These scars of mine

I’m watching E! News, the ‘Giuliana and Bill’ reality show, *hides face*. It’s the episode after Giuliana has a double mastectomy in her fight against breast cancer, and in explaining her scars to horrified friends, she says:

“I have to live with these scars everyday, but I don’t mind. When I see them, they remind me of a trying period that I have gone through, and that I have overcome.”

Forgive me for being a crybaby, but that brought tears to my eyes. Not only because I also have scars which I can’t run away from no matter how hard I try, but because overcoming is such damn hard business.

Many times in life we pretend that we don’t hurt, we try to hide our pain, to shut down our emotions. However, pain is what makes us human. Emotions are what make us real. Physical, emotional, mental scars may disgust others, and even us, but they represent something that was once living, painful, present, but that we have gone past, that we have gone through. That has healed.

So next time that you look at that horrid scar, that missing limb, think of that trying period, burst into tears at that painful memory, don’t be ashamed to own up to the hurt. Don’t be embarrassed for showing emotion. Be proud of your feelings, because they make you human. Be proud of your scars, because they are your badge of honor – they are proof that you have overcome.

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Be My Valentine

Everybody seems to be talking about the same old same old, this Valentine. It’s either ‘me and my significant other’ or ‘I’m loving myself this year’.

When will Valentine’s Day ever be about fighting for love?

It’s all good and fine to spout all that hogwash about waiting for the right guy and all, but some of y’all ladies out there KNOW that you already had him, and lost him. Nine-tenths of the time it was his fault (let’s be honest, men can be pretty clueless), but Miss Thang, you can’t deny that sometimes you were too demanding, a bit selfish, always busy, always jealous, always accusing…so he dumped you, and now you are alone.

This Valentine, let go of the self-love smokescreen (doesn’t it get old, btw?) and tell yourself the truth – you want him back. Instead of sitting around wallowing in a warm bath and a few tears, accept where you went wrong. Admit you want him back, then fight for his love.

‘Tis the season, let’s celebrate love, revel in love, fight for love. After all, how many spa deals can a girl buy in her life?

Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all.

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When green grass goes brown…

Ahem ahem. *adjusts mic*

Hello, my dear people! How wona dey? Everything hanging and/or standing as prescribed I hope?

Gosh, I’m horrible at introductions. I think I better just get on with what I have to say.

First though, I gotta apologize for the absence. I was on holiday recently and I’d promised myself that I would blog every week at least, but as you can see,  God’s ways are not our ways, lol. Truth be told I was having so much fun in the sun, sitting behind a computer was the last thing on my mind! Well, until something happened, and my first thought was ‘Gosh I have to blog about that!’. So here I am.

Have you ever seen somebody get deported? As in, kicked out of a country?

I have, and I never want to see it again.

She was of average height, dark, shapely, lovely weave which hung in matted tangles around her face. Her red top looked like it could do with a cycle or two in the washer, and she smelled like she needed to get up close and personal with some soap and a sponge.

That was all I could see within the 15 seconds it took to drag her from the door of the plane, kicking and screaming, to her seat in the rear and strap her in the chair. Like a mad person.

I asked myself…are these the greener pastures we seek abroad? Why are more and more African youth consumed by the dream that is ‘abroad’ (and which often remains just that, a dream), to the point where they spare no thought for the long term repercussions of their actions?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about the ones going to school, working, who have ‘papers’ (ie are not illegal immigrants, and are trying to survive there like I am trying to survive here). I’m talking about the others.

The ones who survive by cheating the system. Who have discovered the joys of scamming, prostitution, and living permanently on credit/welfare/off other people. The ones who spend their lives taking pictures on Facebook with clothes they intend to return the next day, and are more worried about impressing their friends today than building their future. Who share a room with 6 other people, and live in eternal fear of the police/immigration catching up with them. Who after five, seven, ten years abroad have nothing to show for it. These are the ones I’m worried about, the ones I’m talking to.

Why won’t you come back home?