I Never Knew Her, but I Came Through Her :A Paradoxical Tribute to my Mother: Caroline Wuraola Olagundoye.

I never knew my mother, but I came through her.

What I knew is that she came from Nigeria; the Yoruba people, who are located in the south western part of Nigeria, also known as Yorubaland; a country, where they have the most populous in Africa. The Yorubas stem from a fierce and proud ethnic group that is steeped in tradition, a rich cultural legacy and a global  recognition of this group, in different parts of the diaspora where Yoruba has influenced her sons and daughters.

My mother’s name, Wuraola, literally translates as ‘gold in wealth’. The Yoruba people believe in the notion of reincarnation. Perhaps she was a royal princess in her past life, because that was the name which was ascribed to her at her birth.

I remember celebrating my mother’s birthday on June 19^th, but after she left us, I found out that she was in fact born in the second week of July. I have no idea why she celebrated her birthday in June.

She was born in Ondo State, and she hailed from a provincial town called Owo, which according to oral history, the town can trace its origins to the ancient city of Ile-Ife, the cradle of Yoruba culture, the town also has the largest palace in Africa.

I knew that my mother came from a polygamous union; my maternal grandmother, whose name was Eunice, was the first wife. My maternal grandfather, who was commonly known as ‘Pa’ was the village headmaster, so his status was elevated with this title, thus he was able to afford to marry many times. Because of this he managed to have seven wives, including my maternal grandmother.

My mother was the ‘buffer child’. In other words, she was the middle child of my grandmother’s union. She had an older brother – I think he was a couple of years older than her, and a younger brother, who trailed behind by about three years. Respectively they were known as Uncle Eddy - who I also came to know as Uncle Olu -and my uncle Aerial. They all formed part of a large extended family, which spread out like spilt ink over the whole town.

All of her brothers are deceased now, thus the treasured secrets of my mother’s youth and ultimately, her life, before she embarked on her journey to the Motherland, have been interned with them.

I never knew my mother, but I came through her.

What I knew is that my mother crossed the Atlantic Ocean, after saying farewell to her parents and her extended family.  With her bride price held precariously on her head, she made her watery and choppy journey across the ocean; the motions swept away her emotions and became buried with the bones of distant ancestors who gloriously and mournfully  rested on the sea bed.

Her joy, laughter, gaiety, fun and a fulfilled sense of herself were replaced by the dark, ominous, hanging and gloomy clouds that hovered above as her feet attempted to navigate the unfamiliar terrain by the white cliffs of Dover.

My mother arrived sometime, perhaps, in the late fifties or early sixties. I am not too sure of the exact dates. However, I do know that although she wasn’t a passenger on the SS Empire Windrush, she was however, a part of that landmark generation. Nonetheless, her voice was still excluded and muted on the celebrations that her host nation gave to commemorate the landmark journey of her Caribbean brothers and sisters of this post-war joviality.

I never knew my mother, but I came through her.

What I knew was that she was a student, studying midwifery in London, UK. Her brother, my uncle Olu, who had his own young family living in London, was her persistent, all-knowing and all watching chaperone. In the sepia pictures that I have seen of my mother – before she gave birth to the twins – is a secret, mysterious smile that was ever present on her face; a graceful, beautiful mask of serenity and calm before the storm clouds erupted.

I never knew my mother, but I came through her.

I knew that when I used to gaze at my mother’s ethereal face when I was young, I grew fascinated by her tattooed marks on her face. I thought that she got up each morning and drew them, with her sharpened kohl eyeliner, as part of her make-up routine. They were four short strokes of black marks stamped on her high cheekbones. Every time she smiled –which was not very often – they jumped and leapt joyously from her cheekbones, like swaying blades of grass from her village. When she frowned, or looked sad, they looked like talisman of sadness, hopelessness and a reminder of her life ‘back home’. 

                                                       

I never knew my mother, but I came through her.

What I knew was that when she met my rebellious father, he obsessively pursued her like a fat kid who fiends for a forbidden piece of candy. I knew that my father – although I knew that my mother took a starring role in their nascent soap opera – lit the simmering embers of my mother’s heart, igniting it so much that she had the burning desire to go against her parental wishes back home, trade in her traditional bride price, which balanced indecisively on her head, and marry my immature father in a fiery and blazing state of wantonness. Because she could, as the cacophony of disapproved voices which reached out wistfully across the perilous seas were drowned out by her rebellious spirit.

I knew that my mother was a few years older than my father. I do remember, after she left this earth and transitioned ‘back home’, finding her marriage certificate, deep within the archives of her secretive life. I noticed, in shock, that she had falsified her age to match the same age as my father. Apparently, in my mother’s culture at the time, it was a taboo for a female to marry a younger male.

I never knew my mother, but I came through her.

What I knew is that she raised two sets of twins – two girls and two boys – singlehandedly. At a time in Britain, where being a lone mother was a moral outrage; especially if you came from a society where the holy trinity of marriage, family and children were sewn into your Iro and Buba * from an early age. Consequently, the wages of supporting your children were either non-existent or that the status was not declared due to the unbridled shame.

I knew because of the stress of raising these two sets of twins in the revolutionary sixties – I had no idea when I was in my youth that my mother was divinely blessed in giving birth to twins from a cultural perspective – without the needed intervention and support of her extended family and the comfort and luxury of her familiarity within a compound environment, where the notion of family roots were as embedded as the roots of the baobab tree, and the navel strings of my mother’s umbilical cord.

 My mother’s demotivation about her single status as a mother became her decline towards a pervading sadness that became her veil of trying to cope in an unwelcome climate, which was inevitably stifling her growth. The sunshine of her youth was replaced by the frigidity of motherhood and what was expected of her as an African woman, living as ‘other’ in  alienable circumstances.

Because of these shortcomings, my mother had to rely on her host nation dependants to ‘nanny’ and foster her own dependants for a paltry fee.  This was before the era where the safe guarding of children were entrusted to local authorities , where the welfare of children were scribed into legal documents; to assure that these children resided in homes of safety, comfort, trust and cultural awareness.

I knew at a tender age that Caucasian skin could not look after my tough ‘negro’ hair, or delicate ‘coloured’ skin. So, my body was abandoned like an unattended, wild forest, in these ‘homes’ where we were clandestinely dropped off, by my mother in different locations along the south eastern and northern regions of the UK.

I knew because of the unmonitored fostering places, we were unwittingly placed in by my mother. Some of these foster homes hid the foreboding shadows of paedophiles, where the grooming of young children was sanctified by a few pieces of melted chocolate, and promise s of rides in amusement parks on nearby seaside piers.

 These monsters defiled our bodies with sexual abuse and molestation, where the innocence of girl twins was shattered and the quiet cries which never reached my mother’s ears. She was deaf to all of our silent weeping, as her colonised mind held white skin as a beacon of light, and ultimately, hope, which shone into her darkness of despair.

I knew that after my mother passed, that the pain, betrayal, fear, and racism of these experiences that she ultimately suffered, grew inside me - like a seed germinating - that I had to initiate intensive therapy, in my mid-twenties, so that the seed growing within me had to bloom like a flower and not spike like a thorn into my life, so that I could manifest my burgeoning maternal duties to my two precious sons, a different spectrum of care, love, devotion and hope. 

I knew that I had to readdress the imbalances of my life and straighten my uneven path so that my journey could be straight and my steps would become even and lighter with my emotional baggage that I have accrued over the years.

I never knew my mother, but I came through her.

I knew that every Saturday mornings, as a youth returning from my fostered , vanilla landscape existence, and getting used to the voice, smell and presence of my mother - whilst my twin brothers entertained themselves with the weekly weekend jovialities of Tiswas and Bugs Bunny, -I had to follow my mother to Ridley Road market, in Dalston, Hackney. I cringed at the unfamiliar tones of my mother’s accented English. I cringed at her loud announcements when she would meet her friends. I cringed when she used to barter for items in the market. I cringed when my aunties would bellow in forceful and aggressive tones to ‘face my studies, and always pray’. I cringed when my school mates would tease me in the weeks following, as being ‘Kizzy’, because they had spied me at the market with my loud African mother. I cringed at all of the different ‘coloured ‘ shades of blackness that surrounded me like suffocating fog…

 These memories are indelibly tattooed within the recesses of my mind, and sometimes, when I think about these memories, I feel a the rising paradoxical thoughts of sadness and celebration.

But I now know that these were my mother’s markers of a culture that were lost and then rediscovered in the familiarity of friends who had gone through the same experiences. Being isolated and abandoned by careless, carefree and reckless husbands in a strange land, where their looks, accents and sense of selves were questioned, ridiculed and shunned.

I knew that my mother sought a soothing sanctuary in a religious environment, where she was validated by a white Jesus. Where each Sunday she would proudly wear a freshly made ero and buba, with a matching, starched gelee**, which pointed proudly to the heavens that she was worshipping. Where the shaking of the tambourines and the choruses of Yoruba Ase*** and hallelujahs reached the nether regions of the women as they shook their nayshes**** for Jehovah.

I also knew that after my mother’s death, I found in her possession, an ancestral charm for the orisha Ibeji. This is the orisha for twins. My mother – as all mothers from the Yoruba people who give birth to twins – was given the title, Mama Ibeji, which translated means, ‘Twins Mummy’. This is a very prestigious title to have in Yorubaland. I now fully understood why my mother consistently gave us black eyed beans to eat every Saturday. I wonder if she did this when we were away from us. If so, why were we not protected from harm? These questions I had to let go, because the reality of my experience has made me who I am today.

Nonetheless, I guess we were her living shrines, and the sacrifice that she made at her altar of pain was immense. I see that now; I over stand what she, as an African woman had to go through in a country that never truly embraced her; an African woman who always stood on the margins and was disenfranchised because of her colour, her race and her gender. She was my mother, but she was seen as ‘other’ in alien surroundings

 

So, now here I am, living in another country. 

My life, although content, still remains somewhat unfulfilled, at varying times. This may be due to still trying to find my footsteps in a new country, and also because of the social isolation that I feel at times. Nevertheless, I would not swap these feelings and emotions, because, once again, they have come to define who I am and am becoming.

My life has not been too easy; I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but a rusty one. Because of my life – although I am a survivor of the pain that manifested within me – the path that I walked has been strewn with many obstacles that could’ve defeated me.  However, with the mosaic of pain that has had an impact on my life, there has been a dazzling shaft of sunshine and a kaleidoscope of light, with the birth of my two beautiful sons, Benjamin and Akin, who are grown, secure and actualised into wonderful human beings. Additionally, I have been divinely blessed with the love of my life, my husband, Enson Williams, who makes sure that I am comfortable, loved and safe.

I now know that the often fractured relationship that I had with my twin sister is slowly fitting into the jigsaw pieces of my life. Although we are separated by an ocean, I feel her presence on a daily basis, and I am amazed at her tenacity of how she been able to have a grip on her life and the wonderful journey that it has taken her to. I am proud of my Ibeji!  

The chapters of this episode still need to be written about my twin brothers. I will leave that for another time…

The couple of  authentic friends who swayed and stayed  by my side, who offered me a life jacket when I needed to keep afloat – Michelle Williams and my darling spiritual fulfilling sista friend, Samantha G... I am fortunate to have these two true friends in my life!

I now know that by writing this authentic commentary about my mother is a tribute to her ferocious energies, life, and who she was what she represented as a Yoruba woman and ultimately, her warrior spirit that infuses me each day; writing this has been extremely therapeutic for me.

 It’s been twenty-five years since she passed to the other side, and it’s only now that I have started dreaming about her, reconnecting with her in my meditations and feeling her eternal essence, that surrounds me like a peaceful mist. I know that I can obtain the peace, because I have started picking up the pieces of my mother’s life and where the meaning of her life is embroidered with the frayed seams of my life. Where I can, in my fifty-first year on this realm, begin to really exhale and feel complete in mind, body and spirit.

I never knew my mother, but I came through her to learn many lessons about who I ultimately am; the woman that I have turned out to be; the mother who I materialised into, and the wife who I longed to be. 

I never knew my mother, but through my creativity I am beginning to know her as I finally write and inscribe these words to you, to your memory. I whisper them in your daily presence, fuse, and twin and reconnect my energies with your own, and meditate them to myself and say that to you, my mother –Caroline  Wuraola Olagundoye - these words and thoughts are dedicated to your everlasting memory.

Ase!



       

 * a Yoruba woman’s traditional attire Iro = wrapper and Buba= top ** A head wrap usually worn with the ero and buba *** Amen/Blessings

****Colloquial term in Yoruba for women’s backsides/buttocks.

Migration: I have my own domain:)

Finally, after having a sub-domain for many years on blogger.com, I've now got my own hosted Wordpress blog domain! How cool is that?

So after emigrating to this beautiful island, its now time for me to migrate this blog and all of my words to my new domain...

Jah's Country

Like me, my new Wordpress blog is adjusting, so there's still tweaks to be made and challenges to be conquered along this new journey of transformation and opportunities.

So long Blogger... we've had a nice and steady ride. I learnt so much from this site on blogging, html, seo and other important factors to understanding the world of blogging and beyond...

See you there!

In Transition: Getting Used to my Tightly Fitted Jacket

Well, my dream has  manifested. So many times over. Regardless of the envy and begrudging attitudes of some folk ( from some sectors of my family), I am here, in the land of plenty, beautiful scenery, fresh fruit literally at my fingertips, a steady stream of sunshine, and most importantly, with my darling husband. I will always be blessed, regardless of the obstacles that some folk want to continuously  place on our positive paths!

They call Dominica the 'Nature Island', and truly, the scenic views of the landscape are amazingly awesome and breathtaking - I will touch on this in another blog post. Where we live we have the wonderful image of the Caribbean Sea just within our eyesights. Can you imagine, as I open the wooden blinds of our bedroom, gently rub my weary eyes,  stretch and rise in the early, quiet, warm morning of my newly adopted country, I can see the dazzling deep blue shimmer of the Caribbean Sea. Can you imagine the blessings that I ultimately feel living in this small island of paradise?

 



I've been in Dominica for the past month, and I was saying to my husband the other day, that  sometimes I feel that I am wearing a  tightly fitted jacket; trying to get used to its size to make sure it fits me perfectly and I am comfortable wearing it. I see this analogy as how I am adapting to this beautiful country. Sometimes there is discomfort, sometimes there's a tightness, and sometimes there's a restricted comfortableness! This is because I am still adapting to my surreal (in a sense) surroundings. I have to get used to the chilled attitudes of folk here. Eliminate my notions of efficiency, and definitely get rid of my British stiff upper lip. I mean, I was born in the UK, and as much as I have never consciously embraced my 'britishness', its still imbued deeply within me. I can't escape it. But I can eliminate the attitude and embrace my buried deep new one, my 'Caribbeaness' as such - even if my people are not from here originally.

So, over the next few months I know that my tightly fitted jacket will become much looser and will fit me so much better. Thus making  my comfort in living here relaxed, as I get used to my new surroundings. In the interim, I will be drinking in all of Dominica, like a baby being breastfed for the first time.  Still writing and being creative. Still working on my novel. Still daydreaming. Still loving. Still being positive and optimistic. Still blogging on my new experiences of living in Waitukubuli - pronounced Wa-it-tuku-buli (tall is her body) the original Kalingo name for Dominica.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, once I have settled over here I will be migrating my blog onto my own domain. I am still trying to come up with an inventive and memorable name. Any suggestions?

Watch out for my carnival tinged post soon. Carnival season is alive over here and I am excited to be a part of it as an appreciated spectator.

Shooing Away The Dust...Brushing Off My Collar

Well, its only a few days until I am on that great, big metal bird, flying me across the ocean; into the warm embrace of my loving husband. I can't wait to see him, and in the music and lyrics of Anita Baker, 'it's been so long, I'm missing you baby...'

As I squeeze all of my clothes in my suitcase - I've already utilised the timely tradition of my people by sending a gigantic blue barrel ahead of me, so I can travel light - and zip and unzip until my suitcase resembles a fully stuffed, can't fit any- food- inside - stomach, I can only reminisce on my time in the UK - good times and bad.

Yesterday, my oldest son treated me and my youngest son to a meal in Chinatown. We went to this cheap and cheerful restaurant, where the food is plentiful and the staff are rude. Nonetheless, with some bittersweet moments of being in my boys presence and knowing that they can't just jump on Eurostar or come by coach to see me in Holland, and trying to determine my youngest son's sullen silence, we had a good time.I  couldn't really garner an appetite as the realisation was hitting me hard that I will be separate from them; many miles away in a place which is comprised of pure nature, and irrigated by 365 rivers - or so the locals say.

 Its easier saying goodbye to friends, but saying goodbye - well, its not really a goodbye- to sons that you have carried and nurtured all these years, can be a tad emotional. I was surprised that I held it down though. I didn't want to embarrass my children, and cause a tsunami in the restaurant,  but I cried all the way home. It wasn't really of sadness...

Anyway, next door to this restaurant is a place where I used to rave hard, way back in the days - The Wag Club. Its no longer there. I felt a sense of sadness and loss, because this place, and also the The Empire in Leicester Square, were my youthful days of abandoned rituals: partying and being reckless (in the way that I could, as I was still living a sheltered life at home).  As I said, The Wag Club is no longer there, and I guess like this former landmark which was a place of my post adolescence innocence,  like then as of now,  I'm in the midst of change, of transformation.

Its funny, in the last few days, I've noticed a couple of friends becoming kind of distant towards me. I'm still trying to understand what that is all about. I'm not sure and I can't put my finger on it. Maybe they will miss me? I tend to over analyse things, so I'm just going to leave it alone, shoo it away with the dust that has accumulated in my life.

Its at times like this, deep in reflection of my continued journey, I really have seen who my true friends are; I can literally count them on one hand, and this is fine by me. There is one particular one - who will remain nameless - but if she sees this blog she will know it is her (!) who was/is there for me unconditionally. Through thick and thin, more than some members of my own family. I will never, ever forget her kindness and her nurturing spirit towards me. In a way, she reminds me of my late Godmother, Margaret. Margaret was this amazing Jamaican woman who knew my mama. I'm not sure how they became friends, as they were like oil and water. She smoked. My mama didn't. She held people in great bear hugs of affection. My mama couldn't. She drank like a fish and swore like a sailor on his first foray onto dry land. My mama never cursed - unless it was in Yoruba and I had no idea of its meaning! Yes, they were so different, but she trusted Margaret with me.  In fact, she looked after me for a couple of years when I was in my preteens when my mama took my brothers back home to be educated. She reminded me of Billie Holliday, as she used to always wear a gardenia in her hair; she had this husky, sing song voice vibrating with love and compassion for mankind. She was a treat; I still hunger and miss her presence. I guess that's why I've always, always felt some kind of affinity with people from the Caribbean - more so than my own folk from Nigeria. Its the truth. I never pretended to be something else, but it was this warm familiarity that made me feel at ease and relaxed. That's also another reason why I have visited these islands more than my ancestral homeland. Because I feel a sense of 'belonging'. I mean, look who I married! An amazing and resilient man from - guess where? Yes, the Caribbean!

 Anyway, as I was saying, my dear friend reminds me of my Margaret. She always wants to know if I am well; if I have eaten. In general, she has looked out for me since arriving from Holland. My friend has been a refuge from some of the storms and challenges that I have faced, and I can never thank her enough in all that she has done for me since living in the UK. Her children let me become part of their furniture  unreservedly and again, I am so grateful that they allowed me to live in their space.

So, I am just brushing off the dirt from my collar to all the folk - family included -  who thought that I would not do it; could not do it.  I am shooing away the dust from my feet; getting prepared to take that leap of faith to be somewhere where my uniqueness will be offset by my own perceptions, and what I will  bring with me to this new land.  I am getting ready, like a marathon runner,  for the next part of my journey. I am well aware of the obstacles that I may face, but like other obstacles in my life, I eventually get over and carry on, sprinting and sometimes running.

Hopefully, whoever is reading this blog will come with me on my journey, through my words,  when I migrate this blog to my own domain.

Soon, very soon...

The Musing and Words of a UK African Woman Living In London.: When Young Black Male Lives are Worthless

The Musing and Words of a UK African Woman Living In London.: When Young Black Male Lives are Worthless

When Young Black Male Lives are Worthless

Something has been really troubling my spirit lately. The recent spate of Black on Black killings in my neighbourhood. Now, I haven't been immune to this horrific dilemma that has been like a venomous cancer in my community, but I hold up my hand and admit that I have been kind of complacent. Its not because I don't care, but I just feel hopeless about it. There are no loud voices proclaiming justice or peace. No chorus of voices, just an abandoned riff of sadness. I've added to this inconclusive and mute landscape, and I also hold myself responsible for this as well - or protesting at the local police station about how this will be thwarted, but still the silence which has deafened me over the years has made me try to learn sign language of these young men.

 Instead, I, like others have found a real comfortable spot in the sand and burrowed my head deep within, hoping that the killings will eventually stop; that the self hatred will fade away like a pair of well faded levis. Bu I know they will not. They're just becoming more and more frenzied. Young Black males annihilating themselves because of 'respect' and affiliating themselves to gangs who are giving them 'love' and self esteem that they are not automatically gaining from their family members.
My neighbourhood is becoming a overpopulated cemetery, scarred indelibly with the bodies of young black men, who are killing themselves senselessly, due to a sense of hatred and loathing for self. That is it in a nutshell.

I remember, several years back, when my youngest son who was attending high school in another borough, used to literally run a marathon race everyday to our local train station - each way -  so he would not be caught up in the 'postcode honour' that these young black boys seem to seek validation from. The 'postcode honour' is about finding out if you are from their 'manor'; their area. If not, you're liable to get beaten up, or even worse, harmed. perhaps in a fatal way. Why? Because their like tomcats, marking and spraying their territories. Also, because they hate what they see, they also destroy their own likeness of themselves.

Thankfully, after I went to live for a couple of years in Holland, he lived with his father as he was attending college up there. His father lives in suburbia and it's not so bad as it is, living here in the inner city. I am proud to say, that my son made conscious, and wise choices and decisions - he had no choice with his father and me as his parents. Suffice to say, he will be attending university to undertake his degree in September 2012.

*Update*

My son is now in university and thriving. I am really proud of his sense of achievements and I am so happy that he, as with my other son, did not persist to peer pressure and become another 'statistic'.

Be About It/Do It: Preparation: Soon... very soon

' the loudest voice is just a whisper in the wind'© Taiwo Ogunnaike - 2012

As I prepare to leave Europe, emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually, I look back on what I have gained living here.

Well, the birth of my two wonderful boys who have grown to be such amazing young men, who make me proud and continue to shine their lights. I praise the Most High for them, because they literally made me find my feet.And I am delighted that they chose me as their 'mumma'. I feel courageous that they have the positive self esteem to let their 'mumma', me,  go and be happy in warmer climates and to be with her darling and loving  husband. Completely complete and blissfully blessed.

I am grateful for my advanced education. Although I challenged a lot in my 'higher learning' from the people who taught me - and I came into it at an advanced age -  my perceptions were much more keener - I still gained knowledge from all the sources which embraced me. I am still learning everyday. Do I have any regrets? No. Regrets are just obstacles, and I get over them each and everyday.

My politicisation(sic) filtered way into my consciousness in the early 80s. For me it was the reverberation and shouts of  '13 dead, nothing said'. I will always remember that day - March 2nd 1981 - when I was still doing/preparing for  my A Levels  I never told my mama I was going on the march, but I remember sneaking out when I was meant to go to the library. It was my watershed moment of realising that I was of 'other', and the impact of being aware of this knowledge hit me HARD in the solar plexus, literally winding me.

 I know, I was a naive, 17 year old, closeted by religion, juxtaposition with the white Jesus hanging on red velvet wallpaper.

I remember being in a sea of melanin, held afloat by loud, but angry and triumphant victorious voices. I felt that I was 'home' and there was a 'red sea' epiphany moment for me - although I had no comprehension of it at the time.  There were over 20,000 people marching, people who looked just like ME. I had never seen such a collective organism of us in one place before that were not celebrating dancing and good times, but living. I was astounded by the dashikis and all other sartorial manners of African type clothing that I had only seen in my church as a young girl. I was buoyed by this. My spirit and fire arose in me as I joined the chants. I knew it was going to be a historical and pivotal moment for the African/British movement.

 As I moved deeper within the Pan African struggle in the 80s and 90s I felt a seismic shift begin within. I saw that a lot of these organisations had issues with gender and equality. I am not talking 'feminism', but there were flawed debates, that sometimes got buried or never challenged, such as domestic violence that was very active (and still is) within our communities. I remember having (or attempting to have) a lot of these debates with some of my  'brothas' about women's roles within the movement. I was having a reincarnation moment about how women were perceived, and how I remembered reading about these roles within the Black Panther movement twenty odd years before. Things had not changed. Anyway, I digress. I will be writing more on this in my novel.

What I want to say, is that I stand here now. Fully congruent and  still fiercely proud and protective in being Pro Black for my community, but my embrace has widened. I want and will be taking that embrace/ideas/(in)/evolvement/love et al to another country, another land.

I refuse to be like the so many stagnant figures I have observed in the Pan African movement over here; who keep on blaming 'whitey' and yet refuse to saw away at these chains that they feel is psychologically  binding them so tightly in  BABYLON. They still verbally projectile the same slogans from yesteryear, and they have still stood in the same spot, marking the same spot, by spouting dated rhetoric in shifting times; passing it on to the next (X) generation. After a while, these loud, angry, but victorious and triumphant voices are just whispers on the wind. They don't mean anything if you they are not prepared to do the walking instead of  merely talking. And prepared to:

BE ABOUT IT

and

TO JUST...

  DO IT!

Soon, very soon...

Keep on Keeping on: Consistency with Life and Blogging.

Sometimes I have to ask, or rather tell myself, to keep up the consistency of the writing on my blog. I admit, when LIFE gets in the way, then I tend to leave my blog to the resounding echoes of crickets. Sometimes this overwhelming sense of guilt comes over me, and then I suddenly get hit by a flash of inspiration, overcompensate and go into a freewrite mode; I see that I have attested to this over the last few posts on this blog, and this theme seems to be a common denominator in a lot of my writings.

Although over the last few months - heck years (hides embarassed face) - I've been inconsistent with my blog, and I think I have translated this into my own personal life. But to be honest though, this last year has been a really trying and difficult year and has tested me in all ways imaginable. In ways which have been challenging and where I thought that people who were there for me were just vague and superficial presences in my life. But there has been a couple of really amazing friends who have stuck by me, unconditionally, and they know who they are - you are going to have to read the acknowledgements in my book one day!

 And in all of this I feel that I am slowly waking up from this self induced slumber. There have been moments of consistency and shining beacons throughout this year for me - seeing my two beautiful sons and seeing what they are achieving in their worlds and their lives, and of course, my beautiful, yet simplistic marriage to my desirable Dominican husband **big cheesy smile**

So, regarding my blog. I know for me to have consistency there has to be a natural flow, a rhythm to my writing. Right now, its kind of disjointed, and I think that is a reflection of my LIFE right now. All of what I am feeling right now is just a temporary phase, so I am not alarmed about it. I feel transformation coming soon on my horizon.

I have no fears though, and feel absolutely optimistic that this is just a misaligned cog in the wheel of my life. I do see a small sliver of light, which is getting brighter and brighter for me in a good, positive way, because from next year I will be migrating my blog to an actual dotcom domain; changing my inconsistency into uninterrupted lines of creative and life consistencies.  That will be my life, and I can literally taste the change that is ahead.  And when I take on this thought, I see how my blog and its migration represents my life right now, because I am literally migrating out of my country of birth by the end of this year.

So for me, the new life of my new blog represents transformation, growth and hopefully, consistency in my blog, my writing and my overall, well, LIFE.

Soon, very soon...

Nights Like This - Reloaded

The nights are drawing in and its time for me to burrow deep  for long forgotten winter clothes, as they sought hibernation among archived Olympic times, summer fashions.

The nights are drawing in and the clock has fallen back into fall, as I lay in bed, trying to sniff out long forgotten mango/guava/coconut scents and indelible memories imprinted and tattooed in eyelids. Of an island so breathtakingly beautiful, that I sometimes forget to exhale.

The nights are drawing in and the mornings will be getting lighter, as I daydream about feeling free, in the lap of fluidity - nature. Where faces abound will resemble mine as if looking in a mirror. Where I can go and experience and really start living the authenticity of my revived  life among the vivid greens, the brilliant  yellows  and azure blues; coated in a technicolour array of natural living.

The nights are drawing in as I crave for the warm embrace of my spiritually ordained soul mate - my darling, wonderful, blessed loved husband - as he eagerly and patiently awaits for me on the magical, natural island, building up our fortress so our pleasurable laughter and unrelenting joy can be finally released and  reunited.

The nights are drawing in as my countdown begins.

Soon, very soon and I cannot wait.

To be continued... 

A Change is Gonna Come... Soon!

As I briefly peruse my blog and kick myself literally about procrastinating in my creativity, I then change my thoughts and tell myself that there have been lots of changes since my last blog entry.
So with all my pontifications and grandstanding that I have written about on my blog,  regarding my stilted creativity,I am still, in my own way, trying to remain optimistic in my uncertainties. Still trying to remain focused on my creative goals, aims and objectives.

One of these changes since my June entry is that I am now a legally married woman! Yes! You know, I have always considered myself married to the love of my life, its just that it wasn't legalised. But now it is. I am officially MRS TAIWO WILLIAMS. Yes, that felt hella (sic) good. In fact, it sounds so good, that I had to capitialise it. I think - and I am still debating - that I am going to keep my beautiful, Yoruba maiden name, as a nod to my noble Nigerian roots. But because I have such a paradox nature at times,  I may just hypen my name when I finally debut my novel.

Anyway, a change is gonna come... very soon. I am keeping it close to my chest right now. Only those who I have trusted and who I love are aware of these changes, but suffice to say, they are positive ones. With this change I am going to migrate my blog to an actual dotcom site - hopefully, by the end of this year - and have it hosted, thus, making it look professional, but most importantly, I will be writing regularly on it and giving you my updates on my wonderful changes. I still need to think of a unique name for my site, and I will be digging deeply into my proverbial hat of creativity to come up with something. One that will get me sudden surges of traffic, and also, most importantly, people reading my blog, feeling my blog, and leaving constructive and positive comments on it.

Oh, I decided to put Sam Cooke's classic video as part of this blog post. I'm aware of the historical context of the track, its that just for me, it sums up my own optimism in my current tide of pessimism.

Soon come!

My Whys: High Expectations and Creativity.

I've just received a wonderful comment about one of my previous blog posts, and it got me thinking really deeply. Although the commentator was 'anonymous', their comments have left an indelible mark on my consciousness.

Just the other day, I was asking myself why I had come to a standstill with my creativity? Why had I stopped writing daily? What was wrong? Why was I starting to doubt myself again with my creativity? Why couldn't I follow my own tips that I wrote about in some of my previous blog posts? Why? Why? Why?

I got so caught up with all my 'whys', that I became dizzy and yes, overwhelmed by these often self- imposed high expectations of close friends and family. It was only when this anonymous commentator spoke about having 'high expectations' of self and creativity, that I clearly began to glimpse and finally get my proverbial light bulb moment. A 100 watts of clarity just flooded my senses!

I get a lot of inspirations and revelations and I just 'write' freely, and this, I guess is what a lot of my blog posts represent to me; and when I read them back to myself, they do have a sense of abandoned freedom. But sometimes, I have to ask myself if they are a distraction to my creativity of reigniting my novel. Am I sabotaging myself because of this fear of being eventually published?

I have left this particular writing in stagnation for a while. Why? Because to be honest with you, I am scared of failure. I am scared of the high expectations expected from me. I fear the questions from loved ones, asking me how the novel is going, and I become uncharacteristically  muted and quickly divert the attention and leap frog to another topic. I fear that I am not being authentic to myself when it comes to my writing and my progress, and to be frank, this paralyses me!

Nonetheless, now it is becoming evident to me, and as I attempt to expel these self imposed high expectations that I hold close to my chest, like a deflated life jacket, I know it is up to me and only me to climb down from this high mountain of expectations and swim freely; to get out of my restricted exile and start to inflate this life jacket. To anchor myself in the waves of certainty and clarity and continue with my journey of writing this novel.

Its time for me to come ashore and just write, whenever I feel like it, with no high expectations.

Thank you once again to my anonymous commentator.

On&On&On... My Personal and Loving Rebuttal to Erykah Badu

Just recently, there has been a lot of controversy surrounding one of my favourite artist's, Erykah Badu. This controversy was about how she had no idea about what kind of image that was being sent out regarding a promo video that she and her sister were featured on and how she felt 'manipulated' and violated.

 Let me just preface this and let you know, I have all her albums, seen her live in concert endless times when she has travelled to Europe; in fact, I remember seeing her live at the Jazz Cafe years ago before she became the mega superstar in the noughties. I am what you call a person who loves her vibe; I don't consider myself a 'fan', because to me that has too many negative connotations attached to it. I even had the chance in meeting and chatting with her several years ago when she was invited to London to a natural hair conference - check my video on youtube: Erykah Badu @ Adornment 2007 and she struck me as a very down to earth sista. So... having said that, I'm disappointed in you Ms Badu. Look, we're all human, and yes, we do have our fallacies - we are not perfect, and that is a great thing, because with our imperfections can come gradual revelations that help us to grow, learn and proceed with our lives.

 However, when we are in the public eye and under that judgemental (at times) microscope, we need to really overstand how mainstream perceives us. Let me state right here, we do not need to censor ourselves,  seek validation or compromise our art, but at the same token, we have to have an AWARENESS of the bigger picture and what is involved in that bigger picture. Thus, we need to not only look at the picture, but the frame and the context of that picture as well, in my humble opinion!


Anyway, here is Erykah's rebuttal to the controversy about the video:

3:33pm dallas 

@waynecoyne then... perhaps, next time u get an occasion to work with an artist who respects your mind/art, you should send at least a ROUGh version of the video u PLAN to release b4 u manipulate or compromise the artist's brand by desperately releasing a poor excuse for shock and nudity that sends a convoluted message that passes as art( to some).
Even with Window Seat there was a method and thought process involved. I have not one need for publicity . I just love artistic dialogue . And just because an image is shocking does not make it art. 
You obviously have a misconception of who I am artistically. I don't mind that but...
By the way you are an ass. 
Yu did everything wrong from the on set . 
First:
You showed me a concept of beautiful tasteful imagery( by way of vid text messages) . 
I trusted that. I was mistaken. 
Then u release an unedited, unapproved version within the next few days. 
That all spells 1 thing , 
Self Serving . 
When asked what the concept 
meant after u explained it , u replied ,"it doesn't mean anything , I just want to make a great video that everyone is going to watch. " 
I understood , because as an artist we all desire that. But we don't all do it at another artist's expense . 
I attempted to resolve this respectfully by having conversations with u after the release but that too proved to be a poor excuse for art. 
From jump, 
You begged me to sit in a tub of that other shit and I said naw. I refused to sit in any liquid that was not water. But Out of RESPECT for you and the artist you 'appear' to be, I Didn't wanna kill your concept , wanted u to at least get it out of your head . After all, u spent your dough on studio , trip to Dallas etc.. Sooo, I invited Nayrok , my lil sis and artist, who is much more liberal ,to be subject of those other disturbing (to me ) scenes . I told u from jump that I believed your concept to be disturbing. But would give your edit a chance. 
You then said u would take my shots ( in clear water/ fully covered parts -seemed harmless enough) and Nayrok's part ( which I was not present for but saw the photos and a sample scene of cornstarch dripping ) and edit them together along with cosmic, green screen images ( which no one saw) then would show me the edit. . 
Instead, U disrespected me by releasing pics and rough vid on the internet without my approval. (Contract breech )
That is equivalent to putting out a security camera's images of me changing in the fitting room. 
I never would have approved that tasteless, meaningless, shock motivated video . 
Our art is a reflection of who we are . I have no connection to those images shot in their raw version. I was interested in seeing an amazing edit that would perhaps change or alter my thoughts . Never happened . 
You also did the same thing with the song itself which displays crappy "rough "vocals by me . I let it go , perhaps iiiii was missing something, I thought. 
I Should have followed my first mind back in studio when recording the vocals "your way". 
( Red flag.) It was uncomfortable. 
For that I am at fault . 
Consequently, brother, As a human I am disgusted with your what appears to be desperation and poor execution. And disregard for others . As a director I am unimpressed . As a sociologist I understand your type. As your fellow artist I am uninspired. As a woman I feel violated and underestimated. 
Hope it works out for ya ,Wayne. 
Really i could give a shit less.
Still love your live show tho. 
And , you're welcomed. 
Lesson learned . 
By the way I have guested in very few videos. But I have always been given the opportunity to see the edit and contribute to it when my roll is substantial. Not this time . 
I guess u feel it better to apologize than ask for permission and be refused . Hey, Love u man, but your ways are not very nice . 
O, And on behalf of all the artists u have manipulated or plan to manipulate, find another way . 
These things have been said out of necessity. 
And if you don't like it 
you can KiSS MY Glittery ASS .
O and Nayrok told me to tell u to kiss her ass too .
Almost forgot. 
Peace 

Ms. Badu

source: Erykah's Rebuttal

So, I imagined, what would I say if I had the same opportunity to write a rebuttal to what she had written about the video. Well, here it is. Any thoughts? Comments would be wholeheartedly appreciated!

'I'm an artist, I'm sensitive about my shit!' 


Erykah, Erykah... I've seen the video, and what I saw was soft porn, not 'art'. Overall, it was exploitative and I felt like a voyeur watching it. I read all of the reactions about it being 'art', but my spirit was itching. This was not ART, as much as people wanted to pass it off as ART. It was exploitative soft porn. Yes. Soft porn.

How could you be so DANG NAIVE??? Yes, I overstand the context of your artistic endeavours, but Ms Badu, you got PLAYED like a piece of chess. Did you have no idea that these 21st century  men would undermine and insidiously exploit and manipulate you and your sister's  BLACK BODIES; I mean, lets be frank, their ancestors have been doing this for centuries. Aint nothing new with this particular notion! 


How could you, as an 'artist' let such sensitive images go unseen, without permission? This to me was a digital raping; this may seem as an exaggeration, but this is how I saw it when I painfully watched your video through slightly dampened eyes. When your ancestors were raped several centuries ago, they had no choice, but you had a choice, with your 21st century voice. But their voices were muted due to their gender and their fragile and pathetic status as enslaved women on the plantations. 

Ms Badu, I am a fan of you and your music, but you need better people on your side who have your BACK. 

As an artist, I get the notion of art and how one must and can apply and express oneself through the many avenues of their art, but to then go and backpedal because of you maybe(?) wising up to the exploitative and sneaky nature in how the video was released and unleashed on the general public; Ms Badu YOU need to have your 3rd eye open at all times, especially when it concerns you and how the mainstream and the manipulative and pernicious nature of media constantly keeps on vilifying the BLACK BODY for their overall consumption.

Keep being you  with your art for art's sake Ms Badu, but please be involved and evolved with your  production, your involvement and your context of how your image may be  misconstrued. You have had too many years in the industry to be naive in how you are being ultimately perceived.

Still inspired by you, Ms Badu!

Love, Light and Blessings

Tai