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." 

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

What is love?

Yep, we all know that dreaded word: Love. Them feels. Butterflies. Whatever you want to call it. Well, I guess maybe I'm the only one who calls it that...

Is it weird that, I don't believe that I'll ever meet somebody. I mean, I take a look at my 27-year-old cousin and he seems mildly attractive, yet he isn't married yet. Okay, yes he does have a girlfriend but it's still a scary thought. I mean, I always envisioned myself by the age of 30 married, with maybe one kid or a baby on the way. I envision myself with a handsome, loving, caring and somewhat goofy husband with a respectable job who will love me unequivocally. Isn't that what all women want?

As women, we are constantly comparing ourselves. Whether it's to our gorgeous best friend, or to a random acquaintance or celebrity. I suppose I just take it to the extreme, what with my dwindling self-confidence that shrinks whenever I look in the mirror. Perhaps my awful looks, my below-average personality, terrible laugh that resembles the mating call of a walrus and general awkwardness scares many men off.

What is love?

Well, love is that mushy sentimental feeling you get when you see that special someone and you get those annoying butterflies in your tummy that make you want to throw up rainbows. 

Or maybe it's that feeling you get when you rip open the plastic cover on a brand new video game, taking in the fresh yet musty stench of the plastic box and running your fingers across the bumpy cover and staring lustily at the cover picture?

                            ***

Maybe love is that weird feeling you get when you wake up all dreary-eyed and dazed in bed next to the sleeping body of your lover whom you probably don't recall ever crawling into bed with or ever offering a drink last night at that New Year's party of your old college buddy who you never really liked but decided to pitch up anyway cos he said that there'd be booze and old chums whom you haven't seem in a while?

Love is when she turns to you and smiles and tells you that she had a great night yet she doesn't remember your name but you look at her, I mean really look at her, and you realize that she isn't as beautiful as the alcohol made her seem, her voice isn't as pleasant as it was in your dreams and her touch isn't as sensuous as the alcohol made you believe...

Then she gets up and takes a shower in your shower. She comes out, naked, hair soaking wet and the stench of alcohol wafts through the air. You stare at her. She stares at you. 

"So...can I like, have a towel?"

"Over there, on the couch."

"Thanks."

She sashays over to the brown armchair and grabs your towel. You look at her. And then it hits you.

Love is when you look at her and she looks at you and at that very moment you realize that she's not the one for you. You stare at all her imperfections and realize that she's not the way that you envisioned your first time to be. She's hardly the woman that mother would want to meet and she's hardly the type to introduce to your mates but still there's something about her that just holds you down. And now, at this moment when you stare at her and realize all this then you know what love is.

Love is when you don't care what the other person's faults are, whether their stinky or if they aren't the most attractive person on the planet. You'll look at them as if they could do no wrong and they're virtually perfect even though they really aren't but you keep on believing that they're perfect anyway because you stutter and can't find the words to say about how much they mean to you or how much their very existence affects your own. 

But for me...I guess...

Love is that weird, mushy yet nice and soft feeling I get when I hear your name. The mere thought of you sends me cheesing. Sometimes you make me angry as hell and then I feel like ripping your throat out or cutting off your circulation, then spending the rest of my life searching the world for oxygen for you. Then I think about it and I mean Really think, and I realize that I would not be able to find oxygen perfect enough for you to breathe. 

                    - "Crazy, yet emo."