borrowing a title; for women who are "difficult" to love.

I have not written, well typed in the longest time. I have written though. On paper. I have gone back to writing the way I used to know it. Maybe its because of this job that requires I jot down just about everything. There are post-it notes around me. Two work notebooks. Two fill-my-bags-all-the-time personal ones. Filled with to-do lists, bucket lists, blogs to read, books to buy...and then the real words. Phrases that drift by during hour-long briefings. Sentences that come through while I try to re-word pages-long work files. Paragraphs that I sneak in during the first 20 minutes of the lunch break.
There are scattered and incoherent lines all over my notebooks.

I am writing the way I used to write in high school and at university. I wrote on the covers, mid-pages of my class work books.On my palms. That used to infuriate my mother.
Now I buy my own clothes, so I take more care.

Words are the only constant in my life. Even when I behave in a way that makes Blair Wolforf seem pretty tame, they never leave. They are not like my sleep patterns which are highly unpredictable. Nowhere to be found all night, all over my face at 10am.

Also, I have the world's bestest bestie.

She sent me a link to some of the most beautiful writings I have come across. Not the heady-in-your-face kind, no. The...flutter-by, settle-upon and touch-the-most-core-parts-of-you sort.
So I read a poem. I read it and just sat there...staring. Re-reading. Wondering. How someone else could capture so clearly, so simply and yet so honestly, your entire mesh of fears, insecurities, worries and lonely thoughts. How another woman on another continent probably sat down to write about herself and ended up writing about me and several other women. How another woman put pen to paper and brought to life all the aches, all the self-doubting questions, all the years of masking, of trying to be..."normal"...just so someone (usually, some man), could love you. Could accept you.
Could stop to try changing the chaotic mind and not-willing-to-be changed spirit that is you.

There are women who are born..."normal". They're pretty.
And soft.
They play keep-house. They like dolls(urrrghhh). They don't question. They are quiet. They dance without barely moving a limb.

Then, there are the women who always grabbed at the pens in their father's shirt-pockets. They played scrabble. They could not understand dolls. They understood books. A LOT. They found peace in their solitude because it was easier. Easier to lock yourself in your cousin's room at her birthday party and read a good book, because the other girls are playing house and dear Lord, that ish was just so common, so dull, so exhausting, so un-original. Francine Pascal was your best friend. And Elizabeth Wakefield was the character you felt closest to.

And when you started to dance....

Some women are born to have it easy.
God gives them the traits that make it easy to love them.
Lucky, lucky women.

Some women burst onto the planet with so much energy, searing passion and the inability to master the art of slowing down.
Fast walking. Fast reading. Fast writing of class work so they could go back to Enid Blyton.
Wonder how I got the scar under my left eye.
Then the world asks them to stop. When they don't listen, it punishes them and says it will hurt them some more if they do NOT stop.
Bruises. Scars. Permanent sadness. Constant failure to settle in. Majority of your friends are boys. They don't try to make you giggly.

Until they start to bring on the pain.
The worst sort.
You fight and damn near defeat the demons that nearly snuffed the life outta your spirit, only for the people you think will help fan them to full brightness to walk in and stamp out the small, delicate embers you'd began to light.
You shut out anyone with the makings of a light dimmer, you let in people who you believe get you.

And then, you hurt them. Badly.
Your entire world is falling apart and you hurt the one person you probably need around the most.
For the first time in over four years, you break down and cry. And the only person you tell this is the one who walks away. The one person whose hug you need the most will not give you their shoulder.
But you hurt them. So why would they want to make your day a bit brighter?

Because you would never walk away at the time when they most need you.
Because you tried.
Because you were in pain.
Because you opened yourself up at your most vulnerable and told them you were d.y.i.n.g.
Because you're styupeed.
Because walking should NOT be that easy.
Because you're searching for the pain that you thought would consume you and its not there.

Because you met a stranger, a woman who called you beautiful.
She said you deserved deep, committed, will-last-through-the-ugly-days sort of love.
She told you to wipe the pain from your eyes. To let the hurt go. She said you needed to forgive yourself.
She reminded you that you deserved to be happy.
Good, bad, perfectly put together, t-shirt and sweats, hair perfectly coiffured, messy tousles, you deserved to be loved and cared for and worried over.
No half measures.

And you believed her :-) Really, you did.
Then your bestie sent you the link and you thank God for the constants. For the friends that never go away.
You make each day easier, prettier, smile-ier and I am a lucky woman.
Difficult to love on some days. Easy on others.
Deserving love on all.

"For women who are "difficult" to love"- Warsan Shire( Look for the poem. Its the "For colored girls" of 2012.)

Moe.
With love.

THE STATE OF ME.

So my new lady love whom I gushed about in a previous post asked me to whip up a post on THE STATE OF ME. 
Its part of a blogging meme started by http://angelakintu.com/ , another blogger. And because I welcome any excuse to gush about my tres hot and vivacious self, I jumped at the opportunity. Yes, I am going to go on about my favourite topic; ME. Be prepared please. Shocks are bound to happen. Gasps even.
This woman is going to spill the beans and provide the dirt on herself. The real, dark and muddy dirt. No masks.
We go.

I have a big heart.

Literally.
I have the hugest heart ever. While the truth is it accommodates a few, well-chosen individuals, my heart is still big. I do not know how to feel in halves. I do not know how to love but hold back half of myself . I do not know how to be a friend but not help you fight your battles.. I have never understood the point in staying in a relationship that doesn't make you happier or smile-ier. Because I am the woman that will love her lovers, her friends and her families with every inch of my heart, mind and soul.
And on a really good day for the lovers, I will throw in my body. Or a bit of my body, anyway.
I am a Gemini. And passion is my blood.

This....and more.

I am shallow. Excessively so. People who are not well spoken and well written turn me off. Literally. I turn up my nose at them and make no effort to hide it. I use the ability to do cross words as an S.I unit for any man running after me. Yes. A girl's gotta have her words.
I am not above judging you because you wore the wrong top for even wrong-er jeans. I am also not shy about sneering at people who think Ragga Dee and Soulja Boy can do any sort of singing. On a day when I'm in the really-narrow-minded-and-judgemental zone, I will dismiss any sort of seriousness in your persona just because I think watching "How I met your mother" spells serious humour dysfunction.
Friends rules.

Shut up already.

I am thoroughly self conscious. My hips give me day and nightmares. The things have a mind and life of their own. I'm still uncomfortable when people look at them pointedly.

Me is a caffeine addict. Happy junkie. Coke, coffee...any time.

I love good food. Crappy food gets me cranky. And totally bitchy. So does crappy restaurant service. I've been known to write burning reviews on hopeless eating places.

I LOVE GOD. I cannot break that down.

I do not comprehend meals that are meat-less. Vegetables are not meant to be a major sauce. Ground nuts are evil. Matooke is NOT food.


I am 5'2 tall.
I love heels. Mostly because of the 5'2 factor.

SHOESES!!!!

I am attracted to men who are much, much taller than me. Something about tilting my head a bit to look into their eyes. And get me a snog.
Dark, manly men get my blood racing. The light and pretty ones make me think of....make-up. Making them up.
Sean Connery is one of my greatest loves.

Clooney has my heart.

I LOVE MY FAMILY. Mama, Martha, Arnold and Lindah, I would kill for.

I suffer from migraines. So, no chocolates please. I am trying to get off red wine. It's not easy.

I want to be a vampire in the next life. A smouldering, female vamp.
Or a man. So I can get the big deal with booty.

I am the world's bestest grudge holder. I block people out when they hurt me. In their place, I see dark spaces. Or voodoo dolls which I stab with my mind-needles.

I have never had a true or real love. I have had love, but I always left when things started to get un-pretty. Because I don't think love should hurt. Or demean. Or smother. So, I am a runner. Me and my friends await the one who will catch me. We're praying for him because, if I haven't said this, let me. My mental wires are loose. Perilously loose.

I have a shocker of a temper. I have broken crockery in fits of anger. And verbally broken people.
And slapped someone. I love you, my pretty.

I love gin. Seriously. I love gin.

I love, love, love to read. Anything written gets me.
I love to write. I was born to write. Writing is my life line. When I'm not typing away, I write in my mind. Most of that fades away, though.
My bed is my favourite place. I love the water. The ocean-type of water. One day, I hope to own a beach house. Complete with a cocktail genius of a bartender.

Somethin' like this.

Rock music is one, big soundtrack to my life.

I am insanely private. I do not let people see me cry. I do not let people see me broken. Unless I am intoxicated.

I believe in love. And fidelity. Cheating men have no place in my life.

I cherish my me time. No men, no friends. Just me and my thoughts. I have been called anti-social. And I do not care.

I have a tattoo.
I am still learning. Still growing. Still getting to know God. Still fighting demons and ghosts from the past.

But I am a strong one.
And will emerge victor.

Calling it; STATE OF ME AS AT 13:10 hrs. Friday, 02 September, 2011.

Dealing. Faith. Breathing.

I have the most murderous thoughts going through my mind.
Gruesome images of body-mutilation and stabbing and choking. Not of myself please. I am way too narcissist to consider putting my pretty self through any physical pain. I want to hurt you. In ways I haven't wanted to hurt anyone since the day they went and cancelled Friends. Okay. It wasn't that bad. Still.
I want to hurt you for hurting me and for being the biggest asshole this side of the planet. I want to hurt you because you re-define callous and reckless. And heartless. Yes. You, the-one-that-I-just-let-go-of are the universal definition of heartless.
And I am the universal definition of proud and strong-headed and mentally-loose-ish. At least by your standards. So, what the hell was a brilliant girl like myself even doing getting close to a...person like yourself?
Brilliant girl is not seeking answers. It is a rhetorical question.

This is meant to really hurt.

Alcohol is my drug. Gin is my bestest friend. Somewhere up there next to God-when I am not venting and telling Him to leave me alone.
And those Black Russians? Man, oh man...Vodka and rum are my comforters. Especially when it seems all my guardian angels are taking a very long and extended break from me. Alcohol helps me deal.
Stella used to. Then she just had to go and die. How so real-life-like. For the one person you allow yourself to be broken with, the one person you can cry with, to die in the year when real life and all its complications start to happen.

I miss you. Always.

There is Celia. But then she works in Nairobi. Convenient right? I should learn to cry over the phone. Except that will be quite frustrating for poor Celia and damaging to my smart phone.
Where on earth is Michael when I need him desperately? What's a woman to do when the very persons who are her warm arms and I-can-be-my-messy-and-currently-weepy-self with people are not within a boda ride's reach?
Said woman turns to alcohol.

My bestest....well. One of...

Dealing is difficult. Dealing is painful. Letting go is exhausting. Moving on sounds so easy when Oprah says it. In real life, moving on first of all requires you get out of bed in the morning. And getting out of bed is the hardest thing to do when you have to move on. There should be a warning manual for the twenties. Life gets foggier, friends get...complex and judgmental, God becomes a disturbingly distant figure and the Bible ceases to make sense.
Snogging people you have no right or business snogging becomes well....very likely.

Dear God.
At what point did life take such a ferociously dramatic turn? How did the aches, pains, sores, wounds pile up without me realising it?Why the hell does my spell check thingie insist on me spelling realise with a z? I am a product of British, NOT American colonialism.
Bloody Americans.
I am a victim-self-made victim of stoicism, facade(ing), first-bornism( that one's on the parents) and the psycho illness a friend described as the God-complex. Saving everyone and pushing me aside until I wake up and realise I have created my own hell.
Shadows don't make for nice company. Aching hearts don't make for easy breathing. Especially if one is an asthmatic. Stoic natures don't make for easy crying. And this does not make for easy dealing.
Because crying doesn't leave bright and sunny spaces in one's heart. It squeezes out a good deal of the pain.
But it leaves despair. Dark, empty and bottomless despair. I am not one for crying. But I think its about time.

Time I took the mask off, rolled aside the thick rock across my heart and cried.
Real, deep, gut-wrenching and heartbreaking sobs. The sort that would send my demons packing. Because my demons are of that nature. The lets-pretend-and-play-fine. They hate emotion.
I think its time. That.I.Cried.
I do not need company please.
Stella's ghost and gin bottle are quite enough.

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."-Hebrews 11:10.

 And in that one verse, the good-intention(ed) apostle Paul went and made faith the most forsaken, challenged and ignored substance of life.
Because faith is the very basis of all things-faith in a better day, true love, totally accepting friendships...faith for the dark in all its forms to finally go away.
How does one expect mortal and fallible beings such as the 6 billion mass of pain-ridden, wound-carrying and fearful human species to have faith enough to last one through the tragedies that most of us call our lives?
In a world of cause-less wars, starving children whose only crime is being born of parents who have failed to master the concept of co-existence, in a country where class-differences are slowly building up enough reason for war, how do you speak to us of faith?
Faith in what? or whom?
A deity that walked away from this place centuries ago? Governments that plunder, loot and then stand by their patriotic albeit hypocritical and clearly-wrong decisions?
Excuse me please.
We might be made in God's image but surely there is a reason God took His own away from this just after 30 years. He should have stayed. Keep encouraging the rest of us mere mortals along.
But what sort of loving parent leaves their beloved son in this forsaken place?
So pardon my cheek God, but when do you plan on coming back for the rest of us? We also are your children.
Right?

Say Paul, ya think you could write letters to this day's peeps?

There is alot to be said for life's happy moments. But in summary; they do not last. Love dies. Or fades away. Or burns you.
Friends leave, friends move, friends die.
I will miss you Yasmin. Come back soon. Please. Please. You're one of my rocks.
Dreams die or take the life out of you as you fight for them.
Men can be real scum-of-the-earth-characters. Not all of them. On this, I will always insist.
Happiness is fleeting. Joy is something we all write about. Way less than all of us actually believe it.
The truth is, it is as elusive as happiness. Pain and hurt are lacking in the etiquette department. They do not call before they show up.
So we smile. We laugh. We kiss and make merry when we can. We grab at our dreams the first chance we get. Because deep down we are painfully aware of this-that this minute's happiness most likely doesn't have any intentions of making it to the next minute.

So this girl turns to alcohol. And mentally challenges the now sainted-and-heaven-residing Paul.
And reaches for her inhaler.
No one said this was going to be easy.

Drunk, achy and...waging war. Mbu.

Self-Love; A Delicate Art.

"Love Thy Self." With flowers, if necessary.

"I love you, Maureen."

That is me sending myself off at the start at each day. Yes, I look myself in the mirror,try to look beyond the new zit that has comfortably lodged itself on the most visible part of my forehead, and tell myself or my mirror reflection that I am loved. It is sorta corny. It has a desperate ring to it. And I will be the first to tell you that it works. Not the mean-staring at the zit in the hope that it will melt away. Pimples do not respond to psychological torture.

The expression of self love. That works. We as human beings are greatly flawed. We have shortcomings, laced with quirks and to top that off, a pile of sins that would call for Christ's second crucifixion. Yes, we as a species can be very unlovable. Most humans in fact, go out of their way to make themselves especially unlovable. 

I believe for most people, it would be okay if the lack of love was limited to the rest of the world. Who cares if the girl at your office loathes you because you have all the major designer labels as permanent residents of your closet? Eish!!Find a good knock-off dealer.

It IS the real thing.

But when the lack of love for self emanates from the self itself...well...Trouble looms.Trouble that can be spelt in many different ways; low-self esteem, self-depreciating thoughts, self-hate, negative self image, and in the case of Gilbert Arinaitwe, plain old stupidity. If you're going to vandalise private property, attack defenceless political figures in full view of TV cameras, wear a hood, or cap. I mean, there's a reason all these crime series are all over our TVs. And it has nothing to do with mastering forensic science.

The majority of us lucked out when we majored in literature and divinity. Self-love is necessary, as necessary as breathing. In the long run, anyway. Self-love means you look your majorly-injured self in your impaired-eye and learn to:

Fully Accept

That you will forever be 5"2" tall or short, that your hips are actually dependant on bone structure&; no amount of dieting will lessen their width. Or girth. For one to even have a slight element of success in loving one-self, one needs to fully comprehend that most of our flaws, or assumed flaws cannot be overcome. You cannot change the fact that your father decided his love& commitment came with a shelf life. You will not change the fact that you gave years of irreplaceable time to a man that woke up& decided those years were not enough. He had to take your heart& belief in all men good. No, you will not change the fact that your only show of family wealth is your university degree. 

But you have an education, and so you can start a whole new family drama where your name will be a force to reckon. You can grieve over that man and understand that loving someone with all of you is no guarantee they won't walk all over you. You can realize that while you missed out on fatherly love, you maxed out on motherly affection& sibling rivalry. Which teaches you self control.

Acceptance doesn't mean you let yourself stay in mediocrity. It doesn't mean you remain in an unhealthy relationship-romantic or otherwise, because you feel its your " Burden to carry." 

It means, you allow that the powers that be already decided how your body will look. The people you love have their own minds (even when you know you have a better mind)& most importantly, we cannot control most of what happens to us or change what happened. We can forfeit denial. We can accept it.

At least the tape still fits.

Forgive.

My very first lesson in forgiveness involved forgiveness of another. You know, the Bible story where Jesus tells those people that they must forgive one another in multiples of seven? That one. I believe that to forgive others who have in some way, caused us pain is noble. I mean, how could they stop writing "Friends"? That took time to get over. I know that to forgive spells maturity in character and spiritual evolution. But I also know that when someone causes me any sort of harm, I prefer revenge. Served frozen. With second helpings; my anger has a healthy appetite. Forgiveness of others is difficult. You're telling the one that caused you irreparable damage that you're choosing to grant pardon. That you're willing to put away their painful act as one of life's lessons. Okay, while at it, don't lose the lesson. Forgive. NEVER forget. Not me. I am-an-eye-for-an-eye-woman. I do not owe any one any forgiveness. You hurt me, I deal how I know; frozen responses.

But to forgive others is not my problem here. My mother has made it her life mission to instil this virtue in me. There's hope. She did get me to start cooking. I am at the sausage-grilling stage. 

The greatest lesson in self-love is forgiveness of oneself. 

So, no one else will....

You need. No, you MUST learn to forgive yourself. It is easy to cast stones at others. It is easier to point fingers, since stoning might damage one's recent manicure.  But how do you cast a stone when the finger is pointing at you? How do you look yourself in the mirror and reconcile the reflection to that insensitive thing you just did? Like look that girl in the eye& tell her you are not kissing with her boyfriend. Then proceed to send said boyfriend a text. Complete with a kissey smiley.

Say," Auntie!!!"(Stock Photo)

To get past the fact that you have caused hurt. You, have broken a heart. You, are the reason someone else is crying. Not because you just keeled over& died, but because you are bringing their world down, passionately. Heartlessly. To forgive yourself for poor choices, for opportunities not taken, for decisions that took the lift and life out of your character. That is difficult. Because it is kinda norm for people to disappoint. Expected even. But when you are the disappointment, that is....sad.

Since I can't serve myself iced reactions to callous behaviour, I have learned that forgiveness of self is best. It soothes my guilty soul. It makes it easier to point fingers at others. But it is no easy task. Mostly because I have such high standards of behaviour for myself that when I fall even remotely short of them, I freeze. 

And panic.And hate myself. Then I drag me from the mud I've slung at my sinful self. And make smarter choices. You grant yourself permission to be human. You walk away from other girl's boyfriend.

Un-cautioned borrowing affects the borrower. Ditto unforgiveness. Of self.

Moving On.

Anyone that has read any of my posts knows I am kind of stuck in that time zone. I miss Schweppes. I miss, miss "Friends" I have failed to move on with "How I Met Your Mother." I love Sean Connery.

I love you, I love you, I do.

Enough said, I believe.
So it is no major wonder that I have failed to fully let go of things and people that in the first place, had no business being in my life. That I let them in is shocking enough. That I am still attached is beyond shocking. 'Tis baffling. And liable to make you feel really silly. Not in a funny way. Me?? I granted myself full permission to be silly eons ago. That was when I realized my affinity to the past. Probably why I still am stuck. Because moving on requires for a sound reality check. It means you have to look at the phone& realize he is NOT going to call. Again. Ever. And then stop yourself from wondering what you did wrong.

To move on calls for courage; to leave that familiar office job& start at a new venture, doing something you truly love. Drat less money& hence, less new shoes. Inner satisfaction is a greater treasure. I believe half the issue with moving is is the getting out of the familiarity zone. The cheating boyfriend still knows which spots to kiss best. The never-there-when-you-need-them friend still knows your darkest secrets and greatest fears.

And the said-brighter future which is promised for those that move on is...well, it is the future.
Why move on when you have the comfort of old hurts, the solace of beautiful-turned painful memories? Why move on when your heart says it doesn't think it can do it? The poor heart has resolved to love meanie boyfriend just as he is. Why not let it be?? Why move on to mountain dew??

Because Schweppes is NOT coming back.

Because if he missed me even an iota of how much I missed him, he'd have called. Because if he didn't love the other girl enough, he would not have married her. Because the new job will start to pay off majorly. The universe blesses all work done with love. Because staying in a  bad situation, actively or memory-wise is wasting precious time. Because self-love requires you pluck yourself out of the past.

The future awaits. It favours those who carry no remnants of previous bad times. Nanti it is also on a roll. No time to back track.

One past step at a time.

Self-love is a delicate art. Because mastering it today is no promise you'll remember how-to tomorrow. Because practice doesn't make perfect in this case. It makes acceptance. It brings forgiveness. It leaves the baggage behind. Self-love requires you to daily perform small acts of compassion to yourself, because each day brings more reason to dislike yourself. Self-love is looking in the mirror and loving the unique magnificence that is you; flawed, broken, chapped, bruised and sinful.

Self-love is doing this each day. Self-love is the greatest lesson you can learn.

Also, it is the one easiest to lose.

And what a biiig hit, it is.

"I love you, Maureen."

bAcK In tHe DaY.....




These Days.

  Yes, those days when the standard unit of measure for political aspirations was Nelson Mandela or Mahatma Gandhi. When I had no idea that most of the wars in the world were a direct cause of greed, selfishness, and more greed. At the age when I believed in the goodness of men and the decency of women. Then I grew up and reality came crashing in. I saw men for what they really are, I learned that behind the smile of most women, there lay a dangerous fang. One that bit hard& deep, with intent to harm.
But childhood was filled with more than illusions about the nature of man. There were some real pleasures to growing up in my day.Let's go back in time and reminisce.



The Facts Of Life.

 Actually Funny Comedies. 
Seriously, the comedy at that time was hilarious. There were hardly any laugh tracks, the jokes were actually funny. People did not necessarily pick on other people's weaknesses in an attempt to be funny. Unavoidable weaknesses, that is. A bad hair do is laughter material. A family destroyed by a political scandal is not.  I remember shows like"Just shoot me," "News radio," "The facts of life,"..."Mind your language,"and the winner of them all, "FRIENDS." I do not care what any one says, "How I met your mother " is no match for "Friends". None of that cast can match Phoebe's weird nature or Chandler's satire or Ross' plain wussiness. If wussiness is a word. We grew up watching Will Smith be funny and truthfully, I can't say the same for people growing up on "Shit my dad says."
Bound to grow into crap-spewing adults.

Real TV.
No program director worth his name would have allowed things like "Amarula Family" to even get past the reception area of the station.HOW??? And risk choking viewers to their death on their own puke??How all these Spanish soaps have increasingly managed to penetrate the TV arena in the last years is proof that things are not good. Mbu...simanyi" It could be you"...People, we grew up on "The young and the restless," we watched "The bold and the beautiful" and more serious dramas. Deception, lust and lies were the real thing.
Your mother stole your boy friend and you only found out on their wedding day, where you were the maid-of-honor. You were not able to predict the ending of the series, and when time to close shop came, they did.
Nothing like unending seasons of the day to day life of Jack Bauer.Our producers knew when to quit.
These days they expose the kids to reality TV. "Kendra.....blah, blah...," "Keeping up with the Kardishians...." How about someone feel sorry for Kendra and buy her a brain? How about we stop exposing children to totally-scripted& plastic life styles and then complaining when they want the Iphone4 at 13??

If you are going to be a bad enough parent and show your kids the shallowness& deceit that fills the life of those society worships and most admires, show them the real thing.

These chicas were not simple.

"Footballers' Wives" will do.

Music.

I shall not put an adjective before the word. Simply because there is close to no decent music these days. In days gone by, music was....music. Deep, catchy and sang by people that could actually put their vocal cords to decent use. The pass these days is simply being able to speak. Say a few words and the producers will create magic. Or almost-magic. Miley Cyrus has refused to respond to all forms of magic spells. Even the hip hop fraternity had real beef to match their talent.Tupac and Biggie were the real deal. Nothing like,



Hit 'em up!!!

 
"This is why I'm m hot, this is why you're not,
I''m hot coz I'm fly, you aint coz you not...".
Seriously? I could pen badder lyrics. Music meant to be funny had lyrics to match. Case in point, "Every day people" by Arrested development.
Folk like Diddy formerly known as P.Diddy were kept away from recording studios.There is need to create a curriculum on the history& making of real music, compulsory for all wanna-be-divas& rappers. Anyone that needs auto tune to make semblance of a tune is failed.
And sent to writing school. Red Pepper is in dire need of basic-grammar armed writers.

ALZAWADI.
If there is any thing that university children of the current era have missed, it is that bar. Alzawadi...SIGH!!! Let me tell you about this bar ma props...(erm, properly).
Otherwise known as street bar to my year mates, with the main bar the size of a small carry-away-only fast food joint. Mostly because 99% of the patronage was out in the street. Yes, we dressed up in barely there skirts, tried to concoct cool hair stlyes from our otherwise bland& plain braids and did what the the majority of college students do, partied till dawn. In the road. Red pepper wouldn't have had to hack into people's face book accounts in a bid to create stories. The sights at that place would have created real scandal worthy news.
Yes, bars continue to sprout all over the place. But the difference is, we were allowed to be young at Alzawadi. We were allowed to look our age& try to act older by drinking things that would burn a car engine down, but still, the silly innocence was firmly in place. Who walked in with what man barely mattered in my 1st year. Now you go to Casablanca and 15-year old girls are attired in dresses that would make Carmen Electra blush and name-dropping boy friends' names. Men who buy them a cocktail and in return, take their innocence.
Younger boys are smoking things even Elephant Man wouldn't touch. Kids trying to be adults. The truth is, adulthood does come around. And it's not so glamorous. But by this time, these kids have been carrying around the burden of trying to seem older for so long, they don't realize there was a time when the world would have forgiven them anything.
The world is not as kind to careless real adults. You pay for your mistakes in hard currency.



Schweppes!!!

 Schweppes!!!!!
I am happily addicted to coca cola. I do not think there is any other soft drink on the surface of the earth...scratch that. I KNOW there isn't any other drink on the entire earth that even on its best, best day,( having had the brightest chemists work on it for about ten years) would match the ishness of an ice cold coke.
People puhuliz!!! Coke is the best thing ever invented by man. Right after Gin.
But, before coke, there was Schweppes. In pineapple& cream flavors. Sunday family lunches were spent trying to get a much color on your tongue from this awesome drink. Then there was crush..Heavenly...sugary drinks were exactly that, wicked!!!
Now they go and make things like mountain dew. And fanta berry( Coke, am so sorry. But your purply relative is lousy. She must be a distant cousin's aunt on the other side, right??)
Fanta strawberry is  very much trying to resemble Schweppes cream, but so far only the scent sort of gets it.  And am guilty of liking the past so much, I buy it for that reason. OK, I also sip it. Delicately though.
Replicated drinks are an acquired taste.

In a Word;
I love the fabolous(ity) that comes with growing up. I love that conversations get deeper, that you start to know what actually matters, and that you let go of pre-conceived ideas which by the way, were put into your mind by a mother trying to keep scare you away from the deadly sins and purgatory.
But I miss the things that pushed us through childhood and nudged us into adulthood. No, we didn't have FaceBook, we didn't have Android-whatevers but we had clean, mind-jogging television.
Most of all, we had adults that would have died to protect us, adults that let us be children but ensured we grew into adults who'd not hate their own mirror reflections. Am all for growing up& maturity, but could we please stop charging the children we're meant to be sheltering? Making them pay a fee that breaks their hearts& steals away their carefree& happily-naive souls?
Could we please give them a chance at a baggage-free adult hood? And while we are at it, could we tell the U.S.A to stop having double standards? Oil-loaded or not, a war-torn state deserves all the help it can get. Somalia...Sudan...Northern Uganda, where the hell were you?

Then, because we need a reason to make us forget all present-day troubles, could we bring back some real TV?




I HAD TO PUT THIS IN!! DUH!!?!



I am not stuck in the past, no. I am simply saying let us make the present a time that will bring some sort of light to the history books.
With Love,( in those days, this actually meant something, not an attempt to get something)
Moe.

The Facts Of Life; Part One.

I have been around for a few years. On this planet, I mean. And as a I get older but not necessarily wiser, I have come to a few conclusions. Life is not a written script, we have more power than we can ever imagine. Over our dreams, the decisions we make, the dreams we follow, or let go of, the friends we keep close or lose through sheer laziness, the food we eat, aka Domino's beef burgers& coke for lunch VS a healthy salad..yuck,yuck..

Yes, some things we can maneuver. But then other things, which are some of the most defining, well...we find ourselves at the center of a drama, with no recollection of even agreeing to star in the damn thing, in the first place.

Its been a long& intense 20something years. Scenes change, the faces keep changing, but some things well..stay the same. Wrapped different for differing scenarios, but yes, the same;

Love Can Break Your Heart.

And it doesn't have to be that boy that made your heart skip or the girl that somehow got through your tough manly layers. Love is...wider than the romantic, and so is heartbreak. It is your first best friend dying of cancer before you're done with primary school. It is your father, the man who also happens to have been your first love, falling off so high a pedestal and taking your young heart with him.

It is also watching a woman you love, adore and respect so much, suffer for a love that is clearly domed to fail. It is watching your young face succumb to shadows, and feel the iron wring its way around your heart. When you're a child, Love can break you in ways psychologists have failed to clearly define..

And when you're growing up, it it is the ignorance that your first love shall last forever that I believe re-opens old wounds...and loving and believing in that man that continuously breaks your heart. You cry, close up your heart for a while, until the next son of God walks your way..and your heart skips a beat...

In brief, the heart is treacherous, it doesn't know what it wants. It does not obey you.Suffocate it.Be the boss of it. None of that pain is worth it. None.

Men are Easy. 

Yes, they are.Read on;

• They like to eat.
• The majority like beer.
• They don't like shopping or Spanish soaps.
• Very few can keep up with a paragraph. Give them pictures. Or stick men.
• Short skirts and heels get them. ALL THE TIME.
• Ditto fitting jeans. On a nicely curved booty.
• I hear lingerie brings stars to their eyes.
• When a man wants a girl in any sort of way, stand aside please. Earth and heaven shall be moved.
• And yes, they hurt. It will never show. But if you look carefully, many of them have shadowed and dead eyes. Their light is out.
• Their fears rally around money, being able providers, and being able to afford sleek cars. 

See, we complicate these species. Mostly 'coz we refuse to use our minds. But hey, when you're done burying your head in the sand, you won't believe how short the distance to the surface is.

God has a sense of humor.
How else dare someone call this messed up human species His highest creation? We blow people up in His name,and He still lets us live. We are petty enough to judge people based on tribal affiliation and religion, we have somehow managed to reduce the planet to a near-breaking point, and we invent games like cricket. Seriously.
But He doesn't wipe us out. He sends us the sun, and the rain, and children because we are so filled with our vanity that we have lost touch with what matters. And then we subject those children to Stone Cold Steve Austin& have the guts to turn to Him when they make cocaine their best friend.
He made roaches, house flies and cats. He is very funny. These creatures only affirm the fact that God isn't above amusement.I think they keep Him sane on the days when we decide to take 13year old girls& make them sex slaves.
If I were God, I'd have blown the whole lot of you to shreds by now. And then blown you up again.
Just to make sure.
Then I'd go back to my slimy& winged creatures.And smile. At least they get the concept of peaceful co-existence. But then I am not God.
Lucky fools.

Fate Is A Woman.
Women are complicated. Our mind wiring is interconnected, intertwining, and yet so loosely connected. We spend hours scouting stores for the perfect brooch to a dress, and we have no qualms about dragging the men who claim to love us along. Constant re-assurance. We really like that.
A woman'll whip up an amazing meal, love you even& especially when you don't deserve it. And just when you're about to crown her a saint, she'll bust the windows out of your car. And blame it on hormones.
We're deep like that.
But we're also the strongest creation ever made. We'll smell another perfume but still serve your dinner, and make breakfast for your kids, and put up with your whinny mother& sisters. A woman will spend the night sobbing but layer up  her eyes in mascara and smile at the world. We do battle best but love the hardest.
We will hug you, but find a way to stick that knife in really deep...especially if you're another woman and the man on your hand really appeals to us. These things are never personal. I swear.
Now,the connection with fate; The perfect man is taken...to the point where no home-wrecking tip will help you.., the person that loves you rightest cannot stir up even an inch of a heart-race, but the one who walks all over you mindlessly makes your heart soar. The heart is stupid. Fate is never clear- you make your bed& someone else lays in it, you get wealthy but fail to find love, you're the nice guys all the girls love...but not that way.
We are a cruel species.We make men and break kings and give birth to Hitler-like villains but also to the saints and Messiahs.
What you see is what you get. But most of the time, it isn't.
I love being a woman. Complexity comes naturally. Men need the Grand Prix for that.

Part Two....In the making.




























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