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Day 15 – Un-pausing To Get the Family in Order

July 2, 2012

Soul…

You have to forgive me. THE SUN HAS HAD HER HAT ON (yes the sun is a SHE not a HE cos no there’s absolutely no way a man would be this emotional, mood swingy and temperamental).

DRAMATIC SIDENOTE ABOUT THE SUN AND ITS HAT: it has come to my attention that THE SUN HAS GOT HIS HAT ON a song which we all tra-la-laaaa’d as children is a racist song…I mean are we not safe from anything!? CLICK HERE for the lyrics!!!

As I was saying…

I’ve been outside. I’ve been soaking up the sun. I’ve been admiring the candy (of which at my age, it’s not so much candy, but, rather an assortment of traditional toffees) …and I’ve been swinging me twists tryna reclaim my sexy…

Yes Soul, I got tempted, I got mermaid-itis.  I had to add  some length so I could flick, flick, shake and  whip!  But after a day of whippin’ too hard I’m considering taking them out cos the back of my hair’s still a tad short and the other day in the office The Letchy Boss made a joke about ropes and snakes whilst twisting one of my fallen out twists through his hands. Let’s not dwell…

ANOTHER, SIDENOTE: I am wondering with the heat wave how those who’ve got 300 pounds of brazillian mermaid on their heads are coping. SOUL…weave  need a revolution! I’ll say no more!

So okay, I’ve not been communicating. This diary keeping is hard! I HAVE A LIFE YOU KNOW. I’m sorry. I know I’m making excuses but This Is England and when the sun’s out I beg! Allow me blud! Also in amongst me soaking up the sun, I’ve been in concert therapy…YOU.KNOW.WHY!

So…where was I? What’s been happening…erm…well…okay!  I said I was gonna get the siblings round to deal with their nonsense.

Yes…So I called…

…we’re the closest out of my siblings because she’s the only one who ‘gets’ it…when I say ‘it’ I mean she’s the one who gets what it is to be African, British, Caribbean, African American, Westernized…

See cos, there’s a way, a being, when you’re not English, (meaning white) yet (British meaning it’s on your passport). Especially when you have a strong culture behind your Britishness…be it African, Caribbean, Indian, Asian etc. etc.

Quick culture analysis: Mum and Dad, Ghanaian. Born there, raised there, speak  the language, eat the food, dress the attire, exude every traditional Ghanaianism you could think of. Came to England in their early 20’s with hopes and dreams of gold pavements and trees laden with £1 leaves only to realise…

But regardless of the hatred, they battled down and became a community amongst the other unwanted ethnics and thus Brixton, Harlseden, Peckham etc. were born…ahem.

All well and good, but then instead of saving up to go back home as was professed, they stayed, and stayed and had children and stayed. The children at first were just carbon copies of their cultural parents carrying forth the traditions of home.

But then the children started mixing with other children who were the children of, white’s, Caribbean’s, Asians (the brown and the yellow). They watched TV and saw African Americans and decided…being African wasn’t cool… (you Afrobeats youts of today just don’t know). So they adapted.  So they rebelled. So they answered back. So they slammed  doors. So they they threatened to call Childline. So they became westernized. So African parents all over Great Britain,  my parents (well mostly my mum) included, cried into their pastors collection plates and lamented the plight of the African child. No Band-Aid or Bob Geldof!

My other sis…

…lived in Ghana until she was 20 and when mum and dad brought her here,  the only way she knew how to fit in was on her knees! I’m sorry Soul she’s such a…  As soon as she was pregnant with 1 out of 4 (maybe 5  (I need to call my mum) of my nephews) she left home, got a hostel, then a flat, then a sugar daddy and  hardly looked back.

My brother…

…wasn’t around, as you know he was sent home to become a born again Ghanaian. So it was Me and Roberta who became the ‘English’ ones. Me and Roberta who had to defend each other when mum would rant about our hair, our clothes, our SLANG! (Oh gosh the day we dropped our ING’S was the day we couldn’t sit down for a week)… Anyway we were really close…until she decided to go to Uni and become a confused soul…

But when times get really desperate, Roberta is the one sibling I can kinda get through to…that is, if she’s not out at a gay club with her Muslim boyfriend.

I called her. She said she’d come round to mine with the other two at 7pm tonight. It’s 11:23pm …and  all I’ve done is wait,  over eat, shave my belly hairs, and fill in the gaps where twists have dropped out. Let’s not DWELL!

SOMETIMES I HATE MY SIBLINGS.

I ALSO HAVE TO TELL YOU ABOUT MARCUS! HE CAME ROUND! WE’VE BROKEN UP

Ebs xxx

I will  do better. I promise

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