Social Media in Africa

"Someone who truly loves you sees what a mess you can be, how moody you can get and how hard you are to handle at times, but still wants you."

I read this quote from #Twitter last night and it spoke to me. This quote and another one previously posted on Facebook (taken from #Tumblr), about not having a handle on your life's track, were taken from other social media sites where I've found people can be open, raw, ditzy, and vulnerable and instead of judgment, they get retweets or likes and comments. Their posts posit off-color remarks, happenstances, not straight lines coloring but coloring outside the lines into a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. That's what I loved about social media (before FB), the more vulnerable you are to your readers, the more they can relate to you, come back to your words.

Not sure if this is the African way of doing social media but it's the social media that I know and love. And it's not politics every day or salacious gossip about what this celeb is doing to whom, or man/woman relationship sensationalism - it's everyday people living everyday lives finding a way to get by and dealing with its struggles and their shortcomings.

I'm going to try to get back to that and shun all the noise to edit my content or to make it conform to my current society (Nigeria) and their ubiquitous moral platitudes that are restrictive and strangely only applicable to women. And the women in their adaptation of the moral framework learn to ostracise anyone who doesn't live their life by the rules - color inside the lines. In the end this infestation of the liberal mindset leaves you without words that can be not misinterpreted  or misconstrued by your immediate environment. In other words, indirect censorship. This is Africa, and I am indeed sad, this is now my creative space. 

Why don't we, instead of just judging, sit back to enjoy the words, and allow them to move us. We might learn a thing or two about ourselves. 

 --#AnitaWrites

Love Energy

"Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time .... "

Maya Angelou

Let's say based on your current situation, you suddenly find yourself filled with love, warmth, tenderness, softness and this feeling just overwhelms you almost. You get touched by love, warmth, positivity and this abounding love energy in you is asking you to share it with everyone, touch everyone with it, let them know that you are no longer angry, bitter, because you've seen what love is and it feels good, like this calming soothing elixir, you know. 

Let's say in this euphoric feeling, you are mesmerized into making amends with everyone, even that one person you haven't spoken to in months whom you stopped caring about, but it doesn't matter today because today you know peace, love and the value of friendship, today you are in love with yourself and the earth around you. 

So you pick up the phone and make that call, saying, this is only going to be a 2 minute phone call to catch up. You hope that person, with time, like all the others, is filled with this great love energy and won't be as insensitive or sound as vile as you both left things. That the love they've found just like yours will put them at peace with the earth and then, you can have your 2 minute chat and you can talk about the fact that you no longer work and that even though at times it gets upsetting and scary you have found some sense of resolve in the situation. 

The 2 minute chat ends and everything is fine. You hope that when the person calls the next day, if at all, the tremendous love energy that you shared will spur this person to say: I heard about this your problem yesterday and let's put our heads together to solve this. I am at peace with my life, in love and overwhelmed with its goodness, but I want to spread it to everyone especially you, who once girded my loins, you deserve to be at peace. It is not fair that you have been put in this situation without work, I want to help you solve it, it's the least I can do. 

You wait and wait. But they don't say it. They instead call to get work from you. They are eager for the new business that you just asked them about, that has perked their interest. So after waiting for this person to clue in, still fresh from the euphoric glow and believing that love connects all of us, especially some of us who were once connected at the hip, you ask: So you heard I was out of work and you couldn't call to ask how I was? All I wanted was to hear from you but you didn't call. 

Then, the bitterness, disdain and sheer resentment that this poor soul has harbored for you comes gushing out. At this point you are still euphoric, in fact, you've experienced kindness at its extreme, all you want to do is hug the world because you didn't know this level of kindness, softness and love still existed in it. To get it from someone you least expected even makes it more profound. So you turn to this misguided soul, who you had expected to show you the meaning of kindness and softness but instead they showed you the meaning of aversion, regret and spite, you instantly admonish their actions saying: I wanted you to be the man in my crazy life, this love and kindness I am getting, I expected to get it from you. I expected you to be there for me, be my ride or die,  but instead you found every excuse not to be. 

So when you come off that euphoric high and start to get infected by the hate, smog and stupidity in the world, your eyes get clear and in the light of day you realize, reaching out was such a mistake. You had been overwhelmed by the love energy from your situation, you were sensitive and tender and for one second, you thought being in love had touched him too. You were wrong. 

Love. It is such a delicate thing. If everyone were to be in love there would be no time for grudges, resentment and hurtful words. We would all want to touch everyone with the abounding love we have inside in hopes that it will rub off on them. Sometimes, unfortunately, we touch the wrong person. That's okay. 

Learn to accept that. 

Lagos...in October

Spent 8 days in October visiting Lagos. 8 Blissful days. Kissing that wonderful city softly with my poetic sensuality.

In the 8 days, there were some cold, dismissive moments, some admittedly stupid moments, some lonely moments, some hilarious moments, some unrivaled friendship moments and some "my eyes to God" moments. There were many me moments, and there were moments where I saw the face of kindness, glimpses of softness, weakness and, in some ways, love, which is rare to find in Lagos.

Overall it was a good trip, very colorful and revelatory. 

It gave me a chance to connect with old lovers and make new ones. 

I found out that the one connecting link between these very different men I have been involved with is me, their affection for me and their heart, they all have such big hearts. That's what I fell for. 

When men feel...it reminds you that they are not just tools, makes you regard them more, as human beings and not just instruments of hurt and pain and neglect and manipulative selfishness. 

It's more representative of them being the other sex - there's man and there's woman. And we have been put on this earth to co-exist together which includes caring for one another's wellbeing. 

It's a superb rare feeling when men feel. Almost something to celebrate, relish. 

Sunday Morning Preacher

Got awakened this morning, this Sunday morning at 5.11 am, by a town crier preacher.

He was on his bullhorn screeching religious songs of some sort into his inaudible loudspeaker tool. 

At first, I didn't know where I was. I had recently returned from a metropolitan city where days like Sunday mornings are sacred, and are instead spent qualitatively sleeping off your hangover. I proceeded to the restroom, awakened further by the intrusion of the light bulbs and the cold air on my skin. Upon my return to my bed, I became fully aware of my surroundings, but still unable to decipher the voice over the speakers or his mission this morning. What did he hope to achieve? To convert non-believers, by disrupting their slumber this early on a Sunday morning? He must have assumed, "What better day to get their attention? What better medium except for a call to action? Arise sinners, and by all means, do repent."

The gramophone sounded overworked and grainy, or maybe that was just in my head from being rudely torn from my slumber a mere 2 hours after falling asleep. As I wrestled myself back to sleep using the hum of the air conditioner to drown out his wails, I wondered how I got into this mess - living my life in the suburbs where people neglect the sanctity of the weekend, especially Saturdays. What are Saturday mornings for? Do they even know. Saturday mornings are to say embrace that hug that is your consolation for having survived yet another chaotic humdrum work week. Do they even know? What about Sunday mornings? Sunday mornings are brunch mornings where you get to relive the debauchery of the weekend over cocktails and pancakes that somehow have a way of comforting you as they energize you for the week ahead. 

In my current environment, can they respect that this is my one 24 hours to escape into single person bliss and pretend to be "non-suburbian" aka normal? Since I don't have the Saturday morning overnight visitor or the elaborate Sunday brunches, all I have is a goodnights rest, can they at least give me that moment of solace.

Eventually I fell asleep, and when I awakened 30 minutes later, he was done with his 'sermon on the roadside' and I was left wishing, hoping to end up in a place that respects the sanctitude of weekend abyss.

As a single person, what do Saturday and Sunday Mornings represent to you?

Life is Unfair

Funny how certain people who trample on everyone in this life still manage to succeed, excel even, while the rest of us, no matter how much positive energy we emit still end up unemployed, lonesome, middling through our days and missing the assholes in our past - who have long moved on.

 --File this under Life is Unfair and He was not a good person (everyone said so, signs were there but I chose to ignore them and trust in the good in all of us)

When The Other Woman Calls...

As a follow up to my "Adult Backpacking" story, I wrote the piece below, loosely inspired by real events. I know it is rare that I put up short stories on Anita Writes, however, there are some events that are better captured in prose style to create the scene, to put the reader in your shoes when the event occurred, and to also help me write not just about parties, and food and wine, but also about life, in all its colorful glory.

I hope you read through everything. I dedicate this to that my one friend:
Thank you for introducing me to my soft. I hope we both stay soft because it looks a heck of a lot better on us. 

She comes in on Sunday night. Fresh faced, young with a smile greeting me as if I’m her big auntie. She drops her bag on the dining table with a plop and sashays into the kitchen like she owns the place, completely oblivious of the pre-existence of another woman in this home.

I cleaned that kitchen today. I cooked, then carefully washed up all the pots, pans and loose food on the kitchen and the kitchen floor. This is not her problem. She wants to establish her presence in this home, show me who’s boss, regardless of my pre-existence, she wants to show me she’s the superior being, like man showed the dinosaurs. She washes her hand in the kitchen sink, washes off those outside germs from sitting in her car waiting for him to come home. She nabs one of my bottles of water from the fridge and proceeds to the living room sofa, grabbing a seat by the corner she crosses her legs comfortably and beckons him to sit beside her and keep her company during her cosy visit. 

I bought that pack of water that she has so care freely grabbed a bottle of. I bought and carried it home, my Uber and I, sans personal vehicle. Does she know that? Or does that even matter to her? Does that matter to him?

They proceed to spend quality time on the couch, talking in close whispers and giggling at their jokes. He has said no more than 2 sentences to me in the past 3 days since I’ve been in his home, but for her, he suddenly has words, plenty words, multiple words that come in sentences, oft-humorous sentences that get her to laugh and throw her head back as she sips from the bottled water. They ask each other questions in whispers and she nods in empathy, sharing his point of view on some nonsensical matter or the other, which would have mattered to me if only he had shared them with me instead of the odd words and grunts I have been continuously served. He confides some more, obviously the sharer that he suddenly is, he talks about his weekend, his adventures and they laugh without reference, inclusion, or recognition of me or my presence. She takes a break from the conversation to ask to use the restroom. He stands up to check the state of the restroom before he ushers her in. I pretend not to be insulted. Do you know what the state of that restroom was before I shed my womanly virtues nurturing it? There wasn’t even any toilet paper. No bathroom soap and toilet paper. I hurled the toiler paper, my Uber and I, along with the bottled water. And I dispensed my expensive bathroom gel into the empty dispenser so I could have luxurious soap to cleanse my hands each time I do my business. But that doesn't matter to her. None of this seemingly insignificant details are her problem. 

They go back to their cosy discussion on the couch. I toss, turn, feel the darts of insult gently prick me on my dining table chair. I try to write but the words do not find themselves, they sound just as empty as his words to me in the last 3 days. I try to do anything but seem bothered by this girl child in my home. I cannot seem to focus on anything of importance. I call everyone I know and care about. My mom, my aunt, then I call a good girlfriend from Atlanta - big sister always has a solution to every Negro problem. I proceed to have the girlfriend conversation loud and proud in the living room, hoping the noise of my exuberance will deafen and eventually quench the sensitivity of their moment. We talk for 30 minutes and as I end the phone call, this girl still exists, on my couch, in my living room, drinking my water, with her bag on the dining room table right beside mine. This, I sense is a problem. 

I try to imagine if I were her what would I do. Will I sit there on the couch sharing a supposed tender moment with this guy while another woman’s in the room? No. I would leave, greet the other woman, acknowledge and respect her presence in the home and then, politely excuse myself on my way home. I don’t want to share my intimate living room conversation with another girl in the same room. She don’t know me. I could be crazy, I have been known to be crazy. I could have grown madder with each intrusion into the home I had managed all weekend, with each step, I could have shown her the way out. I could have said, “Don’t step into the kitchen I spent my Sunday cleaning, don’t open the fridge I cleaned out, and certainly don’t drink the water I hurled over here, my Uber and I.” 

Instead I remained quiet. With my phone in hand, and the voices on the other line pleading with me to remain calm, to cage the “Atlanta Housewife” in me and to wait for the anger to dissipate into the Sunday night air. So I did. 

For that I write. For humiliating experiences like these and many more. I shoulder the pain so I can have words, that turn into sentences, colorful sentences that make sense and hopefully, empower. 

Why else would that be, me, on a Sunday night?