The Cushitic Life

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Green flag energy

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Courtesy: Instagram/Dustinpoynter, 2024

Vampires. Werewolves. Billionaires. Surgeons. Pirates. The dream archetype literary hero of a majority of women. Allegedly. And so for the longest time, we were inundated with vampire plotlines. Back then, I kept up with the Joneses so of course I was a twilight babe through and through. Until I came to my senses and stopped watching TV. The point however is that green flags for many women equals high aggression in the male dominance hierarchy. Á la vampires and werewolves. Do you believe it? I don’t know of any healthy woman who craves violence to tame, as suggested. What? Like animals? Come on now.

Back to the archetypes- surgeons and billionaires, okay let’s bite. Do we have morally upright billionaires? Who stand by a consistent set of values throughout their wealth building? I’m not talking about billionaire philanthropy- the idea that one’s charity is announced and very visible astounds me. That aside, isn’t the very nature of extreme wealth concentration unethical? How do you build it without trampling on others’ rights? How do you sustain it? I would love to be wrong- can you imagine the sadaqa opportunities?

Now surgeons, I approve. I don’t think it gets any better than this. I advise anyone seeking career guidance these days to study medicine. I digress, the archetypes are just that, archetypes. Dare I say researched and disseminated by men? Again, I’m happy to be wrong. Are all women online? Of course not. But even if they were, are the archetypes achievable by women too? Of course. Believing women. You know, the flavour of the Mother of the Faithful, Khadijah bint Khuwaylid (May Allah be pleased with her). As I get older, I’m even more persistent on creating and sustaining a standard of life and luxury that can solely be financed by me Inshaallah. And I firmly believe that even in my brokest of days. Ahem.

My sisters read my journal- and now I can laugh about it, but back then, I was mortified and traumatized from owning a journal for ages. An entry recalled a dream about being saved from a waterfall. Now do not ask me how, why and where I needed to be saved in a waterfall- I don’t even think I had ever seen one at 13. But what I mean to say is they were dreams, so when I first heard about this alleged research on the significance of vampires and werewolves, it made sense to me. Not because of aggression and violence that needs taming. But in the sense of having a friend to lift you and defend you and save you- the so called ride or die.

My Lord does my saving these days, even in my dreams. And I’ve come full circle. I remember having debates with friends on freebies. For a long time, I could not understand the concept of freebie coffees or lunches from unfamiliar men. I recall once getting into it with one who’d bought a friend lunch, and saw nothing wrong in extending to me. I went a couple more rounds with colleagues or school mates who’d complain that I was a weird friend. My dude, I have no male friends. It goes without saying that any offers for dates was an immediate red flag. I’m trying to recall when I have had polite gifts from men? Besides my tailor, whom I persistently promoted with a bad shopping habit? I mean free, I don’t expect anything else from you offers? Are there no strings attached freebies from strange men? I read somewhere that most men would never go out of their way to be polite to someone they don’t find attractive. I don’t know how true this is outside of my world, but I’m sure glad for akhlaq and sadaqa.

As to the green flags – drama kings and queens are a firm no. Unjustified violence- verbal, physical and the whole shebang, is an ick. So is cursing. It’s popular to curse these days. I acknowledge that this can be hard to drop. But can you imagine if we all cursed? Reminds me of people whose anger is more important than yours. I once had a Client’s wife call me to tell me that her husband has anger issues and that I should just understand him. Really 🙂

A firm moral compass is a given- when I was younger, I couldn’t really articulate what this meant. Now though, it’s a simple case of equity, equality and justice. Oh well, not so simple after all. It comes through in how one treats waiters or people they do not expect to gain from, or when they trample another’s rights. Even, ‘please can you ensure we never give a quarter to this party in this deal?’ is worthy of a cut sublime. Politely- with an internal reminder that this is definitely not green flag energy. And that you are the company you keep. These days, I don’t put up any polite facades- we will never get along, personally or professionally, so let’s not even try.

I take that back. I am fairly tolerant to my friends and acquaintances. It’s a completely different story for me. I have incredibly high standards for myself, to the point of idealism. And I fall so many times, my Lord knows. But He helps me rise up every time. Sadly, I’m not tolerant either when it comes to a future partner. I expect you to walk the most walkiest of walks. A leader, in every sense of the word. An imperfect one, mind, but one who grows from mistakes, reflects and makes amends. Can you ask for forgiveness from the Creator, without asking from His creation?

Have standards, they said. Finished school. Work. Then relax them, they said. They like to say a lot of things. Never settle, my ladies. Never. Inshaallah.

Ex friends who crawl back

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Courtesy: Smokecap, 2019

5 years ago, I lamented here about a friend who’d chosen to betray me. I shut that book and moved on. Well, almost 5 years later, sis contacted me out of the blue with a different number, and asked me to unblock her. I unblocked and waited for my apology. The call went on and on about the toxic space she was in when she abused me and betrayed me, and her disbelief that I would throw her to the side like that. Okaaaaay. Still, I remained positive, my apology would eventually come.

Sis needed advice in setting up her business – I’m happy to help. There were unsolicited praises about my honesty et cetera, you know, what I usually do to butter up my mum before asking an impossible ask. There were many excuses shared and her regret at the loss of our friendship – at one point though, there was an attempt to infantilize my “outburst” and intolerance to her betrayal, which of course I pushed back on. And the call went on and on – still patiently waiting for my apology here– and then click, it went off.

Guys, there was no apology. So that was it for me. I would not be available to someone who did not know how to apologize. This is a girl who went out of her way to hurt me, and years later thought life is bigger than small hurts. My girl, what are you on about? Life is all about the small things. Sis called again. Because of course she would. I’m a walkover, you know. Nope, you’re not entitled to my time or energy. Dropped sis a text that I have to honour my feelings and our chapter is over. My best to you sis, but we’re not going back. The response was scathing, but closure nonetheless.

Human beings never fail to amaze me. What in the world would make someone fail to apologize even after being told how much they hurt you last time? Sis needed niche advice within my domain- you couldn’t even swallow your pride for this? Astounding. I love to see cushitic women succeed. I would love to help you and support you, if I could. But I will not burn myself again for you. Come on people. To any friends who do want to make amends, surely this means taking responsibility for hurting your friend? Nobody cuts off relationships in this very small cushitic business women’s world without reason. Certainly not me – when I come across fellow introverts who are low maintenance, I’m a girlie for life. I don’t give up friends, unless you are deliberately hurtful and negative for my overall well being.

Now forgiveness? Yes, I will forgive you. How can I not forgive you when I constantly ask my Lord for His forgiveness. I have no pride in anything to do with The King. And forgetting – you’re in luck, I have a short memory and I genuinely do forget transgressions, even outright enemies from time to time, when life gets too busy. Ahem. But going back? Sis, I’m not a fool. Especially if you went out of your way to betray me. A believer is not hurt from the same hole – you feel me? I don’t turn the other cheek sis, yet – I can’t fathom the strength of people who do that. It literally goes against your instinct and self preservation to allow space to a betrayer.

Coming from a girl who’d burn bridges with all the bodies on it, I think I’ve come a long way😎. I mean, I gave space to a former friend. I’ve genuinely forgiven sis, missing apology notwithstanding. I’m glad she gave me the closure to tell her what she did to me. Okay, she didn’t. I took it upon myself to remind her. Sis, being at peace with someone doesn’t mean picking up the friendship like nothing happened. Is it possible to unpoison a well? I once read about the Prophet (Peace be upon him) who forgave Wahshi ibn Harb (May Allah be pleased with him) for killing his uncle Hamza ibn Abdul Muttalib (May Allah be pleased with him) at Uhud, once he accepted Islam. But Wahshi was a painful reminder of his beloved’s death so the Prophet (Pbuh) asked him to hide his face in his presence. Okay okay, sis didn’t unalive anyone here. But I was hurt, people. And I’m going to honour my feelings.

Sis, I wish you joy and success and cushitic excellence…over there. Please don’t call me again.

Priorities

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Buffalo Springs National Reserve, Samburu (2022)

Almost 20 years ago today, I sat in an Agriculture class, and wrote notes, it seemed, for an entire term. I had friends and classmates troop in from time to time, to peer over my shoulder, as I wrote, and drew cow breeds, and hoes. It seemed then, to others, like a herculean task. It never worries me- that a task would be too daunting. And I mean that, humbly. With immense gratitude. What worries me is always the level of passion, or interest I have, then. That’s what I get to play with, or trick sometimes, when I have to. That’s what keeps me up. Because if I fail there, I fail. Surely there must be some love here, I push myself. Come on, at least some like? Can we like this, please? Enough to delve in? It seems like a very low bar to set myself, but I’ve never claimed to live a perfect life. It can get boring sometimes. Well, most times. But if I’m honest. Truly honest? Like is enough for me. That’s all I need, to get through any sphere of my life with grace- relationships, career and pet-projects. It feels like one of those days. Delving in, to pick up my Agriculture notes, once more. But I pick them up now with so much life experience.

A few days ago, I stood at the head of a janaza, the second in my life that I’ve had the courage to see. No, the priviledge to attend. I can’t imagine the hearts of those who frequently visit graves, because this seemed daunting all by itself. Does one ever get used to the smell of a friend in a different realm? There was a lot happening around me-but it was not the time, or place, to pass opinions or make judgment, on how to process grief. All I could do was stand amongst the tears, and attempt to be stoic. Even a year ago, the thought of visiting my beloved’s grave, let alone standing next to a janaza, was not to be borne. Where would I be without life experience?

A few months ago, I remember reading, and listening to the words of someone imploring me to give them a chance, unbothered. Two years ago, I would be in pieces, wracked with guilt. I would relent, in the face of this pressure. Never external, always my conscience. But I love me first now. And when I don’t? I love me more. I put me first. Like me first. Serve me first. Having said that, it would be enough for me to like you, to give you a chance. I don’t care about everyone else. I don’t care if the entire world likes you. Even champions you. And I don’t care if you have the world to offer. My spirit runs skeptical every time you speak. I can’t help myself. And sadly, you. These days, I do not intentionally put myself in experiences, and around people, who are not good for my nervous system. I’m truly sorry- it was never my intention to cause you pain. But life has taught me that if not now, definitely later. You’ll thank me, I promise you. Not now. But later.

Today, as I sit down to pick up my Agriculture notes once again, and I look around myself, I am burnt out. I’ve got no one to blame but myself. I have the freedom to plan and unplan my day, my work, even my experiences to an extent. There are no victims here. I can make independent decisions to say good bye to relationships that no longer serve me. I couldn’t fathom doing this, and living the life I live now 5 years ago, without angst. Whenever I have these kinds of experiences to get through now, I wake up with fire. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sad. But like I said, I’ve made a commitment to choose me first. I’ll really miss you. Really. But the truth is that you’re not on my team. And I don’t bury my head in the sand these days. You’re either team 100% me, as I am with you. Or it’s over. Those metaphorical fish in the sea? There are billions. Respectfully, I’m not for you. And you’re definitely not for me.

Sometimes putting myself first is painful- it means drinking bland water, and exercising. But team me, starts with me. Authentic me, who truly cares about me and my future, fights to rule the roost. Boundaries start with me. How could I ever hope to enforce that which is truly unfamiliar?

Are there trade-offs? Of course. Numerous. I live in a realistic world, these days. But I’ve made peace with them.

The games stop at the oxygen mask. I put my oxygen mask first on, now, always, without shame, guilt or sadness. Oodles of life experience have taught me well, and humbled me with gratitude. Because that proverbial time, these years, and those most painful life experiences have borne a confidence to make decisions that I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Entanglements , Cushitic style

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                                                                 Credit: Amazon.com

The talking stage is a well understood courting stage in the Cushitic world. Many a times it’s the whole courtship – there is no other stage, except a proposal. Or well, a split. Who knew a better word existed though in entanglements?! No? But it doesn’t just encompass relationships. At least for me. The closest metaphor to my experience of entanglements is the concentric circles of a tree. They start from the self, then to my immediate circle – family and career, and then to the rest of the world- friends, acquaintances, frenemies. Ahem. The hardest is undoubtedly the self for me which shows up in overwhelm and anxiety. Sometimes though, my overwhelm gets overwhelmed. When the world gets on my shoulders, when I feel like I couldn’t possibly go on another day, when I’m choking on my own breath, I have no choice but to press factory reset. I hand over everything. I won’t be available to anyone. Unless you’re dying, please don’t bother calling me with different numbers. I’d lock myself in my room, day in day out, and celebrate small wins like sending out a letter or responding to a friend’s text. Sometimes I’d binge eat. I’d binge read, and re-read my favourite books, everything self help, the Quran. But of course your girl lives in extremes. Urrghh!

My second week is more often what I call, the awakening. Getting back to world mode and ramping up my survival techniques. I’d be persistent with my night prayers. I’d fast Mondays and Thursdays if I can. Sometimes, when the week isn’t going well – I mean when the schedule isn’t coming together in time, because we have a week people, I throw in Fridays and Saturdays too. And two weeks later, I come out ready to face y’all again. Re-download my WhatsApp, Email and everything else related to the modern world. I’m a chronic preparer. So of course by now I’ve tried everything under the sun to get through these episodes – at least the first week which is usually the most brutal. But that is the only brand of medicine that works. I have learnt that only an audience with Him would do. Who else but He would know how to fix me? Who else but He would not get tired to listen to my soul’s pain? Is there anything else to live for in this world really but His pleasure? Who knows where we’d be, it doesn’t bear thinking. 

Now with that background, the pandemic had the hallmark signs of turning out to be the mother of all poisons. Until I got in it. And it has turned out to be my meat. I had been low key overwhelmed for what seemed like 10 straight months, juggling a full time job and my business. And both were thriving, Alhamdulillah. And my social life was thriving. For the first time in a long time, I had a vacay booked. An extensive itinerary locked down for travel in Europe with even booked flights. And that all went to the dogs with the pandemic. But I was never better. My issue has always been the inflexible 9 to 5. And so the first few months were a sigh of relief, at finally, being able to draw in a deep breath and stick to a schedule, without having every Tom, and their mother, come in to mess it up. I was on point. For once, it seemed, in a long time. 

That is not to say that 2020 is the year. My clients could barely afford to pay me. My day job had instituted salary cuts. But I don’t derive my fulfillment from wealth. I was rich inside, lol.  I was on top of my stuff, as on top as I ever could be. And I got to work from home, a novelty. Looking around my life now – leave Jada, leave Will, 2020 is my year of entanglements. From a better understanding of myself to focusing on business to leaving my job to relationships to bidding adieu to my beloved aunt- it is that year.

I rarely have any social entanglements to speak of, because I live a very regulated lifestyle, Ahem. Until the likes of Jada’s entanglements crept into my life. 

                                                      Credit: Ebaumsworld, 2020

I kid, I kid. Not quite that kind. A tamer kind, Cushitic style. I got an out of the blue phone call from a gentleman who’d gotten my number from a friend. He was interested in my field of professional services, apparently looked me up and wanted to meet me. In Covid world? Sir, let’s have a call. Professional services broke the conversation and then things went left. So I’m listening to this guy, and these days I’m mature about these things, I don’t place my finger on the red button and say stop disturbing me. I say, interesting, Mr. X. Who are you? And he goes on about his religiosity, to be brief. How he did his bachelors degree, and was like, no more of this, and was off to the Madina university to study deen. So 4 years of another bachelor’s degree. And another 4 years of a masters degree. I kid you not. And I’m as cool as a cucumber, but inside a light bulb is flashing. My Lord, you mean? You mean my dreams could come true? Just like that. You know, this is exactly what I’ve always wanted. And my dude had a lot to say. But it was around 6.30 pm, I remember distinctly. And he promises to call me back after maghrib. 

Nooooo! Red flag no.1 flashes. Uhh? Is this guy kidding me? Now now, if there’s a rule I’ve held fast to all these years, I do not talk to men on anything non-work related after 7pm. Okay, I don’t talk to them on anything non-work related during the day either. But I have a thing with conversations after sunset. With the cloak of darkness, inhibitions get relaxed. Just a theory. So I said, no dude. I’m not available after Maghrib. And as you might have guessed, sis was on the mat, praying Istikhara from the day of. I was in disbelief. My Lord, please don’t do me like that, I beg. Throw down my perfect guy on paper, that easily. And then throw this boulder? Am I too strict? I question myself now. Calling me to talk to me threw me off. I have always imagined my dream man to be this very shy but competent guy who’s just waiting for me to face the world on his behalf. I know I know, I live in a fantasy. My dude was not shy. And I hated it. 

So the next day, Mr. X calls in the morning. My guy continues to sell himself. He has a property here, he’s looking to build a family with a religious woman. You know all the right things to say. My skeptic mode is now fully on. Why are you calling? I ask. I want us to get to know each other, see where this goes. Bahahaha.  And then dude adds, I know your brother. Red flag No. 2 goes up. Wow dude, you know my brother? Well, if you know each other, why don’t you go ahead and speak to him then? It’s in real life situations that you get to understand people, is a plain way of saying actions speak louder than words. Dude says he’s travelling. We all travel Mr. X. The world is a global village. And he asks for my brother’s number. And I ask how he got mine. And he chuckles. I see what you’re doing here. Red flag No. 3 slowly rises. A man who can do no basic research? Admitting to the Queen of research, ahem but do I say, that he couldn’t be bothered to? A religious man who knows my brother and has no qualms calling me to “get to know me”. A whole Madinah graduate, who’s sunk in 8 years in one of the holiest cities in the world, with the best of teachers on the boundaries of our faith? Come on now, dude.

Mr. X tries to call again – my brother is apparently hard to reach. That is a you problem, solve it. And once he called me to complain he’s unable to reach my brother, and can I give him someone else’s number. Oh Mr. X? You mean that’s how easily you give up? That is all it takes? You’re looking to me for solutions? I’m now starting to think we’re grossly incompatible. And the 3 red flags remain firm. But then a voice (the cursed devil of course!) desperately entreats me to think of Madinah – are you going to write off Madinah guy just like that? But then another time when I was held up in a long meeting at work, I walked out to about 10 missed calls from Mr. X. The mother of all red flags immediately shoots up. Mr. X, I’m a busy person. I have a full time job, a business, and things to do. I’m not sitting at home twiddling my thumbs waiting for your call. Do we owe you money? Then stop acting like a debt collector. Not even my mother calls me that number of times. If you can’t reach me, wait, Mr. X. I’ll call you back when I’m available. And why are you still calling me anyway?

By then, my heart was heavy, resigned and accepting of the inevitable. Mr. X who was perfect on paper was turning out to be the undreamiest of men. He was failing the list – you know, educated but extremely religious. Shy yet persistent. Gentle yet strong. Soft spoken yet firm. Leave me alone– can a girl not dream? Mr. X had become a nightmare. And so I had to set firm boundaries. Kindly do not contact me until you get an okay from my brother to speak to me. I was being polite. Forget about it, dude. I was done. 

Ramadhan rolls in. A week passes by. And Mr. X starts to send me super religious quotes and messages on WhatsApp. Very interesting. And I say, no Mr. X, you are bending my rules to get a reaction from me. I’m not budging. Throughout this process, I had a heavy heart – I would never stand up light from any istikhara prayer. And despite my admonishment, the messages became persistent. I steel myself for harsh words and blocking. The only thing that spares him is that we share a common friend who speaks up for him. And then one day, one of my clients comes in to tell me he’s familiar with Mr. X, and he’s been asking for an introduction, but am I sure? Do I really want to get married to a man who already has a wife and 3 kids? Yeah guys. Besides lying, Mr. X also chose to entangle my personal to my professional life without so much as a by-your-leave. And I wish that that was the end of the story. Your girl is of course done done at this point, mutual friends notwithstanding. And because I like clear resolutions, I firmly tell Mr. X to stop contacting me, I am not interested. I wish him the best. But he doesn’t seem to understand my English. So I had to block Mr. X, with all his numbers. Mr. X was suddenly resourceful. I see Mr. X in the works of being retained to consult for my employer. Incredulous at the audacity, I mean you can’t blame me for failing to buy the coincidence. A professional with no digital foot print? Come on now.

When it rains, it pours. Sisters, it was pouring men. Errr, just two. The theme of the season was clearly Saudi Arabia. Let’s call this one Mr. Y. My dude was looking to relocate from Makkah and open a business in my country.  The brother of friends I’d met and shared numbers with in Makkah. Yes, really. These amazing set of sisters who’d given me tips on everything Madinah, the city I was visiting next, and would from then on share warm messages. Mr. Y wanted advice on how to set up a business etc. And dude would end every question with a flower. And at first I thought, okay…interesting, I’ve never had anyone send flower emojis to me. I’m out of the loop – is this the culture now? There is a first time for everything, I calm myself down. But then they got boring – always red. The fact that Mr. Y could barely speak English was certainly not a barrier. I couldn’t keep up with the messages. Dude had enough English words one day to share that he wished to get married. Now this had become too much. Mr. Y, one you don’t know me, have never met me, and surely couldn’t possibly make such a decision on the strength of one interaction with your sisters. Come on now, dude. I am many things Mr. Y, but femme fatale, I am not.  Please do not attempt to insult my intelligence.  And secondly, why ever would you wish to relocate from Makkah? I politely say No Mr. Y, I am not available. Make of that what you will. I know, I know. But sometimes a straight No is taken as a challenge which quickly turns into a nightmare. And….I don’t know why I attract creeps! Anyway, Mr. Y was back to the business angle. It soon became clear though that it had all been a ruse.

This calling to talk by way of the career angle seems to be the strategy for career girlies these days. Honeys, we don’t talk. Ever. I don’t care if you’re the ideal man on paper, the rules remain the same. Walk the talk you must. A reminder for me too, mind. I don’t need to learn from my mistakes twice. My instincts are almost always spot on, and should be heeded. And red flags hardly ever change colour, unfortunately. I have no complaints – this has only made me stronger. Wiser. More discerning. 

Sisters, you could be sitting at home, minding your own business, proper isolation et al and the long tentacles of entanglement would still find you. Cushitic style, but still, stay wary. As for my foolish list, it has failed me one too many times. Le sigh. Back to the drawing board. 

Bullets and Friends

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.223 caliber bullet necklace

.223 caliber bullet necklace, Courtesy: Urbanice.com (2020)

Delete my number! And don’t ever mention my name! Selfish! I don’t need friends like you! Also, delete my number! Sigh, I heard that when you said it the first time. Okay, grab a cup y’all, we’ve got a story. Major tea, for once. Okay I kid, plain tea. So once upon a fine Eid, when I was laying down to sleep at night, I got a call from this girl. Let’s call her, S. Now S and I were once firm friends. She had shared some things, I had shared some things. The world was unfair. We were in agreement. We didn’t talk every day but when we met, it was just like old times. So S calls me to tell me, well if I’m being accurate here, it was shouting, that I had hurt her when I stopped interacting with her. And how vulnerable she was when I chose to do that. Mark you, this was months after I had stopped speaking to sis.

Now I have a thing about picking calls after 7 p.m. If you’re an acquaintance, forget about it. Oh, and there’s this breed of men who think you’d be predisposed to speaking more softly at night? Honey, please. I don’t hang around at night, and I don’t speak at night. Unless you pay my bills or we’re confidantes. Not friends, not acquaintances, great friends – my confidantes. Now back to S, I debated picking that call because she no longer fit my category of after 7 p.m calls, but the lateness of the hour spooked me. It could be anything. I’ll rewind.

Once upon a few months back, a good friend called me to tell me private news about my life. That I had not shared with her. And asked me whether it was true. It was not, it was me speaking out loud about my plans, and someone taking that as tea. But I don’t speak out loud, especially not about my plans, except with my nearest and dearest. And because I keep very few of those around me, I knew exactly whom to call. S. But S wasn’t picking my calls. And the next thing I hear, she’s on death’s door. Nothing matters then. Or I hoped, nothing mattered- certainly not anger nor vengeance, my old friends. I dropped everything inside me and committed to be there during this episode. But I overestimated myself. When she got out, I struggled to keep quiet. But S was just from hospital, and recovering from a life threatening illness. Between you and me, I would have made that call 2 years ago. But 2019, man, this was my year of transformation. We’re talking about a new woman, here. We no longer rant. We stew on it, we sleep on things, then we make a move. A week later, I was ready to make a move. Classy, non-confrontational. But sis was still not in the best of health. So what could we do, but pull back and slow down our interactions. I couldn’t pretend anymore. And God knows I tried.

A month passes by and sis calls me. In good health. Inquiring why I had stopped interacting with her. And by then, I was over it. But you asked, so I’ll tell you. S, I stopped interacting with you when I heard my private affairs on the streets. Shared by my enemies. And what was the response? I’m sorry, I might have shared, but I’m not sure. And if I did it, it was shared innocently. I wish I was kidding. Because those were the exact words thrown back at me. I was in disbelief. Really, S? You mean you can’t even remember if you said it? That is how casually you carry my affairs? Who needs enemies with friends like these.

You know, the funniest thing is that I can actually believe S’s assertion that if she  ever talked about my affairs, it was said very innocently. I have no doubt, sis. But when you can’t even remember what you said, when you shamelessly admit that you couldn’t even remember if you talked about me? You might have, but you couldn’t remember if you aired my private business in front of people who are not my friends? People who have no qualms about spreading my private thoughts like it’s hot off the press? That’s not it sis. This is where we diverge. You see, I would remember. And I don’t have the best memory. You know why, because I don’t gossip about you. Simple. What you talk about, what you think out loud, what you confide, stays with me. Your story, your identity. It stays. Because those are your affairs. The same way my affairs are for myself, my family, my confidantes. My triumphs, my losses, my dreams, my fears, my plans – I don’t need to tell you that those should always remain private.

Now friendship is tricky and means different things for different people. I will tell you that my friends are my second family on this earth. I go all out for my friends, I’ll do anything for you, I will probably forgive whatever nonsense you pull out, just please don’t betray me. That is my line. I will forgive you, and I will forget you. It’s called self-preservation. I’ve been down this road. I can’t do this again. No way will you remain my friend if my name, and my affairs are not safe with you.

I must admit it was a bit nostalgic to hear someone else shouting. I was once a shouter, you see. Until I decided that I will never allow anyone to have that much control over me. Those good old days when everything was black and white? Nah. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still black and white. You just no longer have a seat at my table to hear that distinction.

Now, I must say that throughout this entire saga, I never heard one apology from S. And no, I did not shout nor confront S. I’ll tell you what confrontation is. It is to call someone at night to name call them. It is to trivialize their pain. And to accuse them of exaggerating their personal boundaries. It is to purposely fail to share your thoughts and feelings when an opinion is sought from you. It is to dredge up painful memories, and call them out using hurtful and defining labels such as selfish. It is gossiping about them, and sharing their confidences with people who are not in their circle. It is projecting your failings upon them, and expecting them to take your fall. But it goes beyond confrontation. It’s also called abuse.

You see, S, I know the difference between speculation and when someone is repeating my private thoughts. I know what I talk about and what I keep to myself – so when I hear my thoughts out on these streets, you bet I know exactly what is going on. Don’t ask me how sure I am. You revealed yourself. I’ve been down this road before. And I know how this story ends. My ranting days, sis, they’re long over. What I will do is cut my losses and run. You know, if you hadn’t asked me, I would probably never have told you. I had already closed that chapter, and was done. I will not keep a friend who slaughters me behind my back. If you don’t understand the meaning of friendship, if you can’t apologize for your mistakes, I don’t need you.

I’m sorry I hurt you by stopping to interact with you. Honestly, I am, because you are probably going through the hurt that I went through when I found out. I’m sorry that I don’t know how to pretend when someone betrays me. I’m sorry that I’m not a liar. I’m sorry that I no longer consider you a friend of mine. I’m sorry that I closed that chapter without telling you. Without defining it for you. And I’m not mad that you called me to rant and abuse me. Okay, I was irritated that you dragged me from a looming sleep cycle, but honestly, I’m not mad. Just as I told you, I’m over it.

Having said all that, I will say that I was really disappointed in S. Because I liked this girl – I thought we had a similar outlook on life. We had similar personalities. I thought we understood each other. When I first heard what she did, I remember walking out of work to have a moment. I couldn’t breathe. You never imagine that a close confidante, that she had then become, would end up betraying you, and so casually at that. But I can’t get over a betrayal, especially when there is a high likelihood of the same reoccurring. So please go ahead, and delete my number. I won’t. Deleting doesn’t do much, in case you’re wondering. Do you see me calling you? Exactly, the battle is all mental. And no, your name never comes up in any of my stories- imagine that, it’s actually possible to keep your friend’s affairs private, however innocent. I won’t ask you to keep mine private, I will tell you that what you do, and say, you will get back tenfold. It’s the cardinal rule to life.

Watch yourself – your words are bullets, and your mouth’s a gun. And sis, keep better friends.

The Game of Respect

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Black Superwoman

Credit: Nadia Bormotova/iStock, Getty Images (2020)

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, we’ve sang about it, lamented, unravelled and discussed it ad nauseam. We dish it out liberally, and if you’re in a position of authority, deserved or not, it will be your middle name. Trisha RESPECT Okwonkwo. Expect to be revered. We expect it of others, sometimes. Err, not really. You see, in these parts of the world, it’s common to grow up without agency. What agency? And respect for personal boundaries. Bahaha. This was Greek, people, nous ne comprends pas. I remember early on in my career, working as an intern in a large organisation, and pointing out that a colleague was standing in my personal space. Suffice it to say that personal space was a tag that followed me throughout my time there. It was a given that children had no free will. Beyond parental guidance. On what to eat, what to wear…what to study. As whose child?! It was always this way or… really, there was no other way. The highway did not exist. Err, literally and figuratively. And if you thought you could find it, the door was wide open. There were replacements to fill your spot. And less bills to pay. Now this is not the west, where you could walk into a children’s department, and claim refuge. You had parents? And you had a roof over your head ? And food to fill up your belly? Child, what you were was spoilt, and ungrateful.

Physical discipline for ungrateful behaviour, ahem, was common in many households. And at school. There was nothing shocking in a father coming to school to whoop their child in front of the class for poor grades. And your class teacher was always there to egg him on. Baba so and so, you not only failed in academics, you were also noisy in class, and hanged out with the wrong crowd. Now I think all could be forgiven and blamed on immaturity and stupidity, but hanging out with the wrong crowd was unforgivable. This wrong crowd constituted of your friends of course, other noisemakers, other academically challenged kids. Associating with bad company was intolerable. Thwack! Humiliating amongst your peers, but forgotten when your cackling friend’s parent, came along next. This was all perfectly normal, growing up as a child in the 90s. And ideally, we would never interact with anyone who looked askance at this behaviour. It was generally understood that this was how life should be lived.

My father has never hit me. I don’t remember him scolding me, even once. My mother’s pinches on the other hand were legendary. And just before you start thinking that I was a model child, I assure you that I was. I kid, I wasn’t of course, like most kids are, at that age. Even so, this was worlds away from corporal punishment, a word I learnt very early on in school. This is what we used to refer to regular disciplining by our teachers. Err, you can also call it physical abuse. I thought misdemeanours were punished by pinches. No, I did not know what pinches were. I understood the variety and intensity of pinches in school. We had thigh pinches, and armpit pinches (yes), and acrobatic ear pinches. You’d be answering a Math question on the board, and thwack! a switch would land on your back. Yes, an electric wire. They burnt hot, in case you’re wondering. A pipe cane, now that was a mere slap. But the wire was to be feared. No amount of jean shorts beneath your dress could escape its wrathful descent. I have vivid memories of laying down on a hot slab to be caned for failing to attain 100% in Maths, really. Who were you leaving those 4 marks for?! Thwack! I’d be laughing in relief once my 4 strokes were over. And would wince watching my friends who would still be getting theirs 30 minutes later. The teachers would switch between each other. It was a workout. I remember this particular one who liked jumping on desks to better hit you. He’d be top of the list of the ones we’d imitate later, laughing at our reactions to the ordeal. Academics was everything. Life was hard for poor performers. Actually, life was unbearable. You either did well or dropped out. There was no in between.

So of course you grow up in this environment, and get used to taking this punishment, attendant insults and disrespect from anyone in authority – you get used to taking it in spades. And it’s a given that you’d take it from your peers too. The stronger you were, the higher up the respect ladder you were.  I grew up watching fights between my classmates. The MMA could learn a thing or two from bouts back then. I remember this one girl, Anna. A gifted boxer, she made mincemeat of the resident gangster in class. Now when I say gangster, I mean it. The student body, was uh…colourful, a polite way to put it. And this one kid, John, who walked around with a knife tucked in his sock, was that kid who could intimidate the teachers. A true gangster. Sitting right next to me, he taught me to be nimble. Want to see my classwork? By all means, go ahead. My food? Sharing is caring! Offended by that girl’s smell? Eww, me too. Boys fought with boys, and boys fought with girls. But Anna, man, I’ll never forget her. I have never seen such punches in my life, she destroyed John’s reputation in the space of a few seconds. He dropped out. Seriously.

Me? I was a coward. But you have to be, living in a world below five feet. I remember this one time, a classmate was unhappy that I had included him in the noise maker’s list and made it clear that I was “wanted.” I did not wait for him to explain what he meant by that after school. One of the few times I was grateful to live right next to the school. I did catch a stone right next to my eye, and have a permanent scar to show for it, but I escaped a beating hehe. Tempers would have cooled down by the next morning. There would be another transgression to replace mine.  I have never attacked anyone. Part of it was self preservation. I have threatened to – you learn to make elaborate threats when you can’t fight-  but really, I don’t have it in me to be physically abusive towards another human being. Now, its sister, disrespect though, I take it like a champ. It is so much a part of our culture now, that it’s laudable when someone honours you.

Now the problem about accepting this behaviour, is that inevitably, you end up disrespecting yourself. You disrespect yourself by accepting to be dismissed in a Q and A segment of a conference. And by accepting to be lied to by your government. You disrespect yourself by being self-deprecating towards yourself. You’re smart, or your work was great. And you make a joke, and lay the credit to someone else, who had nothing to do with it. You disrespect yourself by saying yes to everything, yes, I’ll do this for you. Yes, I’ll make time to help you in this, at the expense of your own goals. You disrespect yourself by laying a thousand excuses at the door of someone who disrespects you. By hastening to forgive other people before forgiving yourself. By expecting perfection in yourself, and flogging yourself for past mistakes. You disrespect yourself by providing your time and resources to people who are not deserving of it.Why? Why do we do this?

A friend recently called to talk about reaching out to an old friend and colleague for their input. And their failure to respond, days later. Flagrantly. You see, we’re used to these games where some colleagues blatantly ignore your calls for help. And you resign yourself to it, and learn to be independent and take pride in being self sufficient, well, as self-sufficient as a human being could be. It’s worse when it’s not a work obligation. We’re used to friends ignoring our calls and tweeting to their followers in the next minute. We ignore this behaviour- the famed high road- and are professional, cold, but professional and respectful when we meet them. Why do we do this?

See, when we disrespect ourselves, it leads to you, and others, believing in your deserving of that behaviour. And those illusory shortcomings. And the cycle continues. Sis, the next time someone disrespects you, you throw them away with the entire city.  Strength is not resilience in bouncing up when people throw nonsense at you. Strength is ignoring people who do not matter in your life, and moving people back off your circle when they grievously offend you. Strength is speaking out, period. It’s refusing to interact with colleagues who routinely disrespect you. And refusing to stay with friends who expect your generosity and go MIA when you need them. Strength is refusing to tolerate any man who is inconsiderate of your wishes. Because if you allow this, and ignore this, and continually spend time with people who show no respect to themselves, you cannot possibly respect yourself.

If someone lies to their close friend, they will lie to you. If they gossip about them, guess what, they will be happy to do the same to you. If someone cheats on their partner, if someone prefers to waste their time indulging in nonsense, if someone manipulates other people, if someone disrespects themselves and other people, you bet your bottom dollar they will take and take and do the very same things to you. And in a world full of takers, narcissists and traumatised people, it’s easy to accept it all , including from yourself, and maintain the status quo. But you owe it to yourself to consciously unlearn these habits, and build a better you for a better after you. I cannot stress this enough, because this has been my failing. I have forgiven friends and looked over disrespectful behaviour countless times. It’s the one area where I allow myself no pride – any barrier to my future bliss. But I have learnt that your friends are a reflection of you, if you tolerate this, then what does it say about you? And your partners are a reflection of you, if they fail to respond to you, and they fail to listen to you, if they fail to take the time to understand you, sis, throw them out with the entire city. 

Forgiveness, leave it to Mother Teresa. Okay okay, I’m joking. Forgive them of course, for you. But sis, never forget. That is how you beat the game.

The age of corona

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Corona

Credit: Dom Mckenzie/The Observer (2020)

Tighten your belts, we’ve got another SARS, y’all. They say that it’s definitely tracking better than the Spanish influenza, and of course eons better than ebola, but it’s government. Do you trust yours? They let in people a few weeks ago, mine that is, right from the epicentre of corona, to self quarantine. Yup, to self quarantine, it’s a thing. It’s dependent on whether someone’s naturally disciplined and obedient. And you know, has integrity and oodles of compassion to prevent endangering others. Simple stuff. Everything’s up for sale these sides. And debt speaks louder. Chinese to be exact.

Chinese culture, just like British aristocratic culture, confounds me. There’s wild rearing and wild hunting and wild breeding, and gulp, wild eating? Bats, those beautiful nocturnal creatures have also been thrown into the mix. Apparently, this coronavirus simply could not resist that mix. That’s the official story. There’s also a thing called wet markets. I’ve heard of fruit and vegetable ones before, and fish and meat markets, but there are wet ones too y’all. I wish I was joking. Really. I wish this was one of those crazy apocalypse dreams of mine, and I’ll wake up to business as usual. Because nothing’s the norm anymore. There’s masks to be worn. And gloves. And sanitisers messing up my hand anti-aging routine. There’s also deaths. Every day.

A Public Health Emergency of International Concern. There’s nothing jokey about that mouthful of a name, is there? I don’t know which one’s worse. That, or coronavirus or COVID-19, or pandemic? A pandemic, y’all. I’m living in the age of a pandemic. Forgive my panic, but Dr. Tedros, lovely chap he may be, does not in any way, shape or form, give me any comfort when he talks. The slightest itching in my throat now translates to a fear of epic proportions.

Two weeks ago, I had a horrible chest infection. A bacterial one, my doctor assured me. Until my cough changed into a dry one, oops, and I had breathing problems, and I’m sat here wondering, was that it? If there are people getting sick, just count me in. I’m far from the fittest or healthiest tool in the shade. Things do not simply just roll over me. I honestly hope that was it, and we’re done, and there aren’t any second waves, God forbid. Because it would confirm the worst of our fears. An incurable disease? We’d have moved towards the unimaginable. We’ve gone ahead and truly angered God. And there just aren’t enough good people amongst us to pray this away.

There’s a barrage of information, the horrible kind, and misinformation, tragic, all of it. From an escaped virus of a wuhan virology lab to Bill Gates’ desire to control world population through vaccination, there are conspiracy theories to suit everyone’s inclinations.  What is incontrovertible is the tragedy of it all. It’s death after death after death. In Italy. And the west. We haven’t got much of it in Africa, at the moment. My Lord, please spare us. We’ve just gotten over a wave of ebola. In central and west Africa, the poor chaps. With mortality rates of up to 90%, many Africans understandably can’t just take corona seriously. Which is scary. Because it means putting the vulnerable amongst us at risk. And people like me. Ahem. You see, at 47 kg, I’m currently at my heaviest in recent years. I have never donated blood – my standard of glowing health. I tried once in high school, to access free soda issued to anyone who’d donated. I wanted that soda. Badly! Err, so I’ve lumped myself together with my 60 year old mum. We’re delicate, that’s the word. And we need protecting!

Since nobody apart from government cares, allegedly, I’m doing a lot of it myself. I’m wearing those uncomfortable to breathe masks. And I bought a host of vitamin supplements. And we steam our throats, because this virus is heat sensitive, can you believe it? It looks straight out of an episode of the apocalypse and can stay on steel for up to 3 days, but it’s beaten by regular ol’ steaming? Who knows? There’s a new term called social distancing a.k.a introverted dynamics. And there’s no handshaking, hugging nor kissing. God, I hope this sticks!

There is a cost of course, though everything is so uncertain, and no one can tell the extent of any damage – economic, social, political, you name it – there surely will be some. My business has been severely impacted, and I’m sat here feeling sorry for myself, with my hands shaped like bowls, begging from The Compassionate. To pay bills. And salaries. And God knows what else I’ve got to pay. There’s a plus. The environment has taken a respite from human activities, and the Taj Mahal, long covered in a fog of pollution, was seen recently in its glory. And the Himalayas too, envy them to bits! I’m trying to think of another plus. I like the fact that it’s sobering and that it’s pushing us to innovate but also repent, because this surely has to be a punishment. For the intolerable injustices in this world.

I’ve stayed relatively positive and upbeat waiting for this thing to fly over, in a month? Two months? Nobody can predict. It’s incredulous – the sheer ease in which this virus has upended my life as I’ve known it to be, in a second. And the world in the age of globalisation, I don’t know if we’ll have any international order after this. It’s everyone for himself now, really. And it promises more. More cuts, unemployment, collapse, upheaval, I honest to God hope that I’m wrong.

For me, it’s a time for reflection. I’m lost for words. This is so far off the grid of my imagination, I cannot fathom how, and when, we’ll manage to get out of it. Nor its cogent consequences. And whether I can make lasting strategic decisions for my business off of this. It’s too much. I can only think of myself, and my family, and my delicate health. Err, for now. Tomorrow, I will chip in to see how best I can contribute and do my part in this Inshaallah. Today though, I will curl myself up in bed, and think of good days gone past.

An ode to the parrots that we killed

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The Parrot Tree

The Parrot Tree, credit: tessross.wordpress.com (2013)

You know, I have imagined myself doing a lot of things. I was once president, a peasant in the mountains the next day, a shepherd, you name it – I’ve lived through all of them. I’m neither cool nor calm, on most days. But I can think the heck out of imaginations. We haven’t got time to do much of aught else. Ahem.We’re your favourite frumpy aunt, your fave hysterical friend who’s thought of every and any doomsday scenario out of every reaction. Okay okay, I’m slightly cool. I dress up for external presentations, and breeze through the week with a repetition of what I wore exactly the previous week, day for day. I don’t wear three quarters of my wardrobe because, well, there’s too much thinking involved in dress up. And matchy matchy nonsense. And yet time and again, I shop for those very impractical things I lament about. I have a shoe rack full of high heels I bought because I’m short, and I wanted to push myself to be uncomfortable. I mean, what’s a girl to do but repeat the 3 flats that she owns. Black, black, and navy, in case you’re wondering.

Anyway, back to serious things. Life and death. Really. I rarely get surprised, I was saying, because I have probably imagined myself doing or experiencing the very things that I should get surprised about. Positive things, of course. I’m the worst recipient of bad news. I zone out when people get boring, imagine how much worse it is when those very people come bearing tragic news. I not only zone out, I switch off and run. Mentally of course. We reserve our cowardice up top. I file bad news for tomorrow. You know, when people procrastinate school and work, and life in general, I procrastinate dealing with bad news. And phone calls. Crisis, now that’s a different ball game. I get a high off of coming up with solutions. You know, reverse the hell out of those bad trajectories. Irreversible unpleasantness on the other hand? Nope honey. Not today. I’ve dabbled in emotion regulation. But it’s easier to sweep it away, far from sight. Damaging? Probably. But we’re still alive people. Okay, enough digressing.

We killed two parrots. I’m sorry I had to say it like that. Obviously we had no intention of killing them. I can’t even imagine anyone making… what? Parrot soup? Shudder. That’s what we did. We just, you know, ended up killing them. And I don’t know how I can live with that. See, it started like most social experiments start, with the noblest of intentions. We were going to save them. We would buy them from street sellers, locked up in cages. And we would bring them home to feed and release them into their natural habitat. Free. Up high in the trees. A charitable project, in all sense of the word. And we did this again and again, until one wouldn’t simply fly away with its mate to the trees. And we watched as it horrifically whooshed down three floors to the ground. I couldn’t watch. I couldn’t unclench my body to unwatch. It was still alive. And so there we were, coddling it and hoping its wings would, you know, start working so it could fly off into the trees where it belonged. With its mate. Chirping and singing to each other.

And then it became a familiar spectacle, that my nephews and nieces would troop down daily to watch and play with, and we got used to it. And had dreams of teaching it our mother tongue. Uh, right up until we remembered it’s caged. So we bought it a bigger cage, and there was more coddling. And feeding, and petting, and cooing. And more mother tongue. We made sure it got covered up with a blanket and slept early. It slept more than we did. Err, or we covered the cage more than we slept. Because it needed more of everything good to survive, you know. Sleep, food, quiet. We shushed each other when it protested over too much noise. We just stared at it in wonder, willing for it to get better.

And it did, and flew around the house, and we thought yay, parrot was healed, and so another release was scheduled. And again, whoosh, right down it went. And so there we were, looking for it beneath the neighbours’ cars. Because we got cats and dogs in the compound, and it could end up becoming a play thing, or you know, meat, for those beasts, the dogs that is. And up and down we went, until we got it. And it was brought back home. Held too lose, it’s gone. Held too tight, it’s gone. It died. It was held too tight. This parrot that we had fed, and played, and lived with for weeks, died in our hands. There was burying to do. And there were memories of death.

So what could we do, but look for another one to replace it. ASAP. And off we went to the street sellers, looking for more parrots to rescue. And another pair came home. We’d be more careful, we vowed. They were thin, emaciated, with dulled wings and looked, just plain unwell. So we thought, this is our opportunity to feed them up properly and release them back to the wild. You know, save one more to plug the one that we’d just lost. But they weren’t getting fatter, and they weren’t eating much. And one was looking downright scary. We would take much much better care of these ones, there was no question about it. So off they went to the vet. A chest infection was the verdict. Lethal in birds.We remained positive. These parrots would get better, whether they wished to or not. There were antibiotics which we faithfully doled out. And the sicker one, we personally delivered through a syringe. Patiently. Painstakingly. It wouldn’t get better. And one morning, about an hour after another bout of forceful medicine guzzling, it was gone. You know, just fallen off its perch, on its face, with its mate staring at it. Silence. More death memories.

There is something about parrots that’s hard to take. They’re beautiful, they’re independent, they’re smarter than some of you. It’s difficult to see these flights of beauty felled down by neglect and poor care, having being trapped in cages. For no reason at all. I mean, the entertainment of man? Really? It’s hard to see life snuffed out from any living creature. But it’s harder to see it right before your eyes.

Not a cat. Not a parrot. Not a father. Not a creature. Life is life. And death is final. Well, not final final. But a denouement nonetheless. No more experiments. We’ve learnt some painful lessons. We now reserve our charity to the tall 2 legged. I don’t know if there are any more parrots in our future. Maybe none. Maybe hundreds. But to the two that we briefly, but lovingly held, and known, you remain unforgotten my darlings. Rest in peace.

Life’s Kitchen

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D Reilly Lets not go there

Credit: D.Reilly,  The New Yorker (2017) art.com

Rush Through The Office, Just Browse The News

Hurry We’ll Miss The Bus.

The Early Bird Gets To Wait, The Later Ones To Stand,

Check To See If Listed, Complain Or Defend.

Sprinting Up And Down The Corridors,

Peeking And Visiting Each Room.

So Many Matters At Once,

‘Please Hold Brief’ Echoes To The Door.

Dragging Scores Of Files,

Then The Greatest Rivals Friends,

Chatting, Gossiping And Negotiating,

Planning For The Day, And Plotting.

Enter And Bow,

Packed, Cramped And Compact, Half On Bench Would Do.

If Only The Victim Knew He Was Loved,

Layabouts To Witness The Accused Sorted.

Other Times Much Peace And Quiet,

Yet Anxiety At Dangerous Levels.

People Summoned, Called And Reminded,

A World Without Mobiles Undeniably Dreaded.

Cushions, Stenographers, Microphones,

The Shopping List Grows Longer,

A Degree In Graphology,

Money, Money, Money!

Jotting Down Furiously,

Thinking, Asking, Cornering.

Witnesses Anxious And Trembling,

Doctors And Policemen Alike, Stuttering And Stumbling.

But Atop The Pyramid Rests Another, Not Magistrate Or Lawyer,

Summoning, Negotiating, Pleading, Pushing.

Digesting Endless Excuses, Filing And Stamping,

To Cope With Defendants And Registries, We Need The Clerks!

Smile Through The Worst, Remember Your Manners,

Even When Told Off ‘Most Obliged Your Honour’.

All Rise One More Bow,

The Best Is Yet To Follow.

The Head Does Have A Body,

A Secret All That While.

Interesting, Amusing, Quite Like A Strategy Game,

A Day In Court Is Never The Same.

Guest post: Ruhina Javed (Life’s kitchen, 2018)