BintiM
This may seem long, but please read it. Please share it. I don't think I've ever asked that of you before. Thank you.
When I was a child, my mother told me my name meant "warrior king". In times when it really shouldn't have mattered, and I'd run out of things to believe in myself for, I'd remind myself what my name meant and pick myself up by my boots and go out and fight for what was mine.
It is with horror that I find myself drawn to write a post on Valentine’s. About love. It’s especially curious because I’ve been trying to complete my holiday posts and it’s been difficult finding the right words and everything I write doesn’t feel good enough to be posted. And yet here I am with sentences rushing through my mind begging to be let out. So here goes. But be warned, this post is more rambling than anything specific so bear with me.
Never is an emotion revered, vilified, ignored, ranted at and blamed as love is during this time. The ones in love can’t gush enough about it. The heartbroken are asking why, the cynics are dressing it in sarcasm. Love is everywhere.
Most of us, especially girls, got our idea of romantic love from the Cinderella and Snow White books that we read at a very early age. We would suffer, then our prince would come rescue us, and then we’d live happily ever after. As teenagers this notion was reinforced by the Mills and Boon books we sneaked into our rooms, filling our young impressionable minds with fantasies of tall dark handsome men who will come sweep us off our feet. This mindset usually set us up for our first heartbreak. Of course nothing works out as the books had suggested. Some of us become quickly disillusioned while others continue to hold on to the idea that he was just the wrong one. The real prince will come. Years later, we get on with the business of living and the dreams we once held about happy ever after are forgotten.
But there’s something I’ve noticed about my age group as far as love, especially romantic love, is concerned. We don’t like admitting it’s a big part of us. When in a relationship, we try hard not to appear too in love. When we break up, we pretend it didn’t matter. Tuck it in out of sight. No one likes to see love’s disappointments . Better go get drunk. We seem to be a generation scared of our feelings. My apprehension at writing this post shows how much we avoid expressing or talking about love. Don’t wear your heart on your sleeves, it’s unseemly
What am I on about? I guess I’m just lamenting the loss of love. These days people love in bits, always with an exit plan. We’re disillusioned and cynical. And afraid. That’s why the men walking with flowers today are behaving like they’re committing a capital offense. Yet I know of someone who married her first love, years after they broke up and lost contact. 2 people in fact. Then there’s also the couple that dated for 10 yrs. There were so many obstacles in their way, it always looked like they will never end up together but finally got married. Stuff that romantic books are made of.
So maybe there’s still hope for us. Maybe love actually does exist.
I’ve always wanted to travel. The idea of going to far-away places, meeting different kinds of people, experiencing different types of cultures has a certain appeal. I always say that if I got really rich, instead of acquiring material stuff like most people would do, the money for me would mean freedom to go anywhere I want to. Live a year in Brazil, 6 months in Nepal , 2 years in Egypt (may they get peace and stability soon). Different places, different people.
Last year I finally decided to actually do some traveling rather than just fantasize about it. Even if it’s on a low-budget. So in December when my friend told me we should visit our other who lives in Dubai it was the perfect opportunity. The three of us have been friends since we were like 10. The friend who lives in Dubai has been asking us to visit her for a while but it’s never come through. So it was pretty exciting for us to finally get a chance for the three to hang out. At first we weren’t sure we’d make it this time either, and we almost cancelled a couple of times, but luckily we managed to get our stuff together and set the date for end of January. Due to logistics we ended up traveling on different dates with me travelling a day earlier and my other friend travelling the next day.
My trip was uneventful, thank God. Since this was my very first time venturing beyond our East African borders I was a bit apprehensive and my mum gave me enough warnings of “”don’t help people with babies, they hide drugs in their diapers!’ My flight was for 1640 and I arrived at around 11.pm Dubai time. Dubai airport is pretty simple cos everything is clearly marked and I went through immigration ok, though the guys there were rather unfriendly. Guess they didn’t like working at that time of the night. But I was happy that I was out of the airport in a short time.
I managed to get a taxi and direct it to where I was staying. My first view of Dubai was at night and it was amazing. Lots of lit up sky scrapers decorated the skyline.
Dubai at Night. Sorry for the not so clear photo
The taxi managed to get me to my friend’s house with her giving directions. One thing I noticed is driving is complicated. If you miss a turning, you have to go quite a distance to get back on the right road. There’s no U-turning on random places and you can’t go up pavements. Someone said as much as fuel is cheap, they do a lot more driving for short distance. Oh, also the driver stopped at a red light at an empty road until it turned green. I imagined what our Kenyan drivers would have done. lol.But the roads are amazing. Super highways and complicated networks. Hopefully this is what the Chinese have in mind for our roads.
I spent the first day doing some mild sight-seeing while waiting for my friend who was arriving at 2am. I feel asleep at around 9 and was woken up by her “We’re in Dubai” screams. She had arrived safely.
Finally the 3 musketeers were reunited!
Next: The Traveller: Confessions of a Shopaholic
For some reason I had an urge to write a final blog post for the year 2011. Ironic because I wasn’t much of a blogger in 2011. As someone likes pointing out, the term underfeeder has described me perfectly this year.
As far as my writing is concerned the second part of 2011 was hard. I simply couldn’t write. Not just on the blog but anywhere else. There’s nothing in my drafts, my laptop or scribbled in notebooks.
But I don’t want to write about not being able to write today. I usually do my resolutions and recap of my year on my birthday, but 2011 was a year of lessons so I thought I’d share those here.
Ok. That’s all for now. I’ll do a proper post in April Inshallah.
Be true to yourselves. Stay blessed.
Love Aisha
like the breath that’s trapped beneath your tongue
the breath that spoke my name
scented with memories of our tomorrow
memories I try to capture between our entwined fingers;
i should have seen it in the way your hands claimed mine
that first time we touched
an extension of mine, trembling.
your smile pierces through my chest
stops to marvel at how well your rib holds my heart
dissolves into the butterflies in my stomach
and melts into the liquid holding my weak knees
i try to stand upright.
stubborn in my quest to remain unmoved, unaffected
a quest I lost when my heart answered your call
you came to me on a sunny day
took me by surprise
i was looking for you in the shadows
whispers against the dark clouds
steady, your light was shining
showing me the way,
leading me
guiding me to you
i trace the lines of your lips
as if they hold a secret
i memorize their shape
when you say my name
i commit them to my eyelids
because when it finally rains
i’ll harvest my tears in their grooves
I look at the face in the mirror.
A face I’ve seen a million times
I look at this strange face
I feel like there should be some change on it,
Some sort of mark that will signify my life.
But this calm face stares back, emotionless
Unapologetic
This face that hides the scars
A face I’ve seen a million times…
I don’t know how long I stood like this.
Don’t really remember…
It feels like a lifetime ago; it should be a lifetime,
I’m struggling hard to remember that girl that I was yesterday
Who was I? And who am I now?
I stare hard at the mirror,
Hoping the girl on the other side would answer
The one who has my face, challenging…
How can that person represent me now…
How can I feel so different, so detached to that face?
This stranger I’ve seen a million times?
i don’t understand the emptiness in the pit of my stomach,
this constant humming
when the laughter feels like it’s coming from the sea
the bottomless sea of loneliness
i don’t understand when nothing made his home in me
he held my hand and forged my fingerprints in his
pain of my pain,
i don’t understand how the light in my eyes
was replaced by shadows
shadows the shape of my desires
I don’t understand this taste in my tongue
The tangy taste of loss
I wonder when the pot that held my waters
became a hollow cave now brimming with wanting
This post was supposed to be part of my birthday posts, but I somehow forgot about it. But I think it’s still relevant. Enjoy. 
1. Of Dreams and Holding On
I have been writing for as long as I can remember. In high school my pal and I had this book and we filled it with our teenage ramblings and poetry. I still find notebooks at home filled with my writing. I always knew I was going to be a writer. So I always wonder, how did I not start writing seriously until 2 years ago? I guess at some point, I stopped believing that I was any good at it. I lost my dream. So when it came to going to college I picked a safe option, which would get me a safe job. Instead of learning my craft.
I don’t know when it happened, when I took my dreams and shoved them into a box at the dark corners of my mind. Part of it was fear I guess. Fear of rejection. Writing for me is extremely personal, it’s a part of who I am. So I felt that if I shared that with people and they didn’t like it, then it would be like they had rejected me.
But the good thing with dreams, is no matter how much you ignore them, they never let you have peace until you acknowledge them. And so after years I finally accepted that I love writing, and I can’t NOT write. There was no way I would know if I was any good at it if I don’t take the risk and let it out to people.
I’m glad that I found my way back and it feels good to finally know exactly what I want to do. 10 years from now I see myself in some country with a beach and lots of rain, spending most of my day writing. Always writing.
2. Women are a girls best friend.
There are women who say that they can’t connect with other women. They just don’t get along. And they prefer male friends to women. I get that, I really do. Men bring a different perspective in our lives. They have a way of seeing things that we don’t see, of analyzing situations that makes it clear for us. And a man is the best person to talk to when you are feelingh low. It’s very interesting seeing yourself through a man’s eyes. Very flattering.
But I believe that if you don’t have a group of special women in your life, you are missing out on a lot. I have a circle of girls that I don’t know how I would have made it through the last couple of years without. Yes, it gets heated sometimes cos after all we are women, each of us a little sun expecting to always shine the brightest. But these women anchor me. Who else can get how a chocolate fudge cake is the cure of everything that ails a woman from PMS to heartbreak, to that b**ch colleague melodrama? Ladies tell me I’m not speaking the truth.
I know, it’s hard to get good friends whom you can trust, but when you do, it’s amazing. These women support me, criticize me, pray for me, teach me, guide me and I know they would be there for me no matter what. These women help to keep grounded and balanced. It makes me all emotional writing this. I love you ladies. Y’all rock.
3. The past can never be erased, but it can be surpassed.
Like everyone else I have made my share of mistakes. Some because of being young and naive, some temporary stupidity, and some cos I just didn’t know better. And others pure arrogance, thinking that I know better than everyone who has done it before. For a long time, I carried my mistakes like a sign to my door. They were the first thing I wore in the morning and they lay next to me every night. I relived them so many times, they were what defined me. I was my mistakes and there was no room for anything else.
But at some point I just realized that I can’t keep blaming myself for things I can’t change and I was dragging myself down with all that baggage. So I went into a journey of slowly shedding it. Piece by piece I analyzed all the stuff that went down, forgave the ones I needed to, buried those that never need to be seen again and learned the lessons. Most importantly I finally forgave myself. There’s still some residue left, but it’s not significant. It’s no longer limiting me, holding me back. Not saying that I might never make mistakes again, I’m human after all, but I now know what mistakes are unnecessary. And I can finally say I have laid my past to rest.
4. Losing and Finding My Religion
I’ve always believed in God and for this I am eternally grateful. I’ve never had a time when I doubted His existence. But in the last decade I have had many times I have questioned my purpose in this world and my obligations to Him. Especially so as a woman.
The last decade was spent in moments of self-doubt and internal struggle. I grew up in Nairobi, but was raised in a conservative culture. It was hard, finding the middle ground between these completely different environments. Finding the place where I can fit it, I can claim as my own. I have fallen and risen many times and still fallen again. It was hard to always accept that God was in charge. Not the other way round. I wanted to forge my way ahead, conquer my world and take full credit, I had fought the fight so the medals belonged to me. That was ego and to be able to submit fully to God, there is no place for ego. You are a servant, He is the master. I am still on this journey, learning more every day. Making mistakes and learning to correct them. But I constantly pray that He continues to guide me and lead me in His path.
5. You Can’t Die from Heartbreak
Just like my first kiss, I fell in love for the very first time much later than my peers. I was a late bloomer.
First love is interesting. Because you have nothing else to compare it with, the novelty of it is what makes it exciting. And the naive assumption that you will feel like that forever. He was beautiful in how he reached into my heart and spoke to me. For a shy person, to finally find someone who listens to your voice and yours only, is a heady experience.
Inevitably, as is with anything that blazes, it eventually burns down. And my walk on air was finally over. I can never forget how that first heartbreak felt. It was like a physical pain and I felt as if my heart was truly broken and I was gonna die. I couldn’t possibly live through such pain. I actually lay down on my bed and waited for the pain to overcome me. And then I woke up the next morning and I thought “I survived it. I didn’t die.” As much as it still hurt for a while longer, it was a liberating feeling. Surviving that first heartbreak helped me in my future relationships. Now no matter how bad the break up was I always tell myself. “You’ll wake up tomorrow morning”
Always,
Aisha
Girl in the picture
I wonder
How does it feel like,
When the thing stuck in your mouth,
Slowly tightens its hold on your neck,
Holding you prisoner as the object of his desire?
When the choking is the sound of your brain
Slowly turning to mush,
Against the picture of your nakedness?
You are the source of his inflated pride.
I wonder,
How does it feel like?
When your feet tread on used condoms,
Sticky with the remnants of his seed?
The tattered picture of your face,
Is the canvas that he lays your worth?
Tell me,
Do you ever wonder?
If he’ll stop staring at your breasts
Long enough to start talking to your face?
Have you ever asked him the colour of your eyes
And you got told the shape of your thighs?
He lowers his gaze to your navel
As if too ashamed to see the reflection of his mother.
Girl in the picture
He pays you off with new shoes
Shopping sprees, rides in expensive cars
I wonder
What’s the price you pay?
When your heart slowly starts to rot
Do you gag on the stench of your dreams?
Does your surrender, your defeat,
Flow out in the form of tears?
Your body is your temple
God’s finest work, your refuge
Your body, an object of his play?
Do you remember,
When proud African mothers
Dug you out
From the forgotten depths of history?
Save the girl child, save the world
Save the girl child, sell her to the world?
Girl in the picture
Do you remember, when she sweated blood
Her callused hands held your crying body
Wiped your tears and fed you her breast?
Once your sustenance, now a medium of exchange?
You are the daughter of queens
Hold you head high
And show respect for their fight
Girl in the picture,
Show respect for the royal blood
That flows through your veins
A couple of months back someone posted a picture on Twitter with the comment:
“Beautiful. Sad we don’t see something like this in Nairobi”
(I had saved the picture but can’t seem to locate it. Will update it if I find it)
When I saw the tweet, and the corresponding statement, I was curious to see what this thing was that we don’t get to see in Nairobi. At first I thought it was one of those beautiful cars, or a complicated road network that can only be found in the developed world. Or even a skyscraper, the kind that Dubai is famous for.
I didn’t expect it to be a woman. That statement implies that there are no women who look like that in Nairobi. Worse, it also implies that women who look like that are the SI unit of beauty. That is, the standard light skin, straight nose and soft hair kind of woman. The worldwide standard of beauty that has been shoved down our African throats for centuries.
Some time later, on Twitter again, I happened on a now common weaves vs natural hair debate. The guy was complaining about the number of women who wear weaves as opposed to keeping it natural. I countered that many men say that they like their women with natural hair and make up free but when you walk with them on the streets of Nairobi the woman you catch them staring at is the most make up enhanced of them all – weave and all. My final say on that was the day they will start showing love to the Alek Weks of this world is the day we shall stop trying to look like the Tyras.
Finally, about month or two ago, I uploaded a new profile picture. I was wearing make up and it got a lot of attention. Not that the nice comments weren’t appreciated, but I noted that a lot of those were from the people who say they want natural looking girls. And then later in the day, my pal who hasn’t seen me for a long time, commented that it seems that I’ve now started putting on make up. For the record, I have been wearing make up on and off since I was like 18. At the moment I wear it occasionally mostly on special events and such. But according to him I was ‘ruining’ my natural beauty. Thing is,
These different incidences made me think of the pressures an African woman has to conform to a certain look. No matter what we choose, there’s always someone ready to criticize.
Growing up as African women, I don’t think we’ve ever been allowed to feel that we are fine as is. From an early age, the notion of what is beautiful is programmed into us. From the dolls we played with, to the women we saw on TV, they all had a certain look. I remember as a kid going to the salon with my cousins. They all had long, thick, soft hair due to their mixed ancestries. Mine, although not really short, was more African. The hair dressers would always ask me why my hair wasn’t as “nice” as theirs. Tired of hearing this I once asked, “How would I know? Why don’t you go ask God? I then stopped going to the same salons as them. Because of that, I’ve had a crazy relationship with my hair. Would you blame me if I decided to go the weave way?
Boys are provided with role models from all walks of life, based on what they do and not how they look; the first black President of United States, Freedom fighters, The first Man on the Moon, people doing tangible things that they can aspire to become and can work towards regardless of how they were born. But girls however, most of the women who are in the spotlight are famous more for what they look like or what they wear. So from a young age, it takes a lot of time, and endless battles with low self-esteem and self-doubt for a woman to finally reach a point where she’s comfortable in her own skin. To finally accept that she can’t change who she is, so its better just get on with the business of living. And still we don’t catch a break for it. Everyone seems to have an opinion of how they want us to be.
Every woman is unique in her experiences and back ground. For some women, how they dress be it clothes or hair, is like armour; to help them fight their daily battles. For others, their varied personality dictates their aesthetic choices. When a woman decides to wear a weave, go bald, or keep a natural fro, why does it have to be a topic of constant debate? Can’t it just be as simple as how she chose to wear her hair rather than a capital offense to the entire male population?
Many men claim they are looking for real women. Women who are as beautiful on the inside as they are on the outside. And yet there’s endless conversations everyday about how a woman should or shouldn’t look. And guess what, we’re listening, consciously or subconsciously. And some of us will change thinking that’s what suits you.
When I look in the mirror, no matter what look I have on, I am still the same person with my hair curled or straight, lips fully glossed or barely there, dark skin or simply fair. I bear the same name – woman. I still have the power to bring forth life and nurture; power to raise girls who the male species will love and delight in, natural or covered in make-up. Because I know that even as they talk, I hope they see the same thing I see, just a woman.
If you want African women to be more substance than smoke screen, then change the stereotypes and the conversations.
