Guest Post: Boredom & The 30 Something

I am bored. I feel the inertia setting in and the slow suffocation of will taking root just as the sun begins to rear its unfamiliar head over London Town. I get this nagging sensation every so often, usually after a taxing incident (or person) and I seek, nay crave, newness to re-energise my life.

The symptoms:  easily distracted, trying to focus on everything and nothing, seeking a divine inspiration or spiritual awakening for focus.  Typically I spot the signs early (wanting to pound my boyfriend’s face when he speaks, making eye contact with the teenage gaggle on the bus like I’m ‘She-Ra’  and screaming obscenities through the car window when drivers ahead of me don’t move the instant the light turns green),  taking immediate steps to remedy the situation. This time it’s crept up and I’ve unwittingly (that’s a code word for lazily) ignored it, bogged down with fending off the usual headaches of life, that I didn't want to recognise my growing disdain for myself.



I have always been gregarious, in fact as a kid I was outright bodacious; I’d go as far as bad ass.  I marched (never walked) with focus and intent, never letting my shortcomings de-rail my goals. At 16 I loved fashion. So I decided to host a fashion show in aid of charity. Such was my dogged determination I wrote mercilessly to head offices, beguiled store managers and even coerced the local club manager for space in his venue in exchange for a mention in the local paper - an article I was yet to secure when I made him the offer. The result was two spectacular sold out shows with over 20 high street retailers and front page of the local paper. I did the same again a few years later, this time having established my own business.  At 18 I went to America for three months over summer to work and escape my mother. To ensure a lasting memory I jumped out of a plane - supposedly for fun. Then university in London where I went to every ‘it club’ around, watched footballers pour over blond anorexics with fake boobs and drank the lemonade (yes I was still tee total) offered by the Nigerian fraudsters my friends were dating at the time. We holidayed in Milan and New York, buying Gucci and Versace (ten years on I'm still paying off the student loan) and then returned home to our flat in central London. At 25 I bought a house. Today I leave for work at 6.45am and return home around 7pm after an epic 2 hour commute across London. It’s a stable but uninspiring job which enables me to pay the mortgage on my flat in a dodgy part of south London. I occasionally do an aerobics video when I get in (can’t afford the gym) and am in bed by 10pm. This has been the sum total of my life for months. The sky diving, Gucci and dancing on tables in China White is a distant memory.

Distraction: My friend just text me “At Christening. Children screaming and running round in circles. Do you think this is what hell looks like?” I respond “If so, you’ve served more than your fair share of time with the devil.” She’s right, when did children become part of our social calendar? Over the bank holiday my friend her baby and husband came to visit. We went out only to see another friend as her two year old was celebrating his birthday. Every single person at the party was with child or expecting child, or parents of fully grown children espousing the staid methods of raising children versus the modern super nanny techniques. I scurried from peppy perplexing family to fat frumpy and frustrated family stuck for relevant topics of conversation, not knowing the first thing about breast feeding, nipple cream or vaginal floor exercises. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!

Step one of my journey towards a ‘new me’ is to find childless friends with a wealth of interesting witty banter, living wild, inappropriate and somewhat dysfunctional lives. I’m still young for goodness sake. I’m done hearing about sleep times, feeding routines and fear of stitching (in areas no one but God should know of); no I don’t watch One Born Every Minute and whether it’s a girl or boy brings me no joy, only the dread of another blasted receipt for yet another overpriced baby grow that will within days be a perpetual shade of brown. Give me a story about inappropriate sex with a psychotic schizophrenic rapper (who is a genius – ‘so his crazy tendencies can be forgiven’: my friends words, not mine), a soliloquy about the role of gender bias in the Great Gatsby or a giggle over Vin Diesel’s muscles over baby chat any day.

In the past to combat my aimlessness I’ve turned to writing. In fact my first ever blog arose from one of my worst periods of disillusionment - Mid twenties, manless, in a no-where job with no room for progression (or a pay increase), in a flat  I couldn’t afford, having no sex - despite my very sexy flatmate and basically wishing away my youth. I wrote about the one place from which I drew most frustration yet fulfilment; where I was destined to be shocked appalled, mesmerised and most of all entertained: my hair dresser in the depths of London’s blackest (ergo poorest) neighbourhood. It was great fun and the regularity of my posts gave me focus. At other times I’ve turned to sport.  I joined a women’s boxing club one summer, when the size of my arse become unbearable. It was invigorating. As I pummelled a bag or the ribs of my sparring partner- the comments of  'wouldn't want to cross you in a dark alley’ or ‘your man must be scared of you’ from the menfolk were inspired.
Rekindling these hobbies is a pragmatic start but wall climbing, swimming, running or boxing is not going to nourish my soul. They are distractions from the bigger quandary of seeking a purpose…

Distraction: My pal Kerry calls. We spend an hour talking about her loathing for hideous  job where the vastly male workforce take it upon themselves to scratch inappropriately in her presence, fart and then laugh without the slightest hint of embarrassment or tell her, her ‘tits look big - it must be her time of the month’. Her title is Project Manager, but she is only given the projects that no one else wants to deal with and then her boss takes the glory upon completion, having not even deigned to respond to her initial requests for a thorough brief at the onset. One of the bitchy men even started a rumour that she was having an affair simply because she went for a walk a few times a week with a colleague to rant about how underutilised she felt at work. This is a woman who desperately needs more out of life. Hopefully her three week road trip around America will help with perspective. It’s time to go, a new beginning beckons or I fear a claim of sexual harassment as the only viable alternative.

What about a language? Hmm I got a D in my French GCSE – despite crediting myself with a B on my CV - That’s what too much time down the alley with the smokers does for you. Or dance? Does the fact that I was the worst Azonto dancer (bar my dad) in Accra last Christmas stand in my way? I seem to have lost my rhythm around the time I stopped distinguishing the words in popular songs and thought it easier to make up my own e.g. Drake’s ‘On one’ could easily be mistaken for ‘Home grown’ which when you think about it is far more logical. Then there is my favourite option, trampolining  Seriously, I would love to hurl myself in the air, twirling occasionally and landing in perfect symmetry only to do it all again, this time higher. But to be in gymnastics class with children, inevitably better than me would be a tad embarrassing. My father would tell me to do something that would derive an income. ‘An entrepreneur turns her hobby into a viable business proposition’, he would say. He’s right –maybe I could set up a trampoling school for adults?

I’m not really sure how to conclude. Life is tough and as you get older the glamour of your youth fades? Bulshit, your thirties are the best years of your life, so it’s time that I wake up, stop pondering and create some memories.  It’s time to dust off my clear heels, because dancing on the table is back on the agenda

More about → Guest Post: Boredom & The 30 Something

Guest Post: Ghana-5 Reasons To Go

When did this happen? When did Africa even feature as a destination of choice, I grew up somewhat conflicted about the motherland; on one hand it was the harrowing subject matter for Band Aid, charity adverts and Bono –starving children, Malaria, famine and war symbolised the Dark Continent. Yet that was my not my reality. My childhood holidays to Ghana it were fun packed, playing freely with my cousins in the neighbourhood, where I saw humanity in its most effervescent form. I saw kindness in the honest earnest ways of the people, where poverty existed but persistence and an unshakeable faith in God made them believe in the opportunities that lay ahead.

35 years on from my parent’s departure, there is nowhere else I’d rather be than in the land of abundant opportunity – Africa!

The Weather

Accra Beach

Boom! There it is....I've said it. It is my right, indeed my duty as an English woman who has seen more than her fair share of grey sunless sky, to begin and end with the weather. We Brits have made an art form of discussing the weather, needless to say it never disappoints and we are rained upon for three quarters of the year, with snow filling the momentary respite.

Ghana was hot last Christmas. Blisteringly so, to the point of lethargy and not much else. I excused my lazy afternoon naps as a holiday ritual, following a chaotic year contending with work, the Olympics and simply navigating my way through life. The sun slowed me down to standstill and I was in virtual awe of those who continued to work and thrive in the heat. Okay the pace is slower, some might say retarded, but it’s perfectly acceptable for the heat. When I see the workers on construction sites, building homes for the likes of my parents, returning expats stimulating the veritable boom in Ghana’s economy, I empathise with their regular breaks to snooze in the shade. Life in this kind of heat is simply meant to be lived slower, and with that comes a new perspective; a realisation that fulfilment is derived in many ways. I was too busy running in London that I forgot to clarify the route. Too busy making sure I wasn't left behind at work, in love, in life, that I forgot the purpose of the race. The Ghanaian sun simply gave me the time and pace to take stock and start to re-evaluate a few things.

I recall the day I returned to a dank grey UK; I was struck by the distance we keep from one another in our daily exchanges. I felt cold and isolated and alone in a way two weeks in Ghana had rendered me susceptible to. We all get holiday blues but this was something else, it was an awakening to the human sacrifice made to endure life here.

Natural Hair Revolution

The weave is overwhelming in length, bounce, depth and sheen. It’s raw, unadulterated and unapologetic. There has to be more Brazilian hair per square mile in Ghana than in Brazil. I was so mesmerised by the rare sight of a sister with natural hair that I bound towards her with bashful glee. This is one such time.. 

Labadi Beach Hotel

Sitting in a 5* hotel, eating as though chicken were to never lay egg again, I basked in the ever growing middle class Ghanaian tradition of brunching. It was empowering to see so many black faces in an establishment in Africa selling breakfast for £35 a head. Lavish I know (my friend had to pay for mine - my broke London arse can’t afford £35 for eggs) but it’s symbolic of the ever growing wealth and its distribution amongst Africans. In the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of fro. Not that texturised end of perm hair, that’s just waiting a week before the creamy crack is reapplied; I'm talking full blown, Esperanza style fro and sporting it is a beauty. I consider cornering her in the bathroom, but that seemed a little ‘single black female’ so waited until I passed her in the corridor to pounce. ‘Tell me about your hair?’ Bright as a button with the ‘international’ African accent, she tells me that she tired of relaxer and was inspired to try something new. Her hair had been natural for little over a year and was healthy and strong. She was visiting from Nigeria and had enjoyed the compliments she had been paid, although was saddened by the few Ghanaian women sporting their natural hair. ‘Young girls in Africa are too susceptible to western images of beauty. We copy because that is what we are taught to do. Perhaps if we see a few more popular western black women wearing their natural hair, the trend will pick up, but for now we think Beyonce and Rihanna are da bomb, so it’s their hair the girls want. It will take time before we Africans define our own beauty and until then the natural look will remain on the fringes, as an alternative but not mainstream look’.

I found a few natural shops selling body cream and hair care products for an exorbitant fee - obviously targeting westerners. Then of course there was the market where I found an abundance of shea butter sold for pennies. I confess that only the smallest of seeds have been sown in Ghana, but if a natural hair revolution is possible I want to be a founding member. Natural Belle it’s time to expand to the Continent – there are millions to be inspired!

A Chance to be CEO

I am done with working for ‘the man’. It’s time I am master of my own destiny. 'Ain't nothing going on but the rent' melody rings in my head. This pipe dream of my own small business is a hard one to reconcile in these days of austerity. The risk required to go it alone just seems far too great in London as compared to urrrggh the rest of the world, with the exception of Greece (if your profession is debt collection)! In Ghana, the robustness of the economy impressed me. People start and fail in business all the time, but it doesn't debilitate them as such an endeavour would here.

A friend of mine left the UK for Ghana a few years ago, where she started an events company. It has grown steadily and she now has 20 permanent staff working for her and is known throughout Accra as the ‘go to’ wedding planner. This is her side hustle - Mon to Fri she is an Exec PA; everyone in Ghana has a few side hustles – it’s a precondition for survival. Another man I met had been holidaying in the Central Region when he met some farmers who were selling their produce independently to supermarkets for a bad rate. He brought them together and said he would buy their entire produce and he would broker a deal with the supermarkets. Within weeks he had moved his family from London to Ghana and the business was established. I felt an entrepreneurial spirit amongst the young professionals I met that risk, fear and the banks aversion to lend money is stifling in the UK.

Accra, Ghana

Feeling slim

Body dysmorphia seems a rather odd reason to love a place, but it works for me. On my native British Isles, I am a full bodied woman, with hips and an arse to boot. In Ghana my curvaceous hips pale in to insignificance and what’s more, the curves are cherished, lined with spandex and put on display to be admired. My floaty summer dresses were even too conservative for church. If there is one thing that I learnt about young Ghanaian woman, it is that they are NOT body conscious. Whatever shape or size it comes in, it’s there to be flaunted and adored. Beyonce’s weave may be esteemed but her lack lustre thighs are not the thing of sweet dreams. I kid you not, if you want to feel good about your body, go to Ghana! – But please no spandex, I’ve seen enough lycra clad body con dresses straddling thick stomachs and thighs to last me a lifetime.

Living well for cheap

House help, a driver, a cleaner, a nanny, a cook – basically there is no service you can’t acquire and the going rate is cheap. It offends my delicate western liberal sensibility that I have succumb to adding this to my list, but I like an easy life and good God life in Africa is easy if you have money. No more doing it all; working, cooking, cleaning, shopping, raising children etc etc. In Africa there is someone to help with everything – for a small price. Forgive me, but it’s the truth. I like to see it as boosting the local economy by offering employment to those without work - Plus they love us ex pats, we always pay way over the odds and are so riddled with guilt we demand little service. My mum has a ‘house boy’ as they are called in Ghana - patronising yes, as he is a 30 year old man, with an ex wife and two kids in the village. Nevertheless he helps her out around the house in exchange for free food, a self contained 1 bedroom flat and the abundance of gifts my parents lavish upon him to absolve them of their guilt for hiring him.

So you’ve heard why I want to go. Don’t take my word for it. Go and see Ghana for yourself. You may find you never come back.

Calamity Jane  

More about → Guest Post: Ghana-5 Reasons To Go

Guest Post: The Truth Shall Set You Free

Where do I begin?.... How about the truth? Ladies we lie, lie, lie and then lie again to cover up the lies. And what makes it worse is that we’re lying to the very people we should be shouting the truth to; ourselves and our loved ones.

For years I have watched blissfully content couples parading about the place as though they were the embodiment of purity. I, the manifestation of singledom, watched in awe awaiting the day this loving harmony were lavished upon me by my doting man. HAHAHAHAHA the day has arrived and by God, harmony is hard frikkin work! My youthful radiant spot free skin is increasingly looking strained and haggard and in constant need of Clearasil (a product designed for anxious spotty teenagers, not grown ass women in their 30s) and my once black locks, have more than a handful of startling silver strands taking root. Bliss, ha, that’s a thing of romanticised idealism.

THIS IS MY TRUTH:

The home

Pretty much a month into our relationship the topic of us living together was broached and has since been a regular feature in our conversation. The irony is it comes from him! I tell you metrosexual men come in all shapes and sizes and mine happens to be a hot 38 year old Turkish man desperate to be married. The dude won’t ease up. He already has his slippers and robe firmly planted in my house, now he wants to move the rest of his gear and be done. When did the world turn on its head? When did men seek to drive the pace of a relationship hurtling towards marriage? You don’t see this in any rom coms featuring Sandra Bullock. Blame 1990s r ‘n’ b for my disobedience. Its reared a whole generation of women, myself included, who want to ‘creep’ around, saying ‘no, no, no’ to traditional relationships, and when the men start crying and bithcin, we do like Monica and say ‘Don’t take it personal (Just one of dem days)’.

The bed

My bed is my sanctuary. Disgusting as it may be, it is where I spend most of my home time. Eating, drinking, watching movies, surfing the web, painstakingly assessing my life, doing my pointless stomach exercises - with the aid of the springs for elevation, reading & writing have all been known to occur from the solace of my bed. I also love my sleep. I cringe at those annoyingly spritely people who jump out of bed after a mere five hours sleep ready to take on the day. I set my alarm a minimum of 30 minutes before I need to wake and following a staggering 10 hours of sleep, I sluggishly hit snooze until the incessant shrill of a squawking clock drives me to despair.

Then along came my man to turn my perfect regime on its head….. Why is snuggle time essential I ask? Could it at least be limited to 15mins before we go to our respective homes? What is that hideous word?.. Argh yes, spooning, there needs to be a time cap on that. I’m slowly succumbing to having someone breathing rather loudly, with the occasional grunt within ear shot as I attempt to sleep, but the invasive, passive aggressive smothering that comes from incessant hugging is beyond the pale of dignity. We now negotiate cuddle time, before flinging myself to my end of the bed, unintelligibly trying to refrain him from crossing the imaginary line so I can maximise leg room, for as good a night of sleep as is possible under the circumstance.

The compromise

Where do I start? Life has become a constant and painstaking compromise. Things I didn’t know were possible to negotiate are being debated over text, BBM, Whatsapp, email and then in person. In 2013 there are simply too many ways to say the same thing!

• My man is foreign. His English isn’t the best, despite having lived here for 10 years. Can you believe I have to craftily convince him that taking English lessons is his idea? To say outright that he needs to do it or we’re through would be emasculating, so my compromise is to allow him to believe it was his wonderful idea!
• Splitting the bills. Thank God for women’s lib. It means I can look forward to a spreadsheet at the end of the month with all our outgoings highlighted in yellow and the amount I owe in a bold unsightly red.
• We share a car which I use in the week for work, so come the weekend, just to spite me for driving it to work all week, he’ll drive everywhere, all the time, depriving me of it for practical things like the supermarket shop or running errands. But as long as he gets to cruise around town, burning up his gas, in his car, that’s all that matters.
• Every morning as he rushes to work, in my OCD clean home, he has the audacity to dash his pyjamas on to any surface it lands – yet of an evening as though by magic he goes in search, knowing it to be neatly folded in the bedside drawer. I underestimate myself, I need to add magician to my CV. Next time my trick will be burning every item of his clothing and providing the ash in an urn.

The weight gain

By God I can eat. It takes more will than most can imagine to control myself. ‘Obesity is just another cupcake away’ has become my mantra. Now this poses a problem when your man is a feather weight, yet eats like the end of Tesco is nigh. He works late so tends to eat his evening meal about 10pm. I like to eat by 6pm, however I seem physically incapable of watching him eat alone, so I now eat dinner twice a day. In just five months, my cheeks are reaching the point of explosion. I can no longer puff out my cheeks, as they are filled to capacity with cake. The once romantic gesture of tea and cake together in bed has worn thin. I hasten to add that this little ritual is following a meal, with some popcorn or crisps to dust it off, before he embarks on a cake or two with me. And for every calorie I consume my butt reaps the consequence. He meekly says he doesn’t mind what I look like and that he prefers a ‘curvaceous woman’. With every contrite line about embracing my fatness I become more determined to fight. I worked too damn hard to throw it all away. Embrace the mantra… ‘Obesity is just another cupcake away’. Turn and run!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The weird shopping habit

I don’t recall much from our first encounter other than a natural comfort and warmth that he emulated, which made our exchange as though it had happened a million times before AND his well put togetherness was noticeable. I mean everything from the shoes to the jeans, the clean hands and jacket were on point. Now I realise that his style may be effortless, but the upkeep takes work.

When a man spends longer in Zara looking at blazers, jeans and t-shirts than you do, he starts to lose his sex appeal. I want you to look good, without knowing how much time is invested to achieve the look. Shopping trips are now been banned. If he wants to spend all day sauntering around the shops, trying on four pairs of almost identical jeans, he does so alone.

The inconvenient social life

Clubbing?? Pray tell, I can hardly recall this strange ritual of my youth. It is now an occasion so rarely entertained, it requires booking months in advance, calls to baby sitters, scaling my wardrobe only to find all my clothes are more appropriate for church than ‘da club’, culminating in an embarrassing phone call to my younger sister, bashfully asking her where on earth to go out and requesting to borrow a dress. The last time I was a regular raver, grime, was called garage!

Now my man on the other hand, has no such qualms, why? because despite the fundamental changes in my life, his has remained relatively unchanged. He works hard during the week, plays football with his buddies on Sunday, raves on Friday and/or Saturday nights and effectively leads a single man’s life, with the perks of a wife and family at home. I think this makes me the chump!

Calamity Jane and her Mr

Cut to idyllic couple walking hand in hand starring contently into each other’s eyes, Maria Carey’s classic ‘Dreamlover’ playing spontaneously in the background as the pair meander through lush parkland with the sun blazing down upon their finely sculpted lipo-sucked bodies, blissfully intoxicated by one another’s love……………..

Just remember when they get home and she’s in a headscarf and tracksuit bottoms, angry that he hasn’t picked up his pants and socks and he’s watching football for the fourth hour straight, eating cereal from a fish bowl, that this is love as I know it – no bulshit!

Calamity Jane

Images: source

More about → Guest Post: The Truth Shall Set You Free

Guest Post: Hair Check

So I’ve been natural for about 9 months now. At least I think I have. I should have marked the date, but I was too busy fuming about the cost of ‘natural’ products (never mind the extortionate shipping cost to get it imported from America), verses the cheap readily available crap I’d been buying from the Indian mans shop since I was old enough to chew gum, that I neglected to mark the date as significant. When I see my natural sisters on the street and watch the blogs (needless to say you know the ones I mean) the girls proudly display the extent to which their gloriously voluptuous locks have grown in as little as three months. My stubborn hair seems have gained in mass, which I didn’t think possible, but not at all in length. Sheeka used to say ‘lord for such a small head you gotta a lot of tough tough hair’ before dousing it in extra strong relaxer to rape my hair of any coarseness, a ‘necessary’ by-product of which was burning a layer of flesh off my face. Err, is it weird that I reminisce upon those days with some tenderness? Especially when I smell the chemical residue on the bus, from a girl who has been recently permed. I look at old pictures of my imitation Belle afro from when I first removed my braids and embraced my fro, you know the finger twists she demonstrates so effortlessly, that somehow takes me half the day to reproduce BADLY (my flatmate calls it the Medusa look)…I repeated the style the other day and I swear my hair is shorter now than eight months ago. How is that possible?

I’ve unashamedly blamed exercise, to the detriment of my thighs and ever expanding waistline. I mean if something is to blame, why not that? The sweat is killing me. After a workout, when I line my hair with my leave in conditioner and then shea butter up for the twists-outs, the shrinkage leaves barely any tresses to grip. Surely after nearly a year, the new growth should be significant enough to prevent this shrinkage from defeating me? Weirdly the little growth there is, is limited to the front, so I have this lopsided fro, leaning unnervingly towards my forehead.

I’ve tried…

An afro pick and a comb to tease the maximum volume from my twist outs. I start with the thin end of the comb to gently pry apart each twist for volume and then use the afro comb to lift from the root, for maximum height. Granted, I’m not the most delicate of girls and my patience for styling is limited to 30 seconds between dousing my face in Vasaline and running for the bus, but I expect more. The lack of length after days of tiresome twist outs is disconcerting.

A little concoction called ‘Magic Grow’ – I should report the creator to the advertising standards because this product doesn’t grow a damn thing! I saw it on Youtube – It’s a mix of shea butter, olive oil, coconut oil and vitamin e. I put it all in a blender – remembering it’s the dead of winter in the UK so the shea butter is rock hard and hit blend. Almost seconds later as the blades feebly chomped on the hard rock of butter I saw steam. I should have stopped, but my determination for length clouded my judgement and I persevered, to the detriment of my brand new blender, which cackled and popped to an untimely death. I had to move on to the electric hand whisk, which did a far superior job – Not that it matters because the damn cream doesn’t work. R.I.P blender.

Stretching my twist outs, so I pull them back and pin them to prevent the natural unwinding in my sleep. This has helped maintain the curl but true length still evades me. Needless to say it’s also tiresome to remember my pins and more often than not it’s a drain just twisting, so pinning loses out to 5 minutes of extra sleep.

Blow drying with a brush rather than the afro pick and the result was quite spectacular – and not in ‘Beyonce’s thighs at the Super Bowl’ kinda way – My goodness the woman looked hot. Question: When did she start competing with Kelly for skinny thighs? Answer: Post baby, just to make us without children feel worse about our size!

So back to my hair drama… My mum decided to help me out, and in a return to days of old, I sat between her legs like when I was a child, and she mercilessly yanked my hair from my follicles. The result the following day, as I hurriedly prepared for a wedding, in which I was bridesmaid, was this wispy pathetic excuse for an afro. It was so thin it barely stood on end. Okay it achieved height, but with no body. I had to resort to some discarded string from a bunch of flowers to hold it in some semblance of shape before taking to the aisle in accordance with my duties. Needless to say I avoid looking at the wedding photos from that catastrophic day.

I need something to achieve the growth I deserve. I’ve been persevering for months to no avail. Maybe I’ve just been duped by the blogs. Help me!

ADVICE WELCOME. 

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Guest Post: Calamity Jane

The mystery of this iniquity we call love

Unsure why this blog is the forum to share this, I write on regardless. I guess it’s an experience universal to womankind that transcends race and place and time. Some of you may recognise my words.

I have met a man.

He is different to me in every way.

When I listen to him speak, (and I love for him to speak because he is knowledgeable and witty and so very excited by the times within which he lives and the opportunities it affords him) even his voice sounds unfamiliar. The rhythm of his speech and tone proves a strain on my far from delicate ears. He mumbles with vigour, adopting a distinctly public school tone of ‘poshness’, estranged from the languid, pounding assertive syllables of my working class world. ‘Err?’ ‘Pardon?’ ‘Sorry?’ I repeat vociferously, astounded that we share the same language, but are so alienated by dialect – the subtle dialect of class.

He is a kind and gentle and somewhat effeminate soul. He lacks the raw magnetism I once believed necessary to be attracted to a man – That ‘sex appeal’ and ‘hot body’ was a prerequisite of my youthful dalliances (both real and imagined). Now it’s a different type of mysticism I find alluring - It is intelligence, broad interests, humour, drive and honesty (oh no that sounds like a shopping list. Have I become that woman?). I expected him to talk at length on current affairs or subject matter of significance in a world as ruptured as ours (a precondition of a good education. Plus his age – he is 10 years older than me so has seen more of the world), but to date the conversation has inhabited two spheres, his social life, which is vast beyond comprehension and our respective jobs. It’s not that I don’t believe him capable of broad conversation, to the contrary, it’s just his social life, which is stimulating enough (for him alone it seems) has come to dominate our exchanges.

His life is so full, so free, so flamboyant, so without consequence or responsibility (odd for a man aged 41?). It is grounded in the possibility of more – more alcohol, more consumption, more parties, more to see, more to visit, more to do. There isn’t an underground show in town that he hasn’t seen, a quirky pop up restaurant in the depths of trendy east London that he does not know the chef, a band in a warehouse in Shoreditch that he is not going to see, a burlesque or bohemian club that he is not a member of or friends with the management; there is no social experience (of the ‘right’ kind) that he has not embraced. His work is secondary to his life; in fact the sole purpose of working is to fuel his excesses. On the contrary I work because I find it fulfilling; I am in the enviable position of having a job that is an extension of me, a role that I enjoy and take pride in defining myself by. I write for exactly the same reason. I take pleasure in the smaller things in life – jogging on a Sunday morning when the neighbourhood is still, the air is crisp and the sun is just rising - the only people on the street are those en route to church who ignore me when I fall on my face bloodying my knee (haha love the callousness of city living); I love discovering a new neighbourhood restaurant/market and thanking God that there is more on offer that the slew of hideous chicken and chips shops that mar my neighbourhood; I love listening to music in my room and dancing in front if the mirror like I’m Beyonce (just a fatter blacker version); I like going to concerts with my younger sister (it’s about the only thing she allows us to do to together - she’s the baby and thinks she’s far too interesting and busy for her older sister – so I take it where I can); I like reading out loud with him next to me on the sofa, I love to just be.

My life is rich and full and ultimately beyond the expectations of my youth, yet when I talk to him, I feel small and provincial. He evokes a hollowness of experience that I didn’t know existed, a sense of unfulfilled potential and a lost opportunity to live life to its fullest. In the simplest terms he unwittingly makes me feel like I’m dull and boring and out of touch with the opportunities in the here and now, which ultimately leaves me feeling loneliest when in his company.

It’s a symptom of the 21^st century Londoner to talk in lists. The more you have on your list ergo the more interesting/ successful you are… What do you do? – You list where you work, why, your position and by virtue your salary, what you add to the company and where you see your future. Where do you live?– You list where it is, the proximity to public transport or to a better neighbourhood if you live in a bad place (E.g. I live in Ladywell – this is not a real place, it’s a few streets and a station – but it’s better than saying Lewisham), the benefits of the neighbourhood i.e. green space, good schools, Michelin star restaurants. The time you have lived there and whether there is something cool or exciting happening to keep you there. What did you do this weekend? – You list the visits you made, the restaurants you dined in (anything mainstream is a taboo) the parties you danced at (preferably a house party in a converted warehouse in Shoreditch where everyone is an artist – usually vegetarian, skinny and blond - and dressed in identical ripped skinny jeans, checked shirts and worn in trainers), the hours spent recuperating from your hangover in the newest café in town. All of which are frequented by a very specific demographic who are liberal in politics, but conservative in nature (preferring to stick to their own)... To say that you did nothing of a weekend (or more specifically something that can’t be defined by the basic list) is a fate worse than death; unless you can justify it as a quick respite from the several weekends of activity - a chance to refresh detox and rejuvenate before jumping back into the game.

I am no good with lists – other than to do lists which I regularly scribble down in my old school notepads on my way to and from work, or at intervals throughout the year when I seek to evaluate my life against my ambitions (falling in love was one - still to be achieved). I am thrown by the intrusiveness of the questions and the subtle undertones of judgement. Often I’ve had a wonderful fulfilling weekend, not always jam packed, but always including a dinner (I’m an eater) with my close friends; or going for a jog and reading, cooking and discovering a new film which I watch in my PJs in the living room; or a comedy show (featuring black comedians colleagues at work wouldn’t have heard of), a wedding/ christening/ naming ceremony (there are a lot of these when you hit 30) or going to a gallery exhibition… And yet when asked to produce a list of the weekend’s activity, my mind goes blank and I stutter something trite like, ‘I met up with some friends’. It means nothing and lacks the depth of what I really experienced, but it’s enough to show a semblance of ‘life’.

My new man, he can go for days with these lists. In fact sometimes people in the office ask him to email them the places to go, because he’s been or knows someone that can get them in. The best places are always described as ‘cool’. Who says cool after the age of 15? I tell him I hate the word and that what he really means is that he pompously approves of place where everyone talks and looks like him, and it is exclusive (because it keeps out people who don’t look and speak like him), so he can believe he belongs. He continues to use the word emphatically.

I don’t think he and I will amount to much. Our differences ultimately run too deep and divide us. Unlike the romantic polemics of Bronte and Austen, who once defined my understanding of love; the adult me, aware of real life beyond the great novels, believes our humanity is rooted in our differences - It is ultimately what defines us. So to see life though his eyes is to shut my eyes to myself.

Calamity Jane

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More about → Guest Post: Calamity Jane

Guest Post: Exercise, The Enemy Of The Afro?

It’s been almost three months and my love affair deepens by the day. It was a slow burner to start and I felt put upon and drained of my time and energy. Then came the compliments, and an awareness of the physical changes in me. Finally like the season, I blossomed and developed a full blown crush….. on my hair (what else would I have been talking about?) Though it hasn't been plain sailing; indeed quite the contrary.

Exercise is not my friend, it is my enemy. The problem is my somewhat rotund physique ensures the gym is a necessary evil I must endure to curtail the inevitable onset of obesity. What was once an unpleasant task of a twice weekly exercise regime, in the days of braids, where I’d invest in sweetly scented sprays, sheens and oils to mask the smell of sweat (grimace but you know it’s the truth) and slept after a quick blow dry; has become an arduous rigmarole since the onset of natural hair. Now my hair is no doubt cleaner thanks to my twice weekly washes, deep conditioning, nightly twist outs and detangling. There is however the bitter joy in the morning, trying to style an uncontrollable mop of angry hair still to fully dry out from the night before.

I am a member of an infamous gym, regarded as such for its diabolical customer service, 1990s music videos on repeat (God forbid they play music that featured since the millennium), moody staff,  faulty machinery, broken air con machine; dilapidated crumbling walls, changing facilities that smell of rotting animal and a general sub standard service. Its sole reason for continued trade is its proximity to public transport, lack of viable competition and that it’s located in a poor neighbourhood where people don’t feel empowered enough to write letters of complaint and report them to the papers.

It’s summer, I’ve gained a few too many pounds and now sporting the tiny afro, more of my face is on display and the chubby cheeks, cute age 11, aren’t a redeeming feature on a 30 year old single woman looking for a man. 

It is funny how little notice I've taken of other women and their hair dilemmas in the past – that’s because braids weren't threatened by exercise, in fact they embraced it. But now with every bead of sweat, I know I’ll be punished; forced to spend what should be sleep time reviving my inconsolable hair, so I watch with avid interest to see how the other ladies manage.

There’s the girl with the hard face who only smiles when there are men in the vicinity, whose relaxed short crop is so newly permed you can smell the chemical relaxer oozing from her pores as she sensually struts on the cross trainer (often in very short shorts - which she clearly customised from a previously respectable pair of trousers and a circa 1990 crop top). She once proudly proclaimed that she avoided sweating to save her hair. It seems her inspiration for exercise is less the working out and more the working men.

There is the beautiful Nigerian girl with the trendy long weave, who loves her hair as much as life itself. You can tell by her incessant stroking and touching, whipping her head at every opportunity for the most grandiose effect. With every bounce of that hair, you can see her jubilation and heightened sense of worth. She relies on a bandana, but there’s so much hair, I’m not sure how effective it proves. We once talked about going natural – before I actually did it - and how we’d manage with all the exercise. She looked me straight in the eye and without even the faintest hint of irony, proclaimed with pride that her hair was indeed natural. She mustn’t have seen her natural hair for more than fifteen minutes every four weeks for the last ten years. That’s the time in-between weaves when she’d wash it, quickly cover it in a baseball cap and run to the salon hoping nobody spots her on the bus.

Then there’s the ultimate embodiment of fitness herself. She’s on the treadmill running effortlessly at a pace you hoped only sub human athletes (high on dope) ran at. Her natural tight curls (never wrapped, just free to bounce in the wind), has not even a strand out of place and where sweat ought to be running down her face (as mine is so fast it momentarily blinds me causing me to trip and hit my head with such force the staff run to my aid), her precision perfect make up glows flawlessly, radiating the perfection of her soul. Compared to the women who refuse to exert any real energy for fear of their hair becoming embroiled in sweat, this light skinned Zimbabwean beauty runs as though she’s possessed. She sports a lycra two piece, sculpting her J-Lo butt and six pack. Me on the other hand, I wear a t-shirt with jogging bottoms a size too big to accommodate for the ‘guddush’ ‘guddush’ movement of my arse defying the laws of gravity every time I run.

The most interesting sight to behold for me, remains the assortment of head gear proudly on display. The scarves, bandanas, do-rags, even tights are all tightly wrapped round women’s heads to contain the beast within. Most shocking was the shower cap (not in the steam room, as one may reasonably assume, but on the treadmill). The woman had conditioned her locks, put on her cap and was pounded the treadmill for the ultimate deep conditioning steam.

The end of my workout beckons and I drag myself to the mat area to endure the mandatory five minute waste of time, abs session. Shocked by the sight in the mirror, my once substantial afro has shrunk to an unrecognisable half-inch, reminding me of the African school girls I so regularly mistake for boys, but for the mandatory dangle of gold earrings to remind you they are female. I am wearing no earrings. Full steam ahead I go. Dropping to the mat and rising again like a deranged jack in the box. Then out of nowhere, a man stands directly behind me, he pays me no mind (he mistakes me for a boy) and with no shame or even the hint of humour, lifts his top up, tenses his abs and gawks at his own reflection. He turns from side to side, getting a good view from every profile and after a full five minutes (which is a long time to stare at yourself in a public forum) he drops his t-shirt, gives himself a smile and saunters off, without a glimpse of embarrassment.

Spent from an exhausting session of exercise and people watching, I trudge home where the real work of rectifying my hair begins!...

Calamity Jane

More about → Guest Post: Exercise, The Enemy Of The Afro?

Back to the Beginning

“It’ll cost £40…Yeah, yeah it used to be £30, but I was doing you a favour at that price. And can you pay me in advance? I’m broke so transfer the money tomorrow into my account and I’ll do your hair next week, when I’m free” she commanded. In a melancholy haze I took her bank details, motivated by the ragged state of my hair, the narrow window of opportunity I had to redo it before the working week began again and an almost drug like dependence on her to fix my hair, ergo me (your hair is your beauty is it not?). I asked a white colleague what she thought; her bemused expression said it all. In her world you make an appointment, you go to a salon, you are quoting a price and that is what you pay only if the service is satisfactory. Enough was enough.

I can’t proclaim it was an epiphany, a moment of enlightenment or, to quote Jay-Z, clarity; a conversation with my maker or anything so illustrious. There was no build up, no research, no lengthy discussion with friends, no feelings of being desexualised and realising I might have to wear make up every day to spare me looking like a boy; no fear, no remorse, no celebration. I woke up, looked at the bank details on my phone, imagined me begging for time in her diary to do my hair and the subsequent three hour wait whilst she did someone else’s hair, despite having made an appointment with me. I undid my braids, washed and deep steamed my hair (with the cheap products from the black hair shop I have been buying for years) and decided not to call a hair dresser for several months. My natural hair was here to stay. That was two weeks ago and I have since fallen in love with my own hair – possibly for the first time. It was the best £40 I ever saved.

I’ve always loved the versatility of black hair and admired the prowess and ingenuity of our hair dressers to redefine hair and style. We have been revolutionary, yet so rarely celebrated. Weave can be a dirty word, even within our own community and yet you won’t see a white woman on TV nowadays without a row or two of ‘extensions’ as they like to call it. I’ve embraced the multiplicity of styles my face and hair were capable of holding. I’m the laziest girl you can imagine and the notion of combing my hair strikes fear in my heart, hence the years of perpetual braids or afro weaves – anything low maintenance. For years my natural hair was a tool to hold extensions. I grew up believing it to be hard and coarse, its beauty best realised when relaxed. So my decision to leave my raw, unadulterated, going to be hard work, hair, was a huge step. Yet here I stand having fallen in love with my mane of hard hair – It’s me and I am it.

I’m slowing learning the natural hair vernacular – It’s a totally different language you ladies have adopted. The BC (big chop), Co-wash (after a week of research, I just realised that this was washing hair with conditioner only), twist outs (why not just say twist?) TWA, 3C, 4B hair types (still have no idea what this means – can somebody please enlighten me?). And leave in conditioner – revolutionary. I had no idea it was something we used to keep hair moist. I always thought it was for women who were too lazy to actually wash their hair so used it to mask smell. How wrong I was – I love Darcy’s leave in and Giovanni’s when my hair is wet. I’ve spent hours watching video clips made by bloggers of all shades, (some with hair as hard as mine - although not many – I must say there is a bias towards the ladies with a natural curl), about the best natural products, how to manage your hair, easy to do hairstyles, even headscarf wrapping (thanks Belle – you are amazing at this… Next step Gele – Nigerians watch out).

My mother’s opinion, which I knew wouldn’t require much of a prompt to elicit (the customary inspection was inevitable), meant the most to me. She’s a modern woman, but still so very African, so I presumed she’d admonish me for the unruly masculine fro in favour of a more dignified conservative weave/ relaxer. To the contrary, my mother who never ceases to amaze me, was beguiled, she loved it and boasted how beautiful it made me look. She miraculously and without request brought out a block of Shea Butter so big it filled a shopping bag and like a rite of passage we chopped it up together whilst she talked of its purity, its roots in her motherland, Ghana, and often forgotten powers of repair on skin and hair. She bemoaned the trend in Africa towards European products, despite the production of some of the finest natural creams and butters. She sat and we talked as I used the natural butter to treat and twist my hair.

It’s only been a while and the nightly twists are already starting to erk, but when I wake and let out my little fro I feel sexier, richer more content in myself than I ever have. I even notice men checking me out more regularly – who would have guessed?.... Next week I’ve got to get back to the exercise. Not sure I’ll feel as lovingly when it shrinks to the point of no return after a jog; if I get through that I’ll get through anything with this hair.

Wish me luck!

xoxo

Calamity Jane 

More about → Back to the Beginning

Prejudice before the Pride

Sunday’s are made for the simple pleasures in life, like the morning read of the newspapers and lazy trawl through the blogs for hair inspiration and celebrity gossip. It’s for reflecting on the week past, scrutinizing the annoyances at work, the food you shouldn’t have eaten, the gym you should have attended more, but the fun you had with the girls on that rare night out. It’s been a while since I’ve blogged with any regularity and so much has happened. I have to start by updating you on news from home and my growing obsession with London’s effervescent fashion scene, the Olympics and modern architecture. Random you say, but alas on this reflective Sunday these were the highlights of my week.

I always thought that the expression of one’s national pride to be a bit peculiar – we’re not American and frankly all that flag waving and tearful singing of the star spangled banner is a bit melodramatic and very un- British. In modern Europe that kind of carry on is easily mistaken for nationalism – in the eugenics sense of the word. I’m not sure if it’s class snobbery (the only exception being in honour of the Royal family) or my immigrant heritage, but effusing a pride in being British, when I’m forever asked ‘where are you from?’ by the virtue of my skin colour, doesn’t bode well for national pride.

Even against the backdrop of a staunchly sporting household where football was the only dialogue that bonded us to our father, the notion of singing the national anthem as the boys lined up for a qualifying match (to this day the only line I know is ‘God save our Queen’), waving a flag from my window or generally purporting a value in being British was unimaginable.

Recently something has changed... Maybe it’s my appreciation of the refreshing dynamism of the UK, maybe it’s the fact that London is the host city for the biggest sporting event on earth (and there isn’t an advert on TV, selling toilet roll or life insurance, that doesn’t reference the Olympic Games and the greatness of the UK); maybe I’m less stuffy and don’t think a flag means you’re a right wing extremist, maybe it’s because when I look at the start line of an England football match, no-one asks the black boys (who form the majority of the team) where they are from? it’s emblazoned on their backs; or maybe it’s my age, but I feel so proud to be a Londoner.

During London’s Fashion Week when Anna Wintour effusively praised the dynamism and ingenuity of our first class designers, I thought I was going to implode. After two weeks in Dubai earlier this month where I experienced the worst in consumerism, capitalism and uniformity, it was refreshing to see the intrinsic creativity of Londoners recognised by fashions aficionado. Although my wallet can’t stretch to much, as Dame Vivienne would say, ‘it’s best to invest in one or two pieces that you’ll love, will last forever and become part of you, rather than become one of the indistinguishable masses.’ She’s right .... It’s always a little awkward when you find yourself in the same clothes as your teenage niece or the kids on the bus.

Then something else magical happened to invigorate my love for this city. I got to go inside the Aquatics Centre (Olympic speak for swimming pool), which in my opinion will be one of the gems in the London Games. The Park is ready and looking good, but before the big event kicks off in July they’re hosting test events, which I was lucky enough to get a ticket for. As fashionistas, I know you’ll appreciate all things beautiful, from fashion to fine design.... The Aquatics Centre is the brain child of Iraqi born, London embraced architect Zaha Hadid. Designed to look like a stingray/ or wave crashing against the shore (depends on your perspective), it is a spectacular feat of modern engineering and is phenomenally designed with the spectator in mind- so no columns impeding your view, in fact it just appears to float on its own axis. 

Then there is the imposingly rugged stadium in the background built by Sir Robert McAlpine. It’s not as spectacular as the Aquatics but it better reflects the industrial working class heritage of east London. And lastly in my sight line is the Turner winning artist, Anish Kapoor’s 150ft spiralling steel viewing tower, the Orbit (which has understandably been confused for an elaborate helter skelter); it puts modern art at the helm of our Olympics, indicative of this country’s love and appreciation of art and culture, even in the most unlikely of places - like an Olympic Park.

So here I stand, a fully fledged convert, ready to profess my pride to anyone who’ll listen. All it took was a pair of Vivienne Westwood heels and the whiff of Usain Bolt running on a track near me. Oh and my guilty pleasure will be scrutinizing what our future Queen, Kate our current Queen of style Victoria Beckham will wear to the opening ceremony. I know they’ll do us proud.  

xoxo

Calamity Jane

More about → Prejudice before the Pride

Guest Post: Future Fashion

There was a time, not so long ago, I’d follow my mother around the aisles of supermarkets ‘helping’ with the family food shop, the sheer torment assuaged by a single treat – my fashion magazines. As a young woman, they were my inspiration, my source of empowerment and the basis for my style choices. Other than my friends in my small town, before the days of satellite TV and internet in the house all I had to rely on was the glossy mags for inspiration.......

Flash forward 15 years and the world has changed so phenomenally, it’s almost unrecognisable to that young girl in the supermarket. Now information moves so rapidly it is as imperceptible as air. You are immersed in it and by osmosis absorb it, without recognising it has occurred. Today the vortex of print fashion press seems archaic, a relic of a past and testimony to a time when fashion was in fact one dimensional - served by few and swallowed whole by the masses.

The web has transformed how we view ourselves and the value of our contribution to the world. The brilliant Belle, has certainly taught me (and her followers from across the globe) a thing or two about style (about hair about shape about the beauty of the once ignored black women), as have the thousands of other bloggers (regular people) given a platform to demonstrate their definition of style. It’s exhilarating to witness this revolution and observe the response from the industry.

I work in Europe’s largest urban shopping mall. This year we dedicated our spring summer campaign to the people who keep style alive, our shoppers. Situated in east London, among some of the most experimental, notoriously artistic and vibrant communities in the world, we responded by giving our shoppers the freedom to define the parameters of style.

The event took centre stage over Easter. With five zones including a 3D fasion show and beauty lounge, each offered an interactive experience, through which shoppers were empowered to take control of their own fashion destiny - showcasing their idea of fashion to the masses. Each experience was based on the sweeping digital trend of ‘personalisation’ whereby shoppers created their own fashion looks and moods on massive digital touch screens. They then browsed and selected from over 700 fashion items at the touch of a finger, introducing a change in the way we traditionally shop and self-style.

Once you had curated your look on the big screens you could share it via our Facebook page –where we created a gallery of the best designs, your own Facebook and Twitter pages. I was on duty watching with delight as the young girls creating their own looks/ mood boards so effortlessly; each one unique from the other; and promptly sent it round to their friends and family. They were independently generating a style, albeit within the parameters of the products uploaded from our retailers, and developing something that inspired them.

We hosted discussions with prominent people in the industry and invited our shoppers to participate. I was surprised by my own negative reaction to the magazine editor who was preaching about the kente designers like Burberry were using this season as lining in their traditional macs; as if the cloth had just been invented. I fell a little bit in love with Disney Roller Girl, the infamous London fashion blogger. 

Her appearance as a ‘special guest’ alongside editor of Grazia Magazine was testament to the change in fashion; now people at the helm are everyday people, without the backing of a publication or magazine, utilising the web to make an imprint. She was the perfect embodiment of fashion, projecting her internal wrangling about the value of the industry on to the audience. It was an intellectual discussion about fashion, control, access, through which I saw the future of fashion. It is women like Belle, Disney Roller Girl and the girls designing their perfect outfits on the screens. They will not be told, they will decide...

Read more posts by Calamity Jane for Natural Belle Here

More about → Guest Post: Future Fashion