be a bitch to the world? I've often wondered why people get cancer. I've heard that its either caused by external factors or by your cells randomly splitting and mutating. In other words, fate would've dealt a very bad hand in your favour. So it's inevitable then. No matter how healthy you are, your cells may decide to mutate one day and you can develop the worst case of cancer and die. We all have the potential to have cancer, it's just that most often than not, it's the strongest of us who get it first. 

I mean, I know lots of people in my year who smoke and drink regularly and they seem pretty healthy, but my best friend Aabilwe, who was slightly overweight but still healthy, ended up losing her short battle with stomach cancer rather abruptly. For a short time after that I was filled with resentment, peering around at all my peers who smoked regularly, wondering why Fate decided to spare their lives and slaughtered an innocent. A cruel thought, but grief clouds one's judgement.

I felt the same way when another friend of mine was diagnosed with brain cancer. He fell into a slight depression that was infused with melancholic reminders that he may die tomorrow. It annoyed me when he seemed so pleasant at times then unhappy at others. I know that's unfair but that's how I felt. I expected him to be like me and be completely negative all the time and ruin everyone's day with reminders of how i might be dead tomorrow. Of course, he's fine now but the thought that those would've been his last days is rather chilling. I'm not sure if he told the school but I felt special knowing that the case of his health was confined to just his intimate group of friends. It felt personal: intimate, in fact. 

Before my thoughts meander around the bend, I just wanted to reflect on the purpose of this post. I know one person who dogs on TFIOS and I don't blame her. If a person has been diagnosed with cancer, do they really go through an entire life-changing personal reawakening; or do they resent their current situation and proceed to push everyone away so that nobody gets hurt when they die?

If you had cancer, would you learn to appreciate things more or would you grow bitter and angry at the world. It's hard to say really. We can't predict these things. Would a life-threatening experience have the same effect on every person in the world? That's doubtful. There's always going to be those people who can't see behind all the shit and proceed to complain about the shit, instead of actually doing something about it. 

Death doesn't always change people in a positive way, it can always change them negatively. After Aabi's death, I learnt to appreciate things more. I also became a bit more spiritually inclined (as pretentious as that may sound) and began to read more. I just wish she were around to experience this new change with me. However, I'm also the saddest that I have ever been in my life. I'm more negative and my remaining friends think I have depression (a thought, which in itself is rather depressing).

-"I preach optimism but can't actually follow it."

(About my friend who survived cancer, he's doing pretty well. He's still the same person I guess. Nothing much about him has changed and we don't talk about the cancer anymore, at least, not in front of him. We hang out a bit more than we used to but I know he just tolerates my presence. Most of my friends do anyway.)

Book Review: 'Americanah' by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

This is my first ever review on this site, so please don't shoot me. Plus, it's my personal opinion.

We are initially introduced to Ifemelu whilst she's at an African hair salon. She has just decided to return to Nigeria and leave her prospering race blog and African American boyfriend behind. The story of how she got to America is told through a series of flashbacks interwoven into the main story and eventually reaching the present. If you're not too careful, you might get confused but Adichie's writing is fluid enough for the reader to easily follow.

She speaks of traditional African conventions that many Africans can relate to. The love story between main characters Ifemelu and Obinze is both heartwarming and heart wrenching. We get the whole story of how the new guy is supposedly supposed to date her mixed-race best friend but instead has his eye on Ifemelu. So begins their blossoming romance which spans from childhood to early adulthood. 

Obinze idealises America and aspires to study there and live there with Ifemelu. Unfortunately, post-9/11 America refuses to grant him entrance so he sets his eyes on Britain. After struggling to make ends meat and living on an expired visa, Obinze attempts a 'sham-marriage', a common way for immigrants to gain citizenship. He is later deported: shamed.

Ifemelu, on the other hand, seems to fair slightly better in the USA. However, she too finds life abroad difficult. She battles depression that ultimately leads to her losing contact with Obinze and the awful thing is that this all would've been avoided. Anyway, she meets a white guy and they have this lavish lifestyle but she doesn't tell her parents about him, for reasons not elaborated deeply on. She speaks regularly on the racism faced by Black Americans and how she never felt that she was Black until she moved to the USA. 

Without giving much away, this book is absolutely fantastic! I've read very few books that have given me this light feeling. This is mainly because the ending satisfied me, unlike the ending of The Reluctant Fundamentalist. -_-

Losing My Religion

I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel really bad. I mean, I'm conflicted; internally, like Brutus. The cause of my conflict? My religion.

There comes a time in many children's lives when they question their religion. It may start in the tender stages of development, wherein their questions will be quietly dismissed with phrases such as: "He's there. Just know that." "It just is, sweetie." "Because." etc

Then you reach that stage where you're a preteen so you're not quite a teen but no longer a child. Like when you're 12. Then you're a semi-rebellious teen (or passive aggressive, like me) and you start to outwardly question certain things in fits of rage. Now, in my case, (as is the case of a close friend of mine), I tend to bottle up these thoughts and instead choose to sit there quietly in church. Not quite believing, but not quite disbelieving either. 

You see my dilemma? Everyday I pray before I go to bed; pray before I eat and pray for people in need and my friends. I receive conflicting ideologies from my peers, who all hail from different religious backgrounds, if any. I think I'm in that situation that many teens are in: we only belong to a certain religion because our parents do e.g. I'm Hindu by default. 

Now, I'm only saying this from my personal experiences and observations. I do believe that there is a divine power that reigns over us all but I can't outwardly attest to how religious I am. I'm literally the least religious person out of all the people in my group of friends who attest to a religion. I suppose it would break our parents' hearts if we claimed no belief system other than the basic morals of humanity. 

When I adopt my children from foreign lands, I will allow them the basic right of choosing their religion.

I guess that maybe I'm not meant to be part of any religious movement. Even if were Muslim I wouldn't be able to cope with learning an entire holy book and praying five times a day. I can barely cope with the night-time prayer sessions with my grandfather and the prayer meetings we had when I was child. Some people are just meant to exist without any sort of religious schedule. I fear I may be one of them. As a child, I prayed for a miracle like how I read in the Bible about that guy who left the fleece out on the lawn and it remained dry whilst the surrounding grass was wet. Needless to say, my school bag never magically appeared on the bench where I wished for it to be.

At times I feel really guilty because I glorify Islam and its practitioners- romanticising other religions greatly. I mean, if I can romanticise another religion and not find faults in it ethics, then why shouldn't I do the same for my own religion?

Maybe someday I'll wake up and fully embrace and understand my religion. For now I shall just play the role of observer, watching from the outside looking in. Someone once said that fear is the fuel that drives religion. I wonder if he was right...

              -"That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight: losing my religion." 

Make Me White

On a recent expedition to the "ever-present-Indian-owned-herbal-store" with my mum, I came across an expansive range of skin-whitening products. I didn't think to take pictures of the products for fear of being accused of trying to steal the formula and recreating the products at home. Anyway, it made me recall a note I made in one of my recent posts. If I remember correctly, I vowed to start lightening my obscenely dark hands and face due to my own paranoia/insecurity. I would just like to rectify that.

Firstly, I hate my dark shin and I don't want to divulge too deeply into why that is. I reckon if I had the money, I would attempt that experiment that that Indian lady did on the BBC. She basically tried all these different skin-lightening products to see to what extent they actually worked. She found that most of them that didn't use the illegal chemicals actually didn't lighten your skin very much.

Secondly, I'm not going to actually buy those skin-lightening products. I view them as impractical and painting an unhealthy image of how lighter skin is best. 

Thirdly, I know that I'm walking contradiction but I'm just being real. In any case, I'm using natural products to achieve a healthy coco-brown glow, as dark as I am. I'm actually using these products to get rid of dark marks left by blemishes and pinching boys. So far I've used yogurt, turmeric, honey, oatmeal, sugar and lemons to attempt to even out the dark blemishes left on my face. So far, they haven't worked but I'll keep you posted. 

YouTube Narnia: August 2014

Seeing as it's the end if August, I thought that I should post a longer edition of YouTube Narnia. Plus I'll be away for the week so I won't post as much (but when do I ever? 😜). I'll try to queue my posts but I haven't done it before, do I don't know if it'll work.

Happy holidays everyone. Xx :) Stay musically enlightened. 🌌

1. "Two Weeks" - FKA Twigs

2. "I'm Not the Only One" - Sam Smith

3. "Yamaha" - Delta Spirit

4. "Stillness is the Move" - The Dirty Projectors

5. "I Didn't Believe" - Flight Facilities ft. Elizabeth Rose

6. "Paradise" - Breezy Lovejoy 

7. "Boom-Clap" - Charli XCX

8. "Babylon" - SZA

9. "FKA x inc" - FKA Twigs & inc.

10. "XO (Full Crate remix)" - Beyoncé

11. "Lost (Stwo remix)" - Lido ft. Muri

12. "Summer of '69" - Bryan Adams

13. "All Me (Stwo remix)" - Drake

14. "Amnesia" - 5 Seconds of Summer

15. "He Mele No Lilo" - Mark Keali'i Ho'omalu & Kam

16. "Missing You" - John Waite

17. "Therapy" - Moderat

18. "Know It Ain't Right" - M.I.A.

19. "Fuck The Industry (signed Sincerely)" - Solange

20. "T.O.N.Y" - Solange

21. "Lost You" - Zed's Dead ft. Twin Shadow & D'Angelo Lacy

22. "I Blame Myself" - Sky Ferreira

23. "Missing You" - Letters and Lights

24. "Love Me Like You" - Ella Eyre

25. "It Ain't Over 'til It's Over" - Lenny Kravitz

26. "What You Won't Do For Love" - Jessie Ware (the acoustic version is better👌)

27. "Losing You" - Solange

28. "Often" - The Weeknd

29. "BFK" - Freddie Gibbs

30. "Shades Of Cool" - Lana Del Rey

An extract from 'Americanah' by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

This brings to mind an interesting issue: black beauty. In this day and age of skin lighteners and relaxers, the image of pale skinned Europeans has been drilled into our minds as being what black women should aspire to be. I noticed that the issue of race has been brought several times whilst I've been reading Americanah. I strongly recommend that you read this book. This extract mostly deals with the issue of racial identification and the controversial issue of race relations.

***

To My Fellow Non-American Blacks: In America, You Are Black, Baby

Dear Non-American Black, when you make the choice to come to America, you become black. Stop arguing. Stop saying I'm Jamaican or I'm Ghanaian. America doesn't care. So what if you weren't "black" in your country? You're in America now. We all have our moments of initiation into the Society of Former Negroes. Mine was in a class in undergrad when I was asked to give the black perspective, only I had no idea what that was. So I just made something up. And admit it - you say, "I'm not black" only because you know black is at the bottom of America's race ladder. And you want none of that. Don't deny now. What if being black had all the privileges of being white? Would you still say "Don't call me black, I'm from Trinidad"? I don't think so. So you're black, baby. And here's the deal with becoming black: You must show that you are offended when such words as "watermelon" or "tar baby" are used in jokes, even if you don't know what the hell is being talked about -and since you are Non-American Black, the chances are that you won't know. (In undergrad a white classmate asks if I like watermelon, I say yes, and another classmate says, Oh my God that is so racist, and I'm confused. "Wait, how?") You must nod back when a black person nods at you in a heavily white area. It is called the black nod. It is a way for black people to say "You are not alone, I am here too." In describing black women you admire, always use the word "STRONG" because that is what black women are supposed to be in America. If you are a woman, please do not speak your mind as you are used to doing in your country. Because in America, strong-minded black women are SCARY. And if you are a man, be hyper-mellow, never get too excited, or somebody will worry that you're about to pull a gun. When you watch television and hear that a "racist slur" was used, you must immediately become offended. Even though you are thinking "But why won't they tell me exactly what was said?" Even though you would like to be able to decide for yourself how offended to be, or whether to be offended at all, you must nevertheless be very offended.

When a crime is reported, pray that it was not committed by a black person, and if it turns out to have been committed by a black person, stay well away from the crime area for weeks, or you might be stopped for fitting the profile. If a black cashier gives poor service to the non-black person in front of you, compliment that person's shoes or something, to make up for the bad service, because you're just as guilty for the cashier's crimes. If you are in an Ivy League college, and a Young Republican tells you that you got in only because of Affirmative Action, do not whip out your perfect grades from high school. Instead, gently point out that the biggest beneficiaries of Affirmative Action are white women. If you go to eat in a restaurant, please tip generously. Otherwise the next black person who comes in will get awful service, because waiters groan when they get a black table. You see, black people have a gene that makes them not tip, so please overpower that gene. If you're telling a non-black person about something racist that happened to you, make sure you are not bitter. Don't complain. Be forgiving. If possible make it funny. Most of all, do not be angry. Black people are not supposed to be angry about racism. Otherwise you get no sympathy. This applies only for white liberals, by the way. Don't even bother telling a white conservative about anything racist that happened to you. Because the conservative will tell you that YOU are the real racist and your mouth will hang open in confusion.

*** 

-Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Existential Crisis

I don't know how to breath any more. I feel inadequate. Whenever I hang out with my friends I always stand awkwardly to the side whilst everyone else socialises. I usually force myself to feel this way. I believe that by distancing myself from the crowd, I am indeed individualising myself: therefore adding another degree to my personality. Makes sense? No? OK, I guess I have to hold your hand through this...

I started reading a new book the other day. It's rather thick(477 pages to be exact, which isn't very long but the print is on the small side), and initially when I glanced at it, I thought the task rather daunting. I've found myself facing the same issue at the start of every book: the reluctance to begin what I know I can't finish. I didn't have the same issue when I started reading The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid, and finished it in 3 days. It was rather slow in the book, but after the collapse of the Twin Towers, I found myself boiling a cup of green tea and sipping it occasionally as I concentrated and the string of words spread on the pages. When I finished it, I felt empty. Like a piece of my soul had been devoured. That night, I dreamt of it. I dreamt of the events that unfolded in the book, and how I grew to slightly dislike America even more; resolving to carry my chalice filled with Southern African heritage proudly if I were to ever go overseas for uni. 

After stewing over that strange ending for a while and trying to decipher whose side Changez was really on, I decided to take on the task of reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche. I initially picked it up and a copy of Half of a Yellow Sun with the same starry-eyed gaze I give to other books that are made into movies. I was already swallowed into the bustling world of Philadelphia and Lagos and soon forgot all about how thick the book is and how I should probably get started studying for finals. Once I had reached my goal or reading 100 pages in one day, I shut the book lovingly and reflected on the impact that Chimamanda's words had had on me. It soon dawned on me that at this rate, I might actually finish this book in less than a week and that saddened me. 

You see, this book is so amazing that I don't want to keep it to myself. Sometimes, when I read a book that I greatly enjoy, I don't feel like sharing it. I want it to remain obscure so that no one else can come between the bond that the writer and I share. I mean, it's our  special connection and this book brought me through the strenuous tentacles of boredom that were strapped around me during this first week of holiday. However, it's an entirely different story with Americanah. I want to find someone, anyone, who will share the same burning love that I feel for these characters. I want to carry the book to class with me next term and hold it close to my bosom as I walk around campus. It will certainly be a great conversation starter. People will stare apprehensively at its bulking mass and ask me how far I am, at which point I will reply; "Ah., but my dear friend, I have already finished it!" (Obviously I won't be as animated. I lack personality and possess the social skills of a manatee.) Then I will add the fact that carrying this book around makes me feel more secure. 

It comforts me, you know, having a book handy in your bag. Well, any reading material really. Just sticking my hand into the bag and feeling that reassuring lukewarm temperature of the worn pages and the cool cover of the book brings me immense pleasure. I believe that you can tell a lot about a person from the types of books they read. People who don't read, in my opinion, are not open-minded enough. Reading allows you to enter the world of the author for as long as you desire. You meet these characters and share in their life's story; laugh with them; cry with them; fall in love with them. 

If you haven't caught onto what I'm trying to say, then I suggest that you invest in some therapy. Seriously, you clearly don't understand words or people. *Sigh* Basically, I don't want to finish reading Americanah. I want to savour the moment when I turn the yellowing pages of that book and inhale the subtle smell of age. It's funny right? How books always smell like age. There's no way to describe their smell. Magazines smell like carrots and books smell like...well, books.

              -"Knowledge is power"

Dear sweet Ms. Ebony Brown

I loved her.

No matter what I did to please her, she never seemed to reciprocate my feelings.

It was during the summertime. I was wandering through the park, contemplating various colourful suicide methods, when she came along. 

Dressed in a summer dress that resembled the inside of a runny yolk. Hair as dark as the burnt chestnuts I foraged from the fire after Christmas dinner, when everyone seemed to disappear into their rooms and call it a night whilst I remained: sole, solitary. 

And her skin. Fuck, her skin! As dark and as polished as the hood of a vintage mustang that some fat, rich white guy likes to collect and store in his fancy garage in the suburbs of some prissy neighbourhood with a generic name straight out of a clinical surgery. Her pristine outer casing was only shattered by sporadic indentations that would simply be classified as 'blemishes'.

Anyway, I decided to speak to her, for I desired her. I desired to fall into her inky deepness and explore her depths. I wished to experience the intense pleasures of a foreign love which I had never known. I wished to placate her feelings and bear her ramblings of those things that most men fail to comprehend and those which women value above all else. But most of all, I wished to experience the pleasure of defiance; of rebelling against the strict values which had been bounced off my exterior for many years.

When I approached her, she seemed perplexed by my interest in the book that she was reading. Naturally after inviting her for a drink (after which we proceeded to fornicate passionately and repeatedly on the polished wooden floors of my apartment), I made it clear that our love was simply an act of rebellion. A simple move to oppose the social norms of what my race and culture detailed for me. She agreed. I could not imagine that I would ever develop feelings for her.

At the time, it seemed like a practical idea. She would provide me with both physical satisfaction and a regular topic of discussion at family gatherings, while I would provide the perfect companion for her various social gatherings and art exhibitions. However, I failed to consider the omission of personal conversations as 'pillow talk' after satiating my hunger. Sure enough, we began to develop feelings for each other. Thereafter we began to parade our taboo relationship to my immediate family and social groups. When we grew tired of the lack of attention our relationship brought, I proposed to her. The shock and disapproval plastered on my parents' faces served only to fuel the adrenaline rush I felt. Naturally, this sort of relationship could not be tolerated by them, so I was promptly disowned, with my new love declared as a 'blemish' on the family lineage.

We never planned to have children. It all happened so suddenly. After the baby, she feel into a deep depression. Postpartum is what they call it. Doctors said that it may take years for her to recover. After the birth of our daughter, I lost my wife. It's like...we welcomed a new life at the expense of hers. She grew terse every time I spoke to her. Every move I made seemed to annoy and anger her even more. She took to carrying carving knives around the house. At family barbecues she constantly rambled about a new abstract art project she was working on. "It's gonna be big," is what she said. "I can just feel it. I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Look." At which point we were prompted to touch the chicken flesh on her gaunt arms. When asked what the subject matter of her painting was, she would always wave away the person and mumble that "it's something big."

I soon grew tired of living with her. Both of us: the baby and me. We grew tired of her. I once caught her shaking the baby and screaming uncontrollably when she wouldn't stop crying. Our sex life suffered the most. She would not let me touch her; shrinking away the moment I reached out my pale fingers towards her. The rare moment when she did let me into her fortress was riddled with awkwardness and pain. She groaned and cried, and not in the sexy way either. Under the bright, clinical light in our bedroom I could plainly see where all her imperfections lay. The skin on her face was taut and seem to stretch unnaturally under the weight of her bones. She was frail and her skin had lost that radiance which it had once possessed. My skin, which used to pale in comparison to her rich mahogany, now seemed to exude a healthier tan compared to her now unhealthy complexion. I never mounted her again.

I missed her. Despite the fact that our initial pairing was simply an act of defiance on my part, it quickly developed into so much more. The days leading up to the end of summer were times of both distress and frustration. On several occasions she wielded her knife at me. On numerous occasions she threatened the lives of both me and our daughter. It grew too much. For her.

The police said that it was suicide. It was pretty obvious that she had grown very unhappy in those last few weeks of summer. I remember thinking at the funeral, "Why me?" It struck me as odd that none of her acquaintances from the art museum ever showed up. Standing in front of that gaping hole as they lowered my wife's corpse into it really brought the shocking reality that I had lost the love of my life to the forefront. As I stood there clutching our 5 month old, I realized how tiny and insignificant our lives really were. And how lonely I would be now. My family had abandoned me and Ebony had made no mention of any living familial connections.

It was just me and my daughter.

Us against the world.

I threw her engagement ring into the grave. I resolved to take my daughter to a local church and have her baptized. 

-"Elle vit dans ma cœur."