Calamity Jane - The Land of Hope

Emerging from the plane seeing the sprawl of Accra before my eyes I can feel I’m at the precipice of real change. As I drive past Airport Hills (where some of the wealthiest people in the country live), Cantonments and East Lagon where the white structures (too large to actually call them homes) span acres upon acres of land, Buckingham Palace dwarfed by comparison, my mum‘s derisive call of ‘drug dealers’ does nothing to mar my overwhelming feeling of pride for the physical, social and economic change that is taking place in this country.


It’s a telling tale of the change that is taking place in this country when eight years ago the same flight would have been full to the brim of Ghanaians (using every gram of their 40kilos luggage, with six suitcases a piece), the occasional Jamaican on a journey of self exploration and the white UN aid worker. Now the demographic makeup resembles a flight to Spain or a tube journey in central London. With oil Ghana has become a desirable destination to the world of commerce and as a result Accra an incredibly cosmopolitan city. 

  

The desire for a better Ghana is palpable! It’s in the eyes of the people; always warm, and inquisitive, but of late, lustful for money and empowerment. It’s in the people’s ever growing entrepreneurship and enterprising skills, not traditionally a quality we were famous for, but as the demands of the country have changed, so has the people’s resilience and drive to profit from those changes. 

Amid all the revolutionary sentiment is a realism that plunders the soul... The economic prosperity of many Ghanaian women is inextricably bound to the transfer of sex for money. Not prostitution in the traditional sense of soliciting on the streets (although that does exist), but rather a societal norm (not accepted, but tolerated) of relationships between substantially older men and young girls, devoid of any love but predicated on an arrangement of money, power, sex and eventual domination.  These ‘relationships’ are visible within every social strata and particular among the middle classes, many of whom have lived or studied abroad. Shocking for a land that spawned my grandmother whom despite rearing ten children, would travel the breadth of Ghana making an earnest living through trade. And then my mother who is my inspiration and has raised two feisty, strong liberated women. Who is to blame for the demise of female liberation in Ghana? Let us start with MTV.....

I’m all for (to coin a Dizzee phrase) ‘fixing up and looking sharp’, but to what end?.... The streets of Accra are lined with salons, beauticians, wig and hair shops and with the cost of beatification so low (even relatively speaking), it takes a strong woman to not succumb to the pressure of looking like a P.Diddy music video hunny. It may sound familiar – Peckham? Brixton?.. Or any number of places blacks dwell, but there is a sinister element in developing countries like Ghana, for which economic empowerment in the west has meant women here, to an extent, have escaped.

A friend of mine working for a British Company in Ghana told me about her first few weeks at work. She went in dressed in the same attire she had previously worn to work in London – a smart but not pretentious pencil dress from Dorothy Perkins, flat and sensible shoes, minimal make up and relaxed hair pulled back neatly. She felt grossly underdressed and drab compared to her Ghanaian colleagues.  Even the lowly paid admin assistants were wearing designer labels, carrying Gucci and Christian Dior handbags. Discontented she turned to her mother, who surmised the issue facing young women in Ghana (and in fact the developing world) so aptly -  she reminded her that these girls sauntering around in designer suits with perfectly manicured nails and weave (many of whom were not given the opportunity to go to university and those few who did found only lowly paid administrative roles available to them upon graduation), were the same girls sleeping on mattresses on the floor of their parents’ dilapidated accommodation (with very few prospects of ever owning their own property independently – unless through marriage). They attributed undue value to wearing nice and over priced clothes that they could ill afford instead of saving their pennies, because it attracted the men who would eventually support them financially.

One evening I head out dancing with Esmeralda, my friend who moved back to Ghana (having lived in the UK for ten years) and her friends. I fashion myself on Sex and the City chic and take pride in the quirky gems many a flea market in Deptford has unearthed... The girls are set to go out and for the first time I feel frumpy, in my floral, pleated, circa 1950s dress. It may be all the rage in boho east London, but next to the two of them, boobs hiked to the hills, micro miniskirts hugging their undulating thighs I feel like the clown. I don’t recall the last time I wore something so short and tight – Indeed I do, I was 16 and my mum had to come and collect me after being rejected from a club for looking ridiculous!

  

My final day and I chose to observe the city alone. At a wonderful little Lebanese restaurant I sat alone on the balcony watching the world go by (every real Ghanaian sitting indoors with the Air Con avoiding the 35 degree sunshine – I the token Brit am sweating outside knowing the rain that is in store upon my return). I’m drawn to the women in the big cars, chauffer driven around the city, with the house boy jumping at their every command and maids rearing their children by their side. I cannot help but wonder at what price? How many are self made women (earning money for themselves) and how many willingly ignore their husbands’ indiscretions in order to live their lives of luxury. 

CJ

Calamity Jane - Coming of Age

The concept of aging is difficult for me to accept, as most days I wake up after eight hours sleep (any less and I can’t function) a little bloated (if I’ve eaten after 7pm the night before as my digestive system can’t handle late meals), and think I’m 18.

When people refer to the ‘youth’, I categorise myself as such. So when random uncles (never the aunties as they know better) stop my mum and me in Sainsbury’s, and compliment her with some farcical story about us looking like ‘sisters’, I’m forced to smile through gritted teeth (because to do otherwise would be rude and would reflect badly on me, my mum, the family... the world!), and agree in good humour (masking my rage) that my mother really has done well and looks extremely good. By the time I get home I feel fully righteous sulking like a child. 

I am 28 years old and as much as I may feel full of youthful spirit, I am so far from a ‘youf’ it’s hard to comprehend. The irony is, the realisation is only too apparent when in the presence of an actual ‘youth’ and they do something so discombobulating I am reminded that I have nothing but disdain for most young people.

When I see the teenage girls in the morning hanging round the bus stop, doing all they can to catch the attention of the boys, I’m always in awe of the effort they’ve exerted on their hair and makeup and general presentation. Even the tom boys look way better than in my day. What a sight to behold... The 13 year old girls with their weaves down to their backside, so well coiffed you’d imagine they’d just left the salon. Bright false nails, make up perfectly applied (my cocoa butter and Vaseline combination doesn’t compare) wearing the funkiest trainers you’ve ever seen, they look like they should be on set for a music video rather than on route to school.

It’s like I blink and a lifetime has passed and I am so out of sync I am positively stone age, or ‘old school’ as my teenage cousin likes to say. Never is this realisation more prolific than when I witness my cousins in conversation with their parents.... To even be present in the room amongst adults is a privilege I rarely had. Back in the day, when my parents’ friends arrived (the nameless uncles and aunties), my sister and I hung around just long enough to conduct our duties - the cordial offering of drinks  and the answering of trite mundane questions: ‘Yes auntie, school is going well… I’m in year nine now, coming top of the class (never have, never will) preparing for GCSE’s and world domination’ (they liked that one). Then that was it. Duty done I was banished upstairs to leave the grown folks to their chatter. Now my cousins stay plonked on the sofa, flicking through the music channels at the speed of light creating their own homage to Hype Williams. They chip in to the conversation as they like, teasing the adults, raising topics they are interested in and cracking jokes at the old folk’s expense. Shocking!

 

I recall when I was about ten coyly broaching the subject of sex whilst my mum was deeply engrossed in cooking. My mother remained focused on her cooking, not even raising her head from the stove, (thus lulling me into a false sense of security) and simply asked who at school had told me. Without a moment’s hesitation, she branded my friend a whore and asked me to cease our friendship immediately.

 

The final indictment to cement my coming of age took place on Christmas at my aunt’s house where I’d spent my formative years, playing with her kids, nieces and nephews. The conversation began as it always does among middle aged women, with stories of their ‘successful’ children – which in turn reflects well on them as mothers for having successfully raised their children. There’s always an underlying element of competition in any chats between these women – an attempt to use their children to outdo one another and ultimately prove one family and one mother over the other. Entertaining as it was to watch, my aunt gloating and mother feigning indifference, it was only when my aunt strayed openly onto the topic of her sixteen year old son’s sex life that I sat up and took note. My intrigue was less about the content of the conversation and more the freeness with which it was being discussed. Auntie had the gall to joke that when my cousin was heading out clubbing she’d remind him to take his keys, his money, and would smack her back pocket (think Kerry Catona - pre crack- in the Asda advert) symbolising a condom. Mum laughed, my uncle looked proud and I cringed at the loss of my youth.

 CJ

Kinky Nikz 2.0 - Black Men, Black Hair

‘Who said a black man couldn’t love a woman with natural hair?’


The quote of the day comes from a couple on a facebook group entitled ‘Black Men who Love Women with Natural Hair’.

When I started my ascent into ‘naturaldom’ I never thought about how men may perceive me or how their approach may change. I was in a new relationship with a man that seemed happy with my appearance. I was just thinking about the new experience, how good it felt to be 100% me excluding all fixtures and fittings but I couldn’t help but note how the scales tipped.

During the straight days I was often approached by men, hell, I had a good few on my checklist, on standby, waiting to be one of the chosen few (lol!) but as soon as I started growing my own hair it all changed. It reaffirmed the age old message that men are superficial creatures (as if I could forget), just as superficial as us women, they don’t see hidden depths in an appearance, they see breasts, hips and ass and if many of them are to have it there own way, long, straight hair.

You see, from what I have noted, black men are attracted to long hair (an attribute which is never associated with black women) and who can blame them? Their mothers, sisters, aunties, cousins all sport the same look and long hair is considered good hair, hair that many black women aspire to have. Now on this note, I am fully aware that many of my blog posts may be considered a generalisation, an account that makes black men seem ignorant but stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason and I guarantee that ALL of you reading this piece of editorial know a black man that puts ‘good haired’ women on a pedestal and wouldn’t spit on us nappy’s. But is that such a bad thing?


I mean yes, the majority of the kind of men that used to approach me don’t anymore but the ones that do, come with intelligent conversation and genuine comments. They are less absorbed in the flesh, blood and bones of this land and more concerned with content of your inner. Obviously, this is just my experience and I can’t speak for every natural out there but I did think that this would be a good opportunity to get a male opinion on the topic of black women with natural hair.

“Ok, so where do I begin. I suppose I should start by introducing myself… nah, on second thoughts, I think I’ll delve straight into the heart of the issue. Before I do so though; I’ve got some questions, not from the ‘black male’ perspective although I am a black male asking, ‘‘can we have some perspective here/hair please ladies’’?



Right… Why would you choose to have your hair in any other textural state than it was intended (… and that, ‘it’s easier to manage’ nonsense won’t wash)? What’s the real reason behind mercilessly ‘frying’ and chemically burning into submission your eau-naturelle strands? Is it social acceptance? Is it a negative self-image which is apparently remedied by; weave; wigs and perms? Does it in all actuality, point towards a lack of self esteem? Are the fake nails, fake eyelashes, and general ‘makeup’ indicative of some form of mental imbalance? Look, before you get upset, like I said; let’s have some perspective.


How do I view black women who go against the grain and don their natural hair?



Generally, I think it’s a ‘power move’. I think it shows strength of character and in a sense, leadership qualities. Remember, in former flourishing civilisations, females held the reigns and steered their nation onto great things for telling durations of time.

I think it demonstrates willingness to, metaphorically, detach from the masses… And Self Actualise. FYI. Self Actualisation isn’t ‘new age’ phenomenon – all it means is; you don’t ‘business’ what opinions people have of you. Not that you’re unaware of others opinions, just that you Trust and Value your own opinion more. It’s, based on a famous theorists, pinnacle of human needs, as in; your needs are generally satisfied through rationality, soul searching and/or internally. If you still don’t get it; are you comfortable with your own company?

I’ve found that when I hit the roads with my ‘missus’, be it: dinner, raving or… museums, the compliments are literally consistent. This leads me to believe that more of you females would take the bold step and go eau-naturelle if you thought you wouldn’t be marginalised, and viewed as unattractive.
I’ll close with this; if you’re curious, go for it! There’s a saying, ‘Enter Any Action With Boldness’.”


Swoon!!! Smart and good looking! Preach…


For me, the bottom line is live how you want but make informed decisions. Black men that tend to favour Eurocentric hair types don’t do so out of a pre-determined preference but out of instinctive ignorance - the same ignorance that almost forces black women to alter their hair texture.


Natural women ARE sexy and just to prove my point I thought I’d leave you with a little eye candy this week. Check out my natural hotties from the fore mentioned facebook page and if you have the time, log on and check out the discussion boards but beware, you may be left arguing with the screen for a few hours!

Peace, Love and Nappyness!


KN