Wrapping Up

I think whatever I intended to do with this blog is done. Or I’m really no longer interested in doing it.

Thanks to everyone who read. Hope it helped someone. Certainly didn’t help me.




For the first time in my life today, I saw myself as a winner, a survivor.  As someone who made the best she could out of difficult life circumstances. Who fumbled and failed often and made horrible choices but who survived the best way she could.

I saw myself as someone who has nothing to be ashamed of. Because I did my best. I did my best, and I’m still doing the best I can to cope. It may not be enough, but I’m doing something.  I stood up for myself when basically all the adults in my life failed me. I stood up for myself when the society I was born into failed me. I stood up for myself. It took me a while. But I stood up for myself.

And of that I am proud.

I’ve always known, in my head,  but I never really believed it in my heart. But today I believe. Because my chains, I broke by myself. My freedom, I won by myself. And in the immortal words of Edith Piaf, je ne regrette rien.

Stream of Consciousness

Ok, let’s see if I can do this right.

I haven’t written anything particularly long recently and that’s because I just haven’t had the discipline to sit down and write.  The prospect of writing more than a hundred words and thinking of sitting at my computer pecking away is depressing and deflating. I’ve been reading a lot more, which is good. And of course Twitter is 140 characters. I’ve written more poetry. It allows me to be as cryptic or clear and  brief as I want, without the focus that a think piece or rant or anything else would require. The words usually come easier too.

But I do have plenty to say, it’s constantly running through my head. Bits of prose, lines or verse, scenes, dialogues, witty/sarcastic/funny (at least to me) turn of phrases, whole goddamn essays and short stories! Words which pop into my head from seemingly out of no where just begging to be shared (does that sound as schizophrenic? I feel like I need help sometimes). Often I stop and ask myself why I feel the need to burden my corner of the internet  with my shit and the answer almost always is “Fuck if I know… I just know that I’ll feel better after I write it and share it.” But then sometimes I don’t want to. Sometimes I think of something so delicious I squirm and then immediately want to hop on whatever social media outlet I’m currently using to share it, or blog about it. And then I know I don’t  really want to. I want that to be mine.

Oh by the way, you should know as you  read that:

  • this was inspired by one of those famed devil-hot black woman showers, during which I twerked aggressively to my favorite playlist of Future, Migos, 2Chainz, The Weekend , Yo Gotti , Lil Wayne and Young Thug.  It. Was. Glorious.  Plus I needed fuckboy music recharging so my next Lemonade listening session has sufficient angst to work on.
  • I feel guilty about how much water I wasted in the process. I did it for the culture. Sorry.


My best thoughts come during showers. Unless I am in a hurry, my showers are one of the best parts of my day. Usually music is playing and depending on my mood, I’m either dancing wildly or just rocking.  The  stream of hot water hitting my skin feels  like a warm, firm, comforting hug  on some days and on others like a massaging hand, running down my body much like a lover’s touch – sure and familiar. And I let myself go, I let my mind drift to whatever corner it wishes to drift to. It feels like giving a toddler  a paint brush, a palette of every color, every hue, every shade possible and a canvas and allowing her to wild out. First you’re afraid of the potential damage  to her clothes and the surrounding furniture but then you’re oddly curious about how much damage is possible and something about the kaleidoscope of colors that will result from her efforts appeals to you (I probably should never have kids).



Sometimes it goes to dark, painful , scary, frustrating, angry places. Sometimes I cry. But often, even when I’m deep in the pits of depression hell, I go to this space where all my energies, all my capacity , every ounce of my being is focused on me in that moment. What I’m feeling – the  stinging warm wetness of the water, what I’m smelling – usually the deliciously scented soaps, gels and oils I can’t seem to stop buying, what my mind’s eye is seeing, what I’m thinking, whatever luxurious fantasy I can concoct,  whatever words spill out of my mind, what I’m hearing, the words, the beats, the melodies, the symphonies. The way my body responds to them all even as it adjusts to obtain optimum exposure of every bit of it to the stream of water.

I know it sounds like the most exhausting shower ever but it is LIT.

So at some point during my mind’s MetroBoomin’ inspired ramblings today, I decided to try to capture that stream of consciousness. It’s really special. And I know there’s someone out there who knows exactly what I’m talking about.

But right about now, I’m deciding that those thoughts during that time are mine. And I really don’t feel like sharing them any more.

Cheers to the amount of self-absorption this required.


Peace folks.


Things they left behind

imageA fondness for Future

A better relationship with  beer

Interest in middle eastern art

Tape deck for the car

Otterbox for the phone

An enduring love for Led Zeppelin

Mostaccioli, beef stroganoff

Umberto Eco

Coldplay  (I know. IDGAF IDGAF )

A deep appreciation for great cunnilingus

Great book recommendations

A love for chocolate  with tea

An out of control love for cinnamon rolls

More interest in comics than I care to admit to

Coronas in margaritas

A better understanding of self

A weed addiction


The beauty that is sleeping pills

Clothes I pilfered

That one pajama bottom

ACDC jokes

A bad ass LinkedIn Profile

Kitty cats!

Red velvet cake


They leave so much behind, don’t they?




Learning to live with scars

imageThe thing I learned early about scars is that some never fade.

I’m one of those people with scar prone skin. I also have sensitive skin and a tendency to not leave things well alone, so my whole body is covered in scars. I’m not even kidding. If you counted every single blemish, they’d likely number in the hundreds.

If I was waxing poetic I would say they are a road map to my life, each spot a monument to some time when the figurative hard knocks of life crossed into the realm of the literal, leaving a reminder that shit will happen and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.

But really they’re just scars. Black, brown or white and shiny blemishes on my skin which remind me of every mosquito bite, every fall, every beating, every  iron burn, knife cut, boarding school trunk  accident, hot water spill, scratch, surgery, bite, fight, adult acne break out, skin infection  that I have ever had, with the promise of more to come, a morbid documentation of my fragility. After all anyone of those wounds could have been fatal.

I did, after all, grow up in Cameroon.

And they never fade.

They never fade.

I’ve tried it all. Creams, pomades, treatments, vitamins, scrubs. Serums, oils, peels, washes. The appearance of some diminished somewhat but I can still see the line formed by the hot coals that fell on my lap from the iron. I should have known better than try to iron my birthday dress myself. My mother made me wear a horrendous track suit to school. The one day I got to not wear the school uniform, I wore a track suit. I was crushed. I was 5 years old.

I remember the taunts. Form 2 and 3 in Saker were hard times.

“Nice legs…”

The gasps.

The girls  at the tailoring shop. The one who couldn’t contain her dismay.

“Mamamiye, na weti chop me this pikin e foot them so?”

Blurted out in that genuinely harmless but still tactless way us Cameroonians have about us.

The guy friend who apologized to me after loudly complimenting some random girl’s legs.

Bless your heart.


I’ve learned to live with them. Make peace with them as best as I can. I don’t find always beauty in them although some days I trace the lines and jagged edges and chuckle, wishing I had that minimum of fucks to give that would let me just forget they’re there or do something radical like turn them into tattoos, a random pattern unique to me. I’m still self conscious about them. I still wince when I wear a mini skirt (but I will wear the hell out of that mini skirt). I still wish I had smooth blemish free skin. I still wonder what my partners think. I still linger in skin care sections longer than I need to and  will read up on the latest skin care fads.

And I tell myself it’s ok. I’ve made it this far with them. And the show must go on, I guess.


Glass Beads

imageGlass beads around her waist

Rhythmic rattles

Whisper soft

Beat soft

Skin soft

Skin bare

Skin brown

Back arched

Head back

Eyes shut

Thighs wide

Booty primed

Bass lines

Strong as a beating heart

Stronger than a beating heart

Rhythmic rattles

Whisper soft

Beat soft

Glass beads around her waist