Things I've Noticed Since Going Natural

Having natural hair, I tweeted recently, is a bit like being pregnant. People touch it without your permission and offer unsolicited advice.

A few days ago, I was a little distressed to realize the biggest Afro comb sold by Pak Cosmetics was already in my bathroom, and that I'd wasted my time browsing through the shop looking for the next size up. Distressed, because I'm now in possession of an Afro, which, while still a teeny weeny halo, likes to declare a tug of war every time I try to comb it. While still in the shop, I paused by a row of leave-in conditioners and was startled to feel a hand experimentally rubbing the back of my head. 

''Your hair looks so healthy,'' cooed an older woman with a Caribbean accent while her friend chuckled approvingly next to her. ''Do you use olive oil?''

I jerked my head out of her grasp.

''No,'' I said shortly.

''You should!'' The woman nodded knowingly and walked away before I could respond. 

I have been here before, I thought,  these nameless interactions when someone tugs on my hair for one reason or other. It is irksome because it is one of those things I don't know about until it's actually happened and my hair sticks out in odd ridges. I am baffled how since cutting my hair, others haven't hesitated in passing judgement on it as though I'd personally walked up to them and requested it. Who'd have thought that my hair would trigger conversations that have amused, engaged and annoyed me in different ways. Here are a few: 

- Some people erroneously think that the new state of my roots means I want to join in a collective weave-bashing rant. They go from complimenting my hair to a one-sided diatribe against women who use extensions in one or other.  Jaysus, I get it! Now you may go rant elsewhere. Because here's the kicker: I really don't care what other women do to their hair. It is their business just as my tresses are mine. 

- Interestingly, a few men have linked my hair to a romance gone sour. ''Who broke your heart to make you do this?''
Now I'm generally familiar with the concept happening to others, but, personally it is so alien to me that any time it comes up, I laugh with genuine mirth. I am amused that these men would think there is a correlation between my hair and my relationships. My heart has also never been broken, but thanks for the concern. 

- There has also been the sub-section that subscribes to ''Is this some kind of black empowerment political statement sort of thing?'' 

Oh boy, that old hot potato.

I laughed at this via email to my friend  who also has natural hair, and her response summed my feelings perfectly: ''Nobody goes natural for the movement. It's always convenience first, and then movement or not, it doesn't matter. Important thing is that your mind is liberated and you make the hair choices you want, not choices dictated by any movement be it straight hair, natural, weave, whatever. Hair and physical appearance must never be an albatross. Be whoever you want to be, not what others say you should. As evidenced here, even at your baldest, you are beautiful!''  Dear Debbie, how I love her to bits!
  
- I'm being described more and more as a ''strong black woman.'' Well, hide the razors and call me Samson after our man in the biblical  book of Judges! Pre-natural hair, I already knew I was black and strong, but I was never described thus. In fact, I don't remember a time when I was not black or strong, the people who raised me having nurtured the latter from a very early age. But APPARENTLY, my Afro puff shows I'm made of steel and the sterner stuff of life. 

I jest. Yes, this compliment - and I use the word recklessly - is somewhat in connection with short hair denoting confidence (read strength); yes, it is an acknowledgement that letting one's hair grow in its natural state is a form of acceptance of self, and I can see the strong woman tag in this regard. But for the love of all that is natural, how do you explain a statement such as, ''You look like a strong black woman...but I still wanna dance with you,'' as I had at a club recently? No sir, I will not dance with you, mostly because I need to pee right now - and that line of yours only ignited boredom in my cerebrum.

I haven't a particular emotional trigger that  brought on the decision to go natural, and, considering my penchant for melodrama, I'm almost disappointed. In fact, at the time, in that original email revealing the new look to my two best friends, I wrote: I took out my long rasta (at last!) and I balked at the idea of combing through all that undergrowth. Ebei. I went to the barber instead. So there, the political activists have it. I went natural out of laziness. 

I like that there is beauty in opinion. We all have them. Why, I'm sitting here right now writing mine on my blog, so clearly I'm already smug in the knowledge that the whole world is entitled to my opinion, ha. The point, you see, is that whatever your views, freedom is the ability to choose. 

I am loving my hair as it is right now, however, if next month I choose to go back to Claudine, my hairdresser, for a relaxer or whatever, it will be simply that - a matter of choice.

Hair today, Gone tomorrow

I have been collecting nicknames both from clients and cheeky-natured colleagues since rocking up to work in my new natural crop.

I must say I don't entirely dislike being called 'Foxy D', 'GI Jane' or  'Mama Africa' on account of the new roots sprouting on my shaven head. Nor do I mind being described as 'radical', 'dramatic' and 'striking'. In fact, my work friends have joined me in adding to the list of names I laughingly started when I  realized more 'accolades' would be a-coming as more people saw the new look. There has since been 'very Rihanna', 'doing a Grace Jones' and 'wow, look at those lips!' Hmm...

To be fair, before the chop, I'd sported long, bum-grazing braids. So I can see where this is considered something of a jump.

Of course I've toyed with the idea of cutting my hair before, most memorably last May when my usually benign dad - because what he rendered on my head could only be considered 'malicious', though he vehemently denies this - gave me what I'll call an interesting haircut. Hysterical screams, followed by more hysterical laughter could be heard from the bathroom, amidst cries of, 'OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!' I'd leaned forward and squinted hard at the mirror in the vain hope that what I was seeing was a clever trick of the eye. But trompe de l'oeil, while a great feature in art, is simply non-existent when you will it to be in cold reality. Or more specifically, when the scraggly bits starring back at you testify soundly of good hair gone bad.

Suffice it to say that's the last time I'll ever willingly hand a pair of scissors to my bespectacled old man.

On the barber's seat last week, I found I was the only female getting a haircut. Sam, the barber who has for the past year and half been giving regular shape to my perm cut, was instead charged with chopping the lot off.

Funnily enough, what has taken some getting used to hasn't been people's surprise and pleasure - though I am reveling in both - BUT reacquainting myself with the wide expanse of skin that is my forehead.

Ahem.

Say hello again, world.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Raw

In conversation with an acquaintance recently, I expressed a desire to marry and spend some time as a full-time mother to my children when the time came. She recoiled from me and said, 'How can you say that? I thought you were a feminist!'


How can I say what? That I want to be a stay-at-home mum at certain periods of my life? The thing is, I have always wanted to get married, I have always wanted to have kids, I have always wanted to create a home and nurture the people who live in it. And while I am proud of professional women who smash the glass ceiling to smithereens, it is not anti-feminist of me to express this sentiment toward my domestic arrangements. It is also not to say that I haven't got goals outside of the home.


Feminism has many facets, and for me it is about choice. It could mean a woman choosing to run for presidential office, or staying home to give birth to as many babies as she can give her man (or men). It could be the boldness in making a decision without fearing the conflict it might bring, or simply, the choice of your nail colour. It is not the man-bashing or belittling of men that people have come to equate the term with - which has led to some discomfiture with the idea of a young woman calling herself a feminist - but a devotion to  striving for dignity for women, and an encouragement to men and boys to be respectful towards us.


There is no better day to reiterate this message than today, International Women's Day. I celebrate the phenomenal women in my life who, in their own way, pick themselves off the ground and run with tunnel vision towards the dream that lies within them, for family and country. The women who have taught me that it is not so much about succeeding as it is a willingness to show up and try. The ones who attack life with a ferocity in pursuing the things that matter to them. Those who define the ingredients that make up their 'have-it-all.'


She is right, I am a feminist.


I am woman. When I harbour grandiose dreams of changing the world as a blazing career woman, the other overpowering desire is to gather my husband and kids in a warm dining room and ply them with home cooked food until they are hazy with pleasure. And that's before dessert is served.


I am woman. When I moan about the nail polish chipping off, I still don't give a second thought to plunging my fingers into a piece of fresh fish to bring out goey intestines.


I am woman. When a man makes a leery comment that leaves me fuming and firing a smart retort their way, it doesn't stop me from flashing a flirtatious smile at another one if the desire so takes me.


I am woman. I want to have my cake and eat it. And I make no apology for it.


Neither should you.

Night owls

It is just a little past 1am on Saturday night when you come out. A cool breeze hits your face and provides a refreshing change from the wet heat of the indoors from which you've just escaped.

The burly security guard at the entrance is still checking in a queue of late night revellers, but as you exit, he looks up and his face lights up in cheeky recognition. He is the one who, earlier in an exuberant mood, bared a gold tooth in a smile as you went out to answer a call. 'Fashionista sister!' he'd yelled gaily, and you'd just known that those who heard him gave you not-so-subtle onceovers to check if you deserved the accolade. You laughed and hurried away.

'Calling it a night already, darling?' He says presently as you shimmy past. He is bantering with everybody in the queue, and you guess from his accent that he is Nigerian.

You return his smile and promise breezily, 'Yea, but I'll be back another night!'

Out on the street, you do a quick mental calculation of which of the slew of buses will get you to Trafalgar Square quickly. You know you want the N29. Your steps are more confident then, as you fancy yourself a bit of a savvy lady of the night in tune with the night time transport system in London. Every party girl needs to know this.

And you are a party girl. Of the non-existent kind.

The N29 has its moments. When it pulls up, a rush of people surge forward as there is a mad scramble for seats. The mood in the bus is lively. There is a group of French girls with smudged eyes and roughly tousled hair channelling somnambulant chic – the just-out-of-bed-with-last-night's-makeup-on look. They are talking animatedly and bursting loudly into laughter. Occasionally one of them swears gustily in French (putain! merde..!). A tuneless, but enthusiastic rendition of Jessie J's Price Tag can be heard from the upper deck.

'It's not about the money, money, money…!'

You smile indulgently at no one in particular and decide it's not so bad you did not get a seat after all. You are standing in the middle near the exit doors, and from this vantage point you can see the whole lower deck of the bus.

The four inch heels help too.

Turning slightly left, you clock a couple in the far corner of the last row of seats. She has a hand resting on his thigh, and his arm supports the head she's nestling in the crook of his shoulder. You can tell he is listening to music by that bop of his head, and the hypnotic finger-tapping of one who is lost in his music, and it is almost soothing to watch.

On the opposite end of the same row of seats, an African man has pulled his cap low. Moments ago he had been gesticulating and yapping loudly into his BlackBerry ('Tell him I say he must make sure it is done!'), but now, his pot-belly is rising and falling gently, and even though you can't hear, you can tell he is snoring softly.

Your eyes move back to the feet of the black girl standing next to you, and for the second time during this bus ride you almost feel another wave of dizziness wash over you. She is wearing a pair of vertiginous heels that, with the slightest misstep, could land her in Accident and Emergency. Perhaps her boyfriend shares your concern, judging from the way his white fingers clasp hers tightly. They are both tall, but in her strappy heels the tops of his blonde hair ends somewhere around her collarbone.

'Forget about the priiiice tag!' Sigh. The singing is starting to get annoying.

You shift a little to let a middle-aged man off at Warren Street, and you note with slight dismay that this movement has brought you next to the glowering youth who earlier enquired of passengers studiously ignoring him: 'Is Simon Cowell gay?' and then later: 'Simon Cowell is gay! SIMON COWELL IS GAY!' He is on the unattractive end of inebriation, and as the bus takes off from the curb he lurches drunkenly into you.

'Oh sorry, man!' He apologises sheepishly, and you flash him a quick smile and then hastily avert your gaze before he asks what you think of Simon Cowell.

The bus is stopping at Camden High Street. Here, it looks like people have now come out to play. A bittersweet feeling settles over you – perhaps you departed too early? You entertain thoughts of sending a quick text to the friends you know are gathered in a bar not far from where you are now. But you are yawning before this idea gets comfortable in your mind, and you know your biggest fantasy right now is to be home in bed.

As you prepare to get off the bus, you cast one last glance around the lower deck and marvel at the allure of a city like London – with its pubs and wry sense of humour, its refreshing mix of the marvellous and the absurd and the effervescent mischief of the 'after-hours' faces who call it home.

You are smiling as you step off the precipice and walk briskly – to home and bed.

Saving all my susu for you

These, dear reader, are the romantic utterances of my man this morning.

As I watch my brother round the corner to school, I become aware of a man standing in front of a building site, wearing the reflective vest of a construction worker. He chooses to announce his presence as I walk past by declaring loudly, 'Wo yε me taste!'

I dissolve into giggles. He grins, pleased, apparently not only because he guesses correctly that I'm Ghanaian, but that I 'get' the line delivered with the right mix of admiration and aggression.

'Wo yε Asante ni, meboa?' He asks (You're an Ashanti woman, aren't you?)

Without waiting for an answer he says, 'Me tumi hu saa. Hwε wo moma.' (I can tell just by looking at your forehead)

This forehead of mine has been the..er..butt of jokes from time immemorial. That it was aggravated by a childhood accident which left a scar on the right side only served to provide fodder for all manner of affectionate teasing from neighbourhood kids - 'Moma Po', 'Torchlight' and 'Kanea' come readily to mind.

He is saying, 'Nansa yi ase me hu wo akyε.' (I haven't seen you in a while)

'Ah. Na wo nim me mpo?' I retort. (But you don't even know me!)

'Hwε! Saa na εyε wo. Me huu wo a na Awurade yi kyereε me.' (That's what you think. As soon as I saw you, the Lord revealed it to me)

'Den na Awurade ayi akyerε wo?' (What has the Lord revealed to you?)

'Awurade se wo yε me wife! εwɔ sε me bε hwehwε wo fada...' (The Lord says you are my wife. I must come seek approval from your father)

I am hugely amused by this time. 'Saa w'ahu?' (Is that right?)

'Oh yes. Brε a me brε nyinaa eyε wo nti na mee brε. Every ment bia me to susu ma wo.' (All my hustling is for you. I save money – susu - every month for our future together)

I should mention at this time that his name is Kusi, and I used the term 'my man' very, very loosely.

After I walk off laughing, I'm reminded of the wackier chat-up attempts that come flying in the way of the sexes: the man in Amsterdam who offers to 'only bounce against me' by way of introduction; the elderly gentleman in the bus who insists my gap-toothed smile would bring him luck if we courted; the guy in the bar who throws some ice on the floor and says, 'Now that the ice is broken...' and sees from my face that I've read that line somewhere...

But there is just something about the random man on the street who delivers his interest in you with amusing candour in a Ghanaian dialect like Twi: 'Ah sister, me feeli wo w'ate?', 'Wo yε feeling sister!' 'Wo yε me size!' 'Wo yε me taste!' - all roughly translated as 'You're hot!' or 'you're just my type.'
In these circumstances, keeping a straight face is a work of art.

Ah, such is life - random or otherwise. You take it all on the chin and laugh where you can. It's all in a day's walk!

What's tickled you this morning?

She must..she must..she must improve her bust!

Well it hasn't exactly been the 'breast' of times, has it Mr Dickens?


In a week where breasts have been all over the news, I have had several unrelated conversations about those mammae that protrude gently from the chest, including:


- the breast-feeding yummy mummy friend who said she'd felt like she'd been given an electric shock when her mischievous baby girl decided to try out her growing teeth by clamping down hard on mummy's nipple whilst suckling (as babies do)


- the excited gal pal who insists we head to a La Senza closing down sale to clinch some amazing deals on bras so the 'girls' (that'll be our breasts, in case you're wondering) can look pretty


- the offbeat conversation on palindromes (a word, verse or sentence that reads the same backward and forward) where the first word I said earned me..um..looks from the guys I'd been chatting with. (they'd been coming up with words like 'deed', 'mum' and 'dad', and, I was all ready to say, 'level' when I'd looked down at my chest and instantly yelled 'boob!' instead. Well that certainly caused a few seconds of diversion, especially as I was the only female there..)


Interesting, because the week has also been filled to busting - if you'll excuse the pun - with news of the worldwide controversy surrounding the safety of breast implants from Poly Implant Prothèse (PIP), the now closed French firm whose implants were banned last year after they were found to contain non-medical-grade silicone that could potentially cause harm to the women who have had their breasts surgically enhanced with PIP implants. It would be simple to just go back to the clinic where one had their breasts done, have the surgeons remove the silicones and replace them with better ones, right? After all, it's just like buying something in a shop, finding it unsuitable because of a manufacturing error and deciding to return it for a better replacement without having to pay for that, because, hey, you paid for them in the first instance, didn't ya?


Right. 


And wrong.


Here's the problem: this firm supplied implants to countries including the UK, France and Australia. In the UK alone, about 40,000 women have been fitted with PIP implants. That's 40,000 anxious women who are now probably very confused about the mixed messages from the various bodies/organisations involved. 40,000 women who probably gave a lot of thought to making the decision to go under the knife, knowing fully well the risks involved - I hope.


40,000.


So now we have a war raging on who is 'morally responsible' for the replacement surgeries. Not I, said the
Harley Medical Group which fitted almost 14,000 women with PIP implants over a nine-year period. Their position is this: PIP implants were licenced by the relevant government body (the Medicines Healthcare products Regulatory Agency of the Department of Health) for use in the UK, so if there's a problem with them who's to blame? The body that green-lit the product for use, or the body that performed the procedure with the product in question? It's a bit of a pass-the-buck story being played whilst the patients who paid top money to have their breasts done feel they have been let down by the private clinics. You can read more from the Harley Medical Group here, and the latest news from the BBC on the subject here. 


As women, when we stand naked in front of the mirror, there are potentially so many things we can find 'wrong' with our appearance, from the crown of the head to the sole of the feet - some imagined, some true; some we can do something about, others we decide it is as it is..and so on. I joke with my mum that my face currently looks 'funny' because I haven't shaped my eyebrows in a while as I decided I wanted to have the arch bigger. It means that there's generally uneven bits of little hairs growing where, previously they'd have been shaved off. It means that as soon as I see myself on any reflective surface I want to laugh because I feel like it's given my face a 'look'. And as anyone who shaves anything regularly knows, the moment you don't keep up with it, there's a marked difference. Twice I've been to the salon and had the beautician insist in consternation on shaping my eyebrows 'for free', probably because she can see that they've been neglected. But it's a deliberate 'negligence', I always hurry to assure her before she lunges for them. So yes, I can do something about my eyebrows if it bothers me much...or I can sit out this phase until it's grown to the point I like and start the process of shaping it to the size of arch I want. A 'funny' face in the mirror staring back at me says I'm doing the second. 


The point is, like everything else, it boils down to attitude and choice, and to each their own. I believe that what you make of your appearance is that which elevates the individual to an ism. It is undeniable that breasts are one of the most fetishized parts of the human body, so it is no wonder that many woman have hang-ups about theirs and would consider cosmetic surgery for reasons like: to look better in and out of clothes; to feel more confident about themselves...etc.  There are women who were given PIP implants within the NHS for reconstructive surgery after a mastectomy, and that is of course a different scenario to the average Joanne who had surgery simply because she wanted bigger breasts.


I just wonder if we can ever be steely in cultivating a habit of simply being happy with the natural assets we have! Of revelling in the curves (or perceived lack thereof)  and 'imperfections' that we run a critical eye over everyday. In this body-conscious world, the media will never cease to find the next 'big' body part to focus on. There will always be something on Angelina Jolie's lips, Pippa Middleton's pesky posterior, J-Lo's bum et patati et patata..and when it gets old, there'll be yet more. Maybe it's even been found, and I'm already behind with the news. Forget the Northern Star, the only constant in all the media barrage is you. How do you receive it?


Changing your breast, is it the best? 


Or perhaps I'm just a (happily) small-chested woman who's spewing a load of tosh?  

The evening after the night before

It is past nine on the first evening of 2012.

I have wined and dined on a sumptuous meal, and in a short while, the holiday haze will fade, and the business/work side of life will resume. My young brother has been advocating for me to join the family in a game of Scrabble, but I still haven't recovered from the thrashing I received during the last game where, believe it or not, my final four letters spelled p-o-r-n, yet I couldn't do much with them on the game board. So I plead disinterest and escape to the kitchen and promptly put a mix-tape of  songs by Kojo Antwi on instead. When he finds me a short while later crooning to my all-time favorite of the songs - wo do yi ye nsa - he's unimpressed, to say the least. I, on the other hand, am on another level. I love that song too much. (Last summer, my cousin had to endure several replays of wo do yi ye nsa on a drive from Colombus to Athens, Ohio). The title is such a colloquial expression in Twi that I struggle to come up with a fitting equivalent in English - the closest I can think of is, 'If your love was a drink, I'd get drunk on it' (Better translations welcome)

It's either the music gives wandering to my thoughts, or because the start of any new year finds said thoughts hovering somewhere in the stratosphere anyway, with renewed hopes, plans,  ideas..and then some. But, like anyone else, I am in an expectant mood. I can't wait to see what this year has up its sleeve for me, for you..and for this city, because - insert excited scream here, and drum roll to the sound of Fontomfrom  - 2012 is shaping up to be one heck of an unforgettable year! Off the top of my head I can think of a few light, entertaining moments, though, not limited to London (and I use the words 'light' and 'entertaining' loosely):

CAN 2012/Euro 2012 - Did you know I have a side career as an armchair commentator during football games?

Upcoming films - The Hobbit, Peter Jackson's epic fantasy prequel to The Lord of the Rings film trilogy, The Avengers, a testosterone galore of a crossover of well-known superheroes - Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk, Thor and Captain America - and, in a few days, Iron Lady, Meryl Streep's interpretation of former boss lady, British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. And many, many more.

The Queen's Diamond Jubilee - On Christmas Day, I flicked on the television and for the first time watched the Queen's address to the nation on BBC1. Caught on the hop, with a finger of ripe plantain in my hands, I stood in front of the television, a little transfixed as her ten-minute address covered everything from her grandchildren's weddings last year (Prince William/Kate Middleton, and Zara Phillips/Mike Tindall) to the floods in Australia. This year, she celebrates 60 years on the throne, which is remarkable in itself. A pageant, a floatilla, and an extra bank holiday - not a bad mix, eh?

Fashion - I will most probably be resurrecting chunky heels this year! (Nowhere near a fashionista, but something tells me I already found my summer sole mate)

Music - Amy Winehouse, one of the music greats of our generation, shocked the world with her untimely death in July. In the days after, it was commonplace to be accosted by someone asking for directions to the singer's house, the Camden home where fans from all over the world gathered for days to grieve her passing. Her music lives on. This year, three ladies I hope will soar higher are Emeli Sande, X Factor finalist Amelia Lily and Lana Del Ray, of the hauntingly voiced song, Video Games

London 2012 Olympic and Paralympic Games - Need I say more?

There will be elections and medical breakthroughs; global economic talks and technological advancements; discussions on the mundane and endless speculation from some quarters on the ancient Mayan calculation that the world will end on 21st December 2012.

There will be plenty to talk about, for sure.

But I'll stop here. Besides, Kojo Antwi is now singing medofo pa,  and I may take a while to descend from the optimistic high I get from the giddy realization that a new year has dawned, and with it, a fresh anointing for greater works.

Happy new year to you and yours.

The Fox and the Wulff

I have recently come to the conclusion that God has a good sense of humour which he executes with perfect, comedic timing. I did always suspect this, of course (someone HAS to be credited with how I wound up knowing the funniest person: my mother who has countless rip-roaring anecdotes up her sleeves) but, what with him being known for his more mind-blowing awesomeness, I'm afraid I missed the part of him that twinkles with humour.

Let me tell you why.

Some mornings ago, I was walking hurriedly to work for a 6:30am start. The alarm clock, originally set for 5am, had been sufficiently abused in the form of a hand reaching out of the warm duvet to slap it vehemently into snooze mode every ten minutes until 5:40 when the stern, no-nonsense part of my brain chastised its lazing sibling in a voice that brooked no argument, 'You need to get out of this bed right now!' 

It meant that there was precious little time to rouse myself up, bathe, dress and gobble down scalding hot porridge oats (you know..because I'm not one to leave home without sustenance in the form of breakfast), before hitting the cold, dark winter morning.

Now, as a direct result of aforementioned state of hurrying, I'd raced out of the house without so much as a quick prayer of thanks to God for granting me another chance at life. And so, being the sort of person who randomly bursts into loud renditions of songs as I go about my activities, I hummed Ghanaian Gospel singer, Sonnie Badu's He That Dwelleth (Psalm 91) song, the quiet street echoing with my footfalls as I walked. (Because my still-slow brain knew singing loudly wouldn't go down well with sleeping folks along the street) 

I was still walking, when from behind a battered car parked on a side street, a fox leapt out and startled the flippin' bejaysus out of me. Several things happened at once:

- I shrieked like a demented banshee into the still, quiet morning

- the irony wasn't lost on me that the creature had literally leapt out at the very same time I was uttering these words from the 91st Psalm: 'For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler..' (Good one, God)

- the above words died immediately on my lips, to make way for the first reaction: the shriek

- of all the panicked thoughts that raced through my head within those seconds, the most ridiculous was a very silly, 'I'm a Wulff. You need to be very afraid, fox.' Or some schmuck like that. 

Except I was the one pissing bricks. 

The encounter must have taken all of six seconds, either because foxes are generally wary of humans, and this one didn't hang about me, or because my legs carried me faster than Usain Bolt has known. Either way, I wasn't about to stay and (dis)prove the theory of wary foxes and humans. 

I simply run.

This is London. In 2010 I was horrified to read about the 9-month old twin girls who were bitten in the arm and face by a fox who had sneaked into their upstairs room in east London. Up until then, I hadn't even known foxes existed in London. In the time since, I'd spotted one on two occasions, both sometime in the early hours of the morning, either crossing a road or quietly rustling within some bush in a garden. Both times, they were FAR away from me, is my point. Neither occasion had certainly propelled me to run as fast as this one had. (On a side note, never again will I think I'm a crap runner. The memory of coming fourth in a group of five runners during several inter-house heats in boarding school can now die a natural death. I'm a pretty great runner, I have decided. I just need a foxy incentive...)

In many cultures the fox appears to signify sly cunning, but in retrospect, what I remember is the brazen glint in its eyes - a boldness that (before I abandoned all attempts at bravery and run) emanated from it, because I'm sure it knew I'd been startled by the unexpectedness, before my legs finally unfroze and did a runner. Perhaps something to learn from this - be brazen, launch out and take the bull by the horns?

I'll stop here before I wax lyrical about fantastic mister fox. I've seen it a few times since that morning. I like to think we've even developed an uneasy friendship, complete with a greeting that went from a thuggish, unsmiling acknowledgement (''Sup Fox?' 'What it do, Wulff?') to a cheery:

'Hey Wulffie!'
'Hey Foxy!'  

Grr.

Have you had an interestingly wacky encounter recently?

Dear Santa, only a Ferrari and a giant lollipop for me, thank you

Yesterday I saw a wannabe Santa. 

I regarded him with suspicious eyes as I stared at his six-pack stomach, and a-tad-too-well-trimmed beard. Where was the portly belly and the misshapen shock of hair on the chin? This one looked like he had stepped out of the pages of a GQ Sexy Santa of the Year or something. 

Not that I have been paying particular attention to the many Father Christmas types this season flings on our visual peripheries in the run-up to Christmas. But, after spending most of yesterday bantering with practically every person I met, and asking them to tell me one thing they'd like for Christmas, I'd been on the lookout. Initially, it was a combination of a generally quiet day at work, and the dulling after-effects of consuming a meal of epic proportions that started this little project. (I asked for just a lasagne, but the waitress set a huge plate including a pile of fries and a side salad in front of me, smiling, 'It's Christmas! Eat up!', and I reasoned, 'Well..now that it's here...').  


It meant that by the time I rolled back to work, all thoughts of productivity had flown out the window and I was uncertain about its estimated time of return, especially on the last working day before the Christmas weekend.  So I took a sheet of paper instead, and wrote in bold, flowery letters: '25 things Londoners want this Christmas'. Some friends, the rest members of the public, I present here in their own words, a Christmas wish-list from the Londoners I do life with.

1. Emma - A warm dressing gown
2. Diddy (friend) - An all-expenses paid, 7-day, 5-star holiday in Barbados
3. Jan - A new laptop
4. Has (friend) - An iPad (and a wife) 
5. Martin (friend) - To go around the world on my bike. You coming along, Miss Cyclist?
6. Ana-Maria - A good job in music PR
7. Anca - Good health
8. Sara - A new swimming costume!
9. Joseph - A Ferrari and a giant lollipop. (Joseph is a cute 9 year old, but you'd probably figured that out by the time you got to lollipop)
10. Elsa - A swimming pool with slides
11. Tess - A big teddy bear
12. Nick - For Leeds to beat Arsenal in the FA Cup (Elsa, 11, and Tess,9, are sisters to Joseph, and Nick is their highly amused father whose wish was immediately quashed by his Arsenal-loving children)
13. Helene - Chocolate biscuits. And - oh please - can I be cheeky and ask for a lover from Mali as well? (Intrigued, I pointed to her ring finger and scolded good-naturedly, 'And what will 'Mr Helene' say to that?!', to which she winked much in the way a character from a Jackie Collins novel would and purred, 'It's all in the poetry of their music!')
14. Gabriel - Headphones 
15. Stephen (friend) - Nothing (I can't be sure if this was because I was pestering him for an answer, but there was a definite growl in his voice..)
16. Safit - Good health
17. Zach - For you to put me out of my misery and just say yes to a drink with me
18. Laura - To win the lottery
19. Emily - Eyeliner (I had to smile at this, because, before she'd said this, I was first struck by her beautiful wide-set eyes)
20. Avril -  A diary
21. Dean - Trainers
22. David - World peace - and perfect swimming abilities! 
23. Fliss - A husband
24. Aaron - To be Mariah Carey's baby daddy
25. Monica (friend) - YOU!


What one thing would you add? Wishing you a merry time filled with love, meaning and a generous outpouring of goodness! 

Morning glory

It's been a while since I paid any heed to the warning that is oft on the lips of every parent: do not talk to strangers. Of course, one tends to hear that warning more as a child. 

Growing up, there were enough horror stories about trusting children who had wound up in bad hands and suffered unspeakable things to put the requisite fear in me. So I do not know the spectacular brand of stupidity that gripped me, when aged ten, and new to the capital city, Accra (having moved from Kumasi), I sneaked out of the school gates at closing time and decided to walk home to Labadi from my school in North Ridge, without waiting to be collected as was the norm. The reason? I wanted my mother ('Mi' as we like to call her) to bask in my pride that I knew Accra really well, and look, I could even come home by myself! What I failed to take into account was the parallel scene in which she would turn up at the school to collect me, search high and low, and not finding me, be seized with a blinding fear that her daughter was lost. 

Oops. 


(So that explained why Mi* didn't exactly bask with pride at my geographical knowledge of Accra when I finally turned up at the house...)

Oh, but the innocence of childhood.

By the time I walked through the front door, flushed with success and blissfully oblivious to the chaos I'd caused, and unaware of the various search parties combing the city for me, I'd endured quite a journey. You see, reader, I got lost. It took trotro drivers** and passers-by, hitherto known as 'strangers' to get me to my destination: home.

These days, my experiences with strangers are not of the lost-little-girl kind, oh no. I thrive on the random conversations I have with people whom I don't know the first thing about. And I have realised that try as I might I cannot pinpoint the moments when they stopped being strangers, and became faces. They are the glory of the mornings when I take my younger brother to school and deliberately take the longer way back home so I can be consistent with the only exercise I enjoy: walking. On such walks, I am likely to meet:

Jim - the rich old Irish charmer and thrill seeker who I first got to know one day as I walked across the street from his house. He yelled 'ciao bella!' so aggressively that I was momentarily startled into thinking he was flinging an insult my way. (Now I know my Italian is non-existent, but months of buying panini from an Italian deli and being greeted in the same way by the handsome owner, albeit in softer tones, finally translated that line to, 'hello beautiful', so forgive my initial confusion with Jim) That said, I crossed the road indignantly and surprised the poor man by retorting, 'you need to NOT say it like that!'***  On discovering that I was from Ghana, he enthusiastically proclaimed his love for Ghanaian women, because, 'the bum..oh my God, they have such good bums,' and has since been trying to invite me to his villa in Sardinia. Did I mention that Jim is not so old as positively prehistoric? But he is a witty man with the gift of the gab, and I can see how he might have left a trail of heartbroken ladies in his wake in his heyday.

A world traveller, I'd imperiously informed him once that though he'd been to practically every corner of the globe, I'd never take him seriously as a traveller if he didn't visit MY country. ('You say you love Ghanaian women, yet you've never even been to Ghana?') But bless his heart, recently he informed me that from our short conversations and such like, I'd made him very curious about Ghana, and come next March, he was going to make his first ever trip to West Africa.

To Nigeria. 


Whaat?


'Jim, how could you?!' I cried in dismay, 'I said I was from GHANA!'

And he'd twinkled with such mischief before announcing grandly that he was just pulling my leg. He was going to Accra for the sheer adventure of it, before excitedly informing me that his friend Kwame had found an apartment for him in Legon. I, of course, am thrilled by this! A part of me is slightly worried about Jim being let loose in a place like Legon, which is filled to bursting with pretty young things studying at the University of Ghana. I feel I must warn all Ghanaian women with 'good bums...' 

Ahmed - the pound-a-bowl fruit and veg seller down the road who gave me attitude for days because he was mortally offended that, rather than buy from him, I'd gone and done fruit shopping in Sainsbury's. I would walk past his stand, greet him nicely and be met with a curt nod. I was baffled for ages until he asked pointedly one morning in his broken English, 'the bananas you buy the other day in Sainsbury bag..finished?' 

Ahmed arranges his goods for the day 

Sam -  the Jamaican barber across the street from Ahmed. I was walking my brother to school one morning as he opened his shop. Turning and seeing me, he jumped down from the three steps and yelled, 'You're definitely Jamaican! I knew it as soon as I saw you!'

Erm, no. 

In this life I have been variously described as Nigerian, Sierra Leonean, South African, Kenyan, Ghana obroni (which amuses my friends and I some)...but none involved such theatrical jumps.
  
I had to spend several precious seconds of the school run defending my 'Ghanaian-ness' (while my brother cracked up helplessly by my side at the melodrama unfolding) because Sam was convinced that I was truly a defecting Jamaican. ('But why are you denying that you're from Ja..?' 'I'm not denying it!' 'Oh so you admit that you ARE Jamaican?'..and so on) I like to think I'm Jamaican by proxy - my lovely Jamaican hairdresser makes me feel so special when I go to her for some TLC for my hair ('Come baby, let me wash your hair for you..'), and my beautiful Jamaican sister from another mama, Han, has such a pleasing lilt to her voice that sometimes I pretend not to understand what she says, just so I can get her to tickle my ears some more. But now I'm resigned to being addressed by Sam as 'my Jamaican sister', something he always accompanies with a hopeful look as though to check that I have finally come out of 'denial.' I'm thinking a trip 'home' to Jamaica is called for in 2012.

Our world has become so blase to the point that we look without seeing and hear without listening. But I have learnt that   one doesn't necessarily need a safari trip or a freaky hot air balloon experience to be adventurous. Adventure exists in leaps and bounds in people. In conversations and interactions. 


So take a walk on the wild side.


Talk to people. Talk to strangers. 




* Mi is still unamused when I tease her about how worried she got. She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and says something along the lines of, 'hwɛ, wo nim dieɛ me faa mu a anka..' (To wit: if you knew what I went through in those moments..)

** I have since traced my enduring love of trotro to this experience.

*** Some well-meaning friends have already let me in on how impulsive I am sometimes.

'Is it cuz I iz black?'

There's generalisation - and there's over-generalisation.

I, for one, will never forget a small group discussion on race and representation at university, where one student, making a point about racism in Britain, turned to me - the only black in the room - and said matter-of-factly, 'I'm sure you experience it all the time.' It wasn't even a question. 

At the slightly dumbfounded expression on my face (because my first coherent thought was, 'why does she automatically assume people are racist toward me just because I'm black?') , she hastily added, 'no offence or anything.' Well no, I wasn't offended, but I thought it was a statement that was spectacularly bereft of judgement and tact, and the sort of flippant, ill-observed generalisation that I've often heard black people bemoan.  

I should mention before I continue, that this post isn't a weepy rant. On the contrary, it's an irreverent tongue-in-cheek  look at the 'small' issue of race. 

Take this scenario for instance: last month in a Saks Fifth Avenue store, I was walking around the make-up counters checking out eye shadow pallets, and vaguely wondering if I could pull off some of the more daring colours without looking ridiculous. At the Lancome stand, a representative with a slick, professional smile hovered close by.  

Her seductive citrus-y scent reached me before she did. 'Lancome does make-up for...women like you.' 

I think we both noticed the obvious hesitation. 

Women like me? What, you mean.. Ghanaian women currently on holiday in America? Or women casually dressed in jeans and flats? Or would that be young, twenty-something females? At that point in time I could have been in any of those categories of questions, and was, in fact , all of the above. Yes, I am being daft - I knew she meant black women like me, but why the incredibly sparse tag, 'women like you'? 

It reminded me of a conversation from my early days in London. An English colleague whose company was in the same building as mine gave me a message one winter morning as we both stood in the shared kitchen making hot drinks to warm our insides.

'Oh Davida, a lady came in looking for you yesterday after you left...'

'Yes?'

'I didn't know who she meant in the beginning so I asked her to describe you, and she said you were a tall, black lady. Hope you're not offended.' This last was said almost sympathetically as she made her way out of the kitchen with her cup of tea.

I felt like I'd missed a beat - which part was I meant to have been offended by, exactly? Later when I cornered her for an explanation, I was more than a little surprised by her question: Do black people find it offensive when people describe them (physically) as black? No, darling, that WOULD be calling a spade a spade.  Personally, if someone describes me as black, it's as obvious as pointing to a mango tree and declaring, 'that's a mango tree.' Black is what I am! But I can't answer for how others might have reacted to her question so I'd like to throw it out there, and get your thoughts on it.

There are many stereotypes going about black people. So while I don't walk around manically chanting, 'say it loud, I'm black and proud,' to myself, I have many moments where I simply revel in being black.  Why, I have been known to play up to some of the stereotypes myself, flaunting lines with deliberate cheekiness. ('Davida, you're late!', to which the classic response is, 'sorry, I'm just black!') Stereotype: black people are always late. Nothing like a well-timed quip where you can play the 'race card'...unless of course, the person waiting on you is your no-nonsense punctual (gasp!)  black friend who's clearly not amused. ('Well you better hurry your black behind here NOW!)

Or how about that poll which placed Ghana second in the list of countries with well-endowed men? Stereotype: African men are hung like a horse. Funnily enough, I read about the poll whilst leafing through a magazine at a sandwich bar , and talking on the phone with my mum to find out how many balls of kenkey I should buy on a later errand. This is how a deliberate double entendre happened: a random man, waiting to collect his sandwich  heard me say 'balls', and I just knew he'd been reading over my shoulder when he said, 'has someone got their balls mixed?' Ew, be gone with you, man.

There's the other 'hairy' issue of black girls and their tresses. We all have some sort of preoccupation with our hair - to go natural or to perm, to weave or to bond, to cut or to grow, to braid or to twist? The possibilities, it seems, are endless.  In my neck of the woods in London, the company which has a monopoly over hair and beauty products is Pak Cosmetics in Finsbury Park. It never ceases to amuse me how a trip there will see me come away with anything from hair rollers to pink oil, and, most definitely, ripe plantain and fufu flour amongst other things, because Pak happens to be conveniently situated next door to an ethnic food store.

Earlier this year, I took the plunge and had my hair cut whilst in Ghana. Immediately afterwards, I endured uncharacteristic moments of insecurity - I would walk into the bathroom and freak out when I saw myself in the mirror. ('Where's the rest of my hair?!') I thought someone had handed a pair of scissors to a small child and told them to 'play around' with my hair, until my sleep-addled brain remembered that, no, in fact it was a professional who had done this, not a child. In spite of reassurances to the contrary, I was convinced I'd made a bad hair decision, and the following week,  I was back in a hairdresser's chair getting a weave, an innocuous enough move which nearly stopped me from signing up for swimming lessons a week after I arrived back in London. Guess the stereotype? Black girls don't swim.

I was a little ashamed to discover that my real reason for being reluctant was the thought of getting my weave wet. In deed, I went along to my first swimming lesson and came back to write this entry in the journal I've been keeping of my progress: 'Diary of a wannabe swimmer'

Week 1
I sputter my way through this first lesson, painfully conscious of the fact that I haven't been in a swimming pool since 2007. Vlad, the swim teacher takes one look at me and catches a whiff of the terrified inexperience I'm bringing his way. He cheers when I'm able to put my head underwater - although I'm wincing about it seeping through my swim cap and wetting my weave - and blow bubbles through my nose. I'm disappointed I can't kick my legs as well as I should.

In the lessons since, I have sunk to the bottom of the pool more times than I can count, have befriended all the lifeguards on poolside (I have, after all, been giving them some job satisfaction if the amount of times I have nearly 'drowned' are anything to go by), have had my stomach filled with more chlorinated pool water than red wine, and have ached for days from a questionable attempt at the breaststroke than any other physical activity I've ever done. I have even plunged enthusiastically into the pool, only to come up and realise a cheeky boob has accidentally crept out and is now inadvertently flashing a guy sitting on the bench awaiting his turn - rather disturbingly, he gave a thumbs-up sign, but I digress. My point? A bit of wet hair is the least of my worries!  

So what am I saying, reader? Stereotypes are said to be based on truth, but you must question the validity of any statement which forcefully naturalises particular beliefs about gender and race to make them common sense ideas about the world.  The truth is, stereotypes are limiting, and do a good job of suffocating a person's individuality. If you must judge, do so on the individual, rather than the racial group with which they are associated. 

But while we're on the subject, it's probably a good idea to work on my dance skills too. It simply won't do that I destroy this particular stereotype so comprehensively any time I try to get my dance on : black people are good at dancing. I have good intentions when I hear music, honestly I do. The problem is my two left feet beg to differ. Or, as my younger brother eloquently put it, 'Day, are you in pain, or are you dancing?' I should take time out and discover my inner Shakira , and if I'm late reporting back, I guess you know why. It's because I'm operating on GMT - Ghana Man Time.*

* Sorry, but that was an affectionate dig

London's burning..London's burning...

Yesterday, I'm sitting in my living room frantically scanning the Evening Standard newspaper, reading alarming reports of rioting all over London, when I look up at the television screen and I'm confronted with live scenes of an arson attack on a building in Croydon, south London. And even though I can clearly read the caption on the screen my immediate thought is a numb, 'this can't be London.' I gawp at the television, desperately trying to wrap my head round how the death of one man - Mark Duggan whose shooting by police in Tottenham, sparked  off unrest on Saturday - has descended into a downward spiral of violence, destruction and looting. What started as a peaceful protest ended when after a five-hour vigil at Tottenham Police station, two police cars were set alight. In the time since, areas such as Hackney, Enfield, Dalston and Croydon have been hit by the uprising. Yesterday it stopped being a city-wide disturbance as it spread outside the capital to Birmingham, Bristol, Manchester, Liverpool etc.

A woman leaps for her life from a blazing building in Croydon

Last night I slipped into fitful, troubled sleep, minutes away from Camden Lock market which had become the latest place to be hit. This morning when I open my eyes they burn from inadequate sleep because I have been up most of the night listening to police sirens blare outside my bedroom window toward Camden Lock. I emerge from the house, and I'm shocked to see that even on my relatively quieter street, rubbish and recycling bins have been kicked/pushed angrily, spilling their contents onto the road. It's a harmless scene compared to those of chaos and anarchy London and the UK have seen so far.

Camden Lock last night

God, what is happening? This has long ceased to be about 'justice' for Mark Duggan, for what has his poor soul to do with 'yoofs' making away with stolens ipads and plasma televisions? The wave of violence has escalated to the point where no excuse or reason can justify it. A peaceful protest has descended into greed, thrill-seeking and aggression for the sheer adrenaline of it. The tone has changed from one of righteous anger to looting, not for a cause, but for the hell of it. We have all sought one another in person and across social networking boards, baffled, scared and livid at what is happening. So yes, I understand that there is anger and frustration in the system; yes there is significant tightening of belts to the point of suffocation; yes the implications are bleak for all, particularly the young and up and coming. This is nothing new, but it is by no means an excuse to plunge the nation into despair, and that is why I condemn the wanton acts of violence, arson and vandalism. Some people have the roughest lives. Their families live in the equivalent of a box. Their immediate environment is a world of feckless thuggery, smoking, drinking and under-age sex. But it doesn't mean they are out there lawlessly smashing windows, mugging vulnerable folk and making away with the loot, because smart is the man who refuses to be defined by his disadvantaged circumstances; who decides to give a damn about himself and his society; who chooses to learn hard and make something of his life. Let's face it, danger has a certain recklessness to it when perpetrators decide they have nothing to live for, or to lose. Sadly, this is what the disturbances have revealed: a frightening number of our young don't give a damn, and have proceeded to bite the hand that feeds them.

The police have, of course, borne the brunt of violent attacks, without resorting to it themselves (in most cases). Even though they are an easy 'hate' target by the rioters,we must remember that they too are victims, trying to be everywhere at once in order to respond to the destruction and challenges around us. Last night was one of the worst scenes of disorder in London for a generation. The London riots is not just a game. It is criminality, lawlessness and burglary.  Chief among the victims, however, are the ordinary residents whose neighbourhoods have been trashed, whose livelihoods have been comprised, whose shops have been looted and whose lives have taken a distinctly fearful wondering of which place will next be hit. Like most people, I have nothing but hard questions and no answers. I can only hope that in the wake of this, community after community will seriously tackle the causes of the situation.

While London is feeling despair today, there has been some hope. Neighbours, co-workers, and complete strangers have spent the day commiserating with one another, checking to see that people have kept safe in the midst of the upheaval. Some youngsters in Camden High Street carried signs advertising 'free hugs' to anyone who felt a need for one, and the capital is coming together to rebuild its communities, literally in the mass 'riot clean-up', and metaphorically as we prepare for another night, and a new chapter that seeks answers to the mob mentality that has swept through the city and across the country.