The Lady, Her Lion.....& Her Lawd!

If you have ever had a weave tightly knit to your skull by way of hair thread and a piercing needle, you would know that the experience of robbing a goat, sheep, horse, or Indian man of his luscious locks, attaching these to your own (probably thinning) mane for your enhanced self-beautification is a complex road to travel.

This process informally called ‘Weaving’ and fancily called‘Artificial Hair Integration' (I kid you not), is most practiced among the Fabulous and Indomitable Negroes of The World. In fact with regards to hair, the average black woman operates strictly on the 'Guilty Until Proven Innocent' theory. Hence, she is immediately suspicious, to the point of paranoia, of any other black woman's hair that is too thick, too full (especially at the nape and temple) AND too long. Where all three are present, the question “Er, excuse me....what weave is this?!?!” is inevitable. Lifelong friendships have been started over hair discussions like this. That's why God gave us our coarse hair and the desire for finer hair... because He knew black women (The Nefrotitis of Fronting) would rather sit pretending not to notice each other even when alone in an empty room than be friendly and make conversation with other pretty black women...or is that just Nigerian girls?! I digress.

I want to make like self-righteous 'PETA', ‘Happy Nappy’, ‘Negroes Keeping It Real’ and other such ‘BLACK & PROUD’ groups and say that the act of moving, shaking and generally enjoying life with an extension-filled head of Chantal Biya proportions...leaving balding and shivering horses or humans in your wake...is a terrible side-effect of the global media and its unattainable and Europeanised standards of beauty and should be condemned post haste.

BUT I remember moments when I have strutted down streets, arms a-swinging, hips a-swaying, men a-whistling, confidence a-emanating(words a-creating)....with artificially integrated hair billowing in the wind as i generate my own breeze and my fabulosity level increases exponentially....and alas, I find that I can not condemn The Weave. The Weave, European ideals of beauty be damned, is a wonderful, wonderful invention that I applaud with gusto. If several sheep have to be sheared for my sake well then so be it. Isaiah 66:1 says, “....the earth is God’s footstool and everything in it....”.....same Bible says “Dont you know that you yourselves are gods?”(1 Corinthians 3:16)...Therefore, the earth is my footstool as a god and as I have dominion over it all...clean-shaven sheep and balding horse are certainly not excluded, PETA be damned! *Looks over her shoulder worriedly*

Today, my issue is not with the rightness of Afroborn ‘sistAHs’ straightening their tightly curled hair using lava-hot temperatures or aluminum-can eroding chemicals to achieve (an ideal of) beauty. As one of such women, a solid partaker of the Cream Crack (alias No Lye Relaxer), I do not think that I have been brainwashed from childhood (as often suggested by Happy Nappy's Against Straight Hair) by the foreign media to believe that Straight is Great anymore than I have been brainwashed by them through watching Eurocentric Anglo-Saxons on my telly, to believe that White is Always Right. Then again if I had indeed been brainwashed of course I would say the same thing....so maybe I have been brainwashed and I don't even know. Or care.

Catch 22 aside, the conspiracy theorist in me will admit that the Disney Princesses, Jem and The Holograms, Sky Dancers and so on, all seemed to have been secret Protene Pro-V advertisements, with their long gleaming locks. And maybe the subconscious message was indeed indoctrinated into our innocent and rather vacuous minds that straight (AND loooong, I’m an unashamed 18inches Premium Human Hair addict baybay!!!) is the ideal of beauty. But if it indeed was, why are we not also strolling about with the bright pink/neon green/pale orange bushy 80’s hair of many a Hannah Barbera heroine too?

Somehow, along the line (as is always the case whenever a group voluntarily and often unnecessarily decides to take on an imagined slight on behalf of a whole race/minority/ethnic group/country/tribe/hut/anthill, who more often than not could not possibly care less if they tried) too many people bandwagon the original cause, the cause is diluted, confused or just plain deviates from its original path and like a stoneless Hansel and Gretel, all the sheeplike followers are led away from Grandmamas cottage, straight to the too good to be true Witches Guesthouse.

So, on the weave debate, a group of happy nappys decided that all those who dared to change their God-given locks by covering, straightening, gel-ing, hot-combing, burning straight via relaxer, or exchanging it for sure-as-hell-doesnt-look-like-it-grew-from-your-scalp-lace fronts were in some way terrible people who were deeply ashamed of their race ad heritage and want to be white by conforming to someone else’s standards of beauty. *Shrugs* It's not that serious. Brainwashed or not, if my hair refuses to graze the small of my back despite all my efforts, best believe I will rob many a sheep, goat OR she-goat to get the look I want. To define a full, rounded, 3D human being by only their hair is The Daftness and that is the kind of brainwashing that we as a world should be more afraid of.

Now, as a faithful weave fiend, I have to say that one thing that causes me pause in the Hamletesque ‘To Weave or Not To Weave’ debate, and indeed one thing I think the race should focus on and find an answer to in lieu of arguing about skin complexions and hair is; HOW THE HELL DOES ONE GET AIR INTO THE SCALP WHEN ONE HAS A WEAVE?!?! I beg you I need an answer because I have seen grown women almost give themselves a concussion from knocking their heads with palms splayed wide in the name of fixing an itch in their now untouchable skulls. I have also witnessed incredibly intelligent women come frighteningly close to scalping themselves as they try to maneuver a tiny but incredibly sharp object through the crevices of their weave, between and betwixt the fields of neatly corn-rowed hair to itchy scalps. Hell, I have BEEN those women!

As a race, in fact forget that, as a world we need to come up with the answer to this perplexing conundrum before black women become extinct from concussions and scalping. The alternative is to bring back the 70’s; spandex, neon and unpicked afros......”Oh Miss Wintour.....”


See Chris Rock's 'Good Hair'

"Houston, We Have A Problem!!"

Before going to bed yesterday night I decided to unwind by taking a look at some blogs to keep abreast with the world of celebrity goss. Oh! necolebitchie.com showed me something that boggled my mind, chastised my spirit and frustrated my soul…twas a video paying tribute to the man that the world no go let quench, Michael Jackson.

Now, I got over the death the day it happened because well, we weren’t friends like that if you know what I mean*side-eyes self* But apparently, some*does air quotes* people are refusing to let things go. That’s how I came across this video staring Boys II Men, The Boxer That Could (Chris ‘Breezy’ Brown)……and The Game.*blank stare*

So I pressed play and watched with my face screwed up in the often imitated ‘What The Hell?!?!’ position like so:

Fascinated and horrified in equal bouts by the opportunistic use of someone’s death for money making & fame whoring! Two good things came out of this video though. First, Boys II Men. Need I say more?!?!Anything that can bring them back together making melodies is a-alright with me homie!!! Granted I’m awfully biased seeing as the ‘Nathan Michael Shawn Wanya’ album…was the soundtrack to many laughter-inducing high school memories…… AND the fact that I am still holding out for a man that will sing ‘I do’ from that album to me on my wedding day, I was more than happy to hear Boys II Men harmonizing for whatever cause, in this ‘tribute video’

2nd good thing, Chris Breezy. With all the madness surrounding him lately, I almost forgot I actually like his sound and the music he makes. Although the fact that this negro could engage in a full blown fight with an island girl(Yeah I said it! You have heard before now that black women are all sorts of crazy [no matter how civilized we act in front of company, don’t be fooled!]….but I believe a special place is reserved in negro heaven for women from the Islands….Rumour has it that they are the modern Antieneria race that historians thought had died) Antianeira literally translates to ‘Women who fight like men’...this made me question Chris Brown's own self-esteem, mental state and general love for himself. I mean, why do that to yourself?!

So yeah, I am slightly in awe of Breezy's audacity in taking on an Island gyal, lawd knows one of them looks at me like ‘What nigga???!?! What?!?!’ and I’m shamelessly begging for forgiveness. Immediately. On the other hand his antics had me reading the news with an ‘Oooh I wish a nigga would!!!’ look on my face. Seriously if a man beat me I don’t even know what I would do! I suspect it would involve bleaching clothes, scratching cars, rat poisoning, prank calling bosses at random hours and leaving threatening messages from your phone….all while crying like a woman in a Craig David video and softly singing Emotions, Irreplaceable or other such Destiny Child man-eater inspired songs. In other words, I would go Angela-Bassett-crazy on you. So don’t do it…..But I digress. I was saying the song reminded me that Chris can indeed carry a tune in a bucket.

BUT, all of this goodness did not distract me from the fact that The Game looks like an Aba merchant or that he seems like somebody with body odour or indeed that the song deserves a MIGHTY side eye. I mean, I knew it was going to be problematic when The Game started his rap with the words, “I’m Michael Jackson, you’re Michael Jackson.” Er,no negro, I aint. And neither are you so stop this foolishness and go back under your rock of irrelevancy.

Watch the video and see how serious he is taking this whole thing, like his name is Sir Game Jackson…actually at some point he does in fact say ‘We are all Jacksons’*sigh* Seriously, why?...why though?

I guess I should know better, after all this is a man with tattoos on his face.I strongly believe any homo sapien of adult age and the capacity to reason, who tattoos his face IS actually as stupid as you suspect they might be when u first see them…because it shows a lack of foresight….which in turn shows a propensity for foolishness(e.g. Nigerian leaders; shortsightedness is directly proportional to gross acts of foolishness. Tried, tested & trusted baby!!). So The Game is stupid.....If you look stupid( tattoos on his face, Michael Jackson tattoo on his arm….seriously, a tattoo of Michael at the graveyard scene of the Thriller video where he looked corpse ugly??!!Really though??), you sound stupid(spewing forth phrases like “….we are Michael Jackson”)…then by golly, you ARE stupid!

Long story short, I understand where Boys II Men are coming from with this song, they were famous at the same time as MJ in the early 90's and probably met him a few times. Brown is obviously influenced by Jackson as he has said wayyyy before now, and did in fact meet and perform with him. But The Game?….is an irrelevant pseudo-thug opportunist who has jumped on the band wagon and is like that person at the funeral who hardly knew the dead yet cries even louder than all the family members. He is a Professional Mourner.

Welcome To Nollywood

I love Nollywood, its Pringles-like quality makes it so addictive. Seriously it’s like a Hallmark movie, you don’t want to watch it but once you pop, you can’t stop. You KNOW no good can come out of this movie you are watching, you KNOW what exactly the end will be from the beginning, with the loudly screeched adverts....yet you lose 3 hours and 37 minutes of your life that you will never ever regain in watching said movie. But you’re happy. Because you have just laughed more times in the 337 than you have in a week. My dad used to complain about Nollywood. He was more than suspicious of its contents; he thought they were solely created to reduce the human I.Q to the barest decimal. Or to test his patience. Possibly:-).

But I soon explained to him that the problem he faced in watching these movies stemmed from a much deeper rooted problem; his refusal to surrender to foolishness. Nollywood can only be enjoyed if the viewer makes a conscious decision to surrender his intelligence at the door, BEFORE pressing play. Anything else is a fatal error, because you will spend parts 2 and 3 of the movie complaining bitterly to avid fans like myself (who will begin to mentally devise numerous ways to make you extinct in a bid to shut you up!).

If for instance, while watching a Nollywood film I am informed [by the dubious plot] that there is a Nigerian pig presently located on the moon,that the piglet in question travelled there with a forged visa, stolen passport and on a slow-moving camel,that said 'Niglet' is currently in communication with Martians to bomb Iraq; I will continue to watch, to learn if he will succeed in his mission.

OR, If I see a well educated, knowledgeable woman going to a witch doctor to procure a potion that will cause a hideously obscene man 13 times her age make her his wife, and the witch doctor requires she provide (and I quote), “….two white duck fowls who have not witnessed a dawn, the eyes of an ant….and one, granmama PINT (pānt).” I laugh until I’m weak, shrug it off and continue to watch, to see from which savanah’d anthill she will pluck out those eyes.

You see, the Ridiculosity Quotient is not much higher than that of the Transformers movie, yet people are so quick to shout Nollywood is “..So fake!"….yeah, because coloured robots the size of the Eiffel running round our city streets terrorizing peace-loving citizens isn't. Right.

So I watch nollywood happily as it takes the funniest and strangest bits about being Nigerian and makes them into sometimes poignant, often times pointless movies. And I love it. It makes me laugh, loud & long. And makes me think (mostly of the randomness of Nigeria). The clip below is from a movie appropriately titled "ONE DOLLAR"*. $1=Full. Blown.Jokes yet, it manages to convey a serious message about materialism, see thats the beauty of Nollywood...What else is entertainment for if not to make us laugh and think? And be distracted from studying the law.*sigh*

The crase starts from around 4.20, I was slayed by all references to “EH-MERRY-KUH!!!”*



*To Maga who steadfastly told me some of the funnier quotes in this video long before I saw it…I apologise for thinking you made them up. I know better now. And I’m even more convinced our friendship must cease.

**BTW, as I am typing this post up, my friend calls me to tell me Michael Jackson just died!...As we speak, my study buddy calls me to say she's bought tickets to the M.J concert in Paris in August....I'm sorry to laugh but, EPIC FAIL!!!!!lol!!

THIS foolishness right here.....

So when I speak about Oakland as the place where decency goes to die, everyone thinks I'm taking the piss.....Urban jury, I invite you bear witness to this unadulterated foolishness displayed by grown ass folk.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJSyKiLVh4s
[Ok the video has been removed but id you so desire, type in 'Oakland Salon Fight' on google/You Tube and cringe at middle aged women shamelessly wrestling]....

...And all because of some kneegroe...some broke-ass, sperm-spreading-numerous-babymama-having, lotion-immune-probably-ashy, kool-aid sipping, durag-and-Timbs-wearing kneegroe. Just plain NASTYdamus!

How do I know the man in question is all these things? Our wise forefathers say "If you lie with dogs, you will get up with fleas." Thats why the mantra of flea-infested women remains "ALL MEN ARE DOGS!!"

LOL! I really have no idea what the last sentence means but it was fun to write. OK, my Evidence book won't read itself. Au revoir!

Ridamndiculous!

Oakland, Oakland, Oak. Land. Mm-Mm-Mm. What to say??? Where to start??? My adventures in the west coast of America would have been incomplete without a trip to the notorious Oakland area. On my first ever trip to this geographical location, I was accosted by a man in a T-Pain inspired top hat attempting to chat me up with a mouth full of what I was forced to conclude was aluminum foil masquerading as ‘Grillz’. Oh Hip-Hop, our children will judge you. Harshly. My short sojourn in the land of plenty, ‘God’s own land’ in the words of many immigrants, has revealed several mind numbing truths to me; I’m starting to believe that America is really Fools’ Paradise and I'm beginning to doubt the potency of the American dream, but I digress from today’s tale biko, that discussion is a serious matter for another day and maybe another place too.

We resolutely forge ahead. So, after bar class, I am standing at the bus stop. Waiting for my chariot to drive (do you drive a chariot? Or ride it? Or race it??) me home. Due to construction work at school we have all been forced to take classes for the bar in Oakland. This plan sucks, in fact I have to borrow a Nigerian slang I hate and declare that this plan “IS NOT BUNZ!!!!’ Who thought it would be a clever idea to have a whole group of Anglo-saxons crashing into one of the dingiest and dodgiest areas around San Francisco bay to take classes daily. Not the cleverest of ideas. I am black and even I don’t feel safe!

But I digress, standing at the bus stop awaiting my chariot. A certified crack-head comes up to me and proceeds to chat me up….[chai! see my life!]....How do I know he was a crack head? The Harlem-shake-neck-twisting-movements coupled with the scratching, kind of tipped me off. He stood there twisting his head and shoulders like he was listening to an invisible ipod.*hiss* Anyways, he goes on to tell me that he is turning 50 this year and is looking for a ‘wifey’. *le sigh* I proceed to inform him I am not a day over 16. He quickly asked when my birthday was and upon providing a fake month, he leered and happily told me its only a few months before I become an “adult of 17 then we can….”. YUCKITY YUCK!!! [R. Kellys of the world should be jailed]. I proceed to ignore him after favoring him with a dangerous ‘you-disgusting-amoeba- wither-and-die-post-haste' look. Then I turn around and pretend a deep interest in the granite. After a few minutes of talking to the back of my head, I hear him turn around and utter a scream!!!

Now in these here parts, on these grimy Oakland streets, someone screams and I automatically do 2 things, dive to the ground in a bid for cover or run as fast as my Veet-enabled pins can carry me! No stopping to check for the proverbial ‘shi-shi’. So Crackfiend screams and I’m about Usain Bolt my way from there but as I turn around, dear lawd, I too screamed..……in laughter!!!!

Alas urban jury, lo and behold, before my very eyes was a real-life pimp!! Live.In.Living.Colour! The jokes just wrote themselves from that point on! This fake-ass-gangsta-pseudo-pimp was garbed in the most entertaining outfit. ALL GREEN. Green. Top to toe. Every sickly shade of green you can imagine was on this clowns’ body as he marched down the street looking as proud as sin.*sigh* He had a dark green hat…complete with feather, mint green shoes with the matching mint trousers, olive shirt, dark green jacket AND to make it rain on you kneegroes and gentlefolks, this brother had a light green pimped out cane!!!!MAKE OF THAT WHAT YOU WILL!!!!!looooool!!!! I ALMOST DIED OF LAUGHTER! And of course trust that the scream emitted by the 50 year old Crack-Don who wanted to “Hola at me right quick” was a scream of welcome to his friend Veggie Pimp. Mon Dieu! America the great!