2021 - A Year of Games, Gratitude and Grounding

You are the one that you are looking for. ~ Audre Lorde

January was framed by Bob's I Shot the Sheriff. In fact, it was a remix whose production had started in November 2019. As a part of the takeover, the coup makers set an agenda to discredit and gnaw away at the integrity, professionalism, and decades of sacrifice to an organization we called family, home, a feminist space. Let's just say, Bob's lyrics played around in my head as an influencer and confirmed that my feminist analysis of this power struggle in a sea of whiteness was on point. At some point, I needed to get the deputy as well. February was difficult. The contradictions, resistance, and the learned socialization to keep my body, mind, and soul intact while smiling created toxic layers around me. I needed a break and a platform to speak. Funny thing, there was a growing success in manufacturing artificial divisions and silos -a dismantling of a powerful feminist collective-to ensure that we re-enact the Hunger Games. The games had begun, and roles were emerging. Burna Boy kept me going at the gym and home. March was a month of joy. I got the call for an interview. Yale World Fellows Program. It was surreal and I tried to align it with my previous wins-a a round trip ticket to the World Cup in Brazil, a Digital Satellite TV system + a generator, and that chocolate-covered cake at the school bazaar when I was 9. At that point in my life, a prestigious Ivy League fellowship was bigger than the chocolate cake, and I spent the next few weeks on a binge of the Gilmore Girls, an introduction to Yale as recommended by Koc Nyema Williams. April took me to my roots, and I was able to have discussions about Inappropriate Medley in Liberia. We centered on storytelling. Young women representing new generations shared their position, poetry, and platforms of resistance on navigating the Liberian society. It was mind-blowing and cathartic. I realized that the book was the first step in a long conversation on the healing value of storytelling. By May, the Hunger Games had intensified. Parallel universes were created to shock the daylight out of people’s souls. I had my visa and made peace with the fact that I was choosing Yale. The pause would save my sanity and expand my current understanding of the world. At this point, I was wading through murky waters each day, dealing with the higher-ups and custodians of whiteness. It was painful and disrespectful. I was in the doldrums and questioned my every move. Imagine this breakdown and the demand to be prepared for a Yale fellowship. I write this to highlight how institutional racism, power plays, and toxicity can affect our mental health in spaces that are meant to be safe and feminist. I write this because many women let it go despite the impact of this culture on their bodies and minds. Letting go and speaking about this taboo in many settings is difficult. I write to demystify this taboo. May-all framed in Redemption Song. My anthem of calm and resistance. By June, I spread out my earthly belongings on an apartment floor on Othaya Road and invited friends of goodwill (pun intended) to come and make purchases. As the time narrowed down, the most important parts of my life were my sons, cooking jollof rice at Njoki's, and straightening out the kinks of my life. The most important priority was getting my Kitengela glasses to Liberia, where I daydreamed of using them one day. James graduated from Riara University, and again registered that unique determination to achieve. We ate jollof rice and drank champagne at Njoki's house to celebrate him. July was the rush month of goodbyes and hellos. I needed to know where I would live in New Haven. I was not sure why that was so important to me, with my history of living in a three-bedroom zinc shack. In hindsight, I think I had subconsciously associated a living space with safety and comfort, and I needed loads of that after the Hunger Games reenactment. Everything came to a grinding halt on 30 July. I became infected with the coronavirus and could not make my flight to the US. Additionally, I had resigned from my job and given up my apartment. Believe me, you do not want to live with young men who are so cautious about bills that they ask you to cut off the television if you do not give it your undivided attention. On a serious note, it was one of the most challenging 14 days of my life since we had limited information on covid guidelines. I tested negative on the morning of August 14th and was on the first flight that night to New York. August exploded excitingly. I pinched myself to confirm that I was at Yale, living in the historic Chapel Street District. I had access to everything I needed. There were some shocks, but I was glad to be away from the battlefield-fighting for my peace and sanity. I eased into August with gratitude, recovering from covid, ready to join an awe-inspiring cohort of individuals representing 15 other countries, and with the assurance that a safe space of care and love was mine. August to December-the best five months of the year. I learned so much about myself and how my socialization as a feminist guided my interactions. Sometimes, it was about self-recognition and self-awareness. Many times, it was about patience and the capacity to love and work for love. It was about unpacking excess baggage that I had carried consistently and realizing that in many cases it was about sitting outside on a cold day in Sheffield, MA, reading Dr. Jessica Harris’ High on the Hog. That simple life. I gave and took and loved. I entered unknown spaces with humility, and loved my Neoliberalism, Queer Feminism and Social Responsibility seminar. I postponed learning to use the washing machine and dishwasher. The world was not going to end if I did not use them. I cared for myself in such intentional way that I was profoundly proud. My sons made me happy every day. The distance was challenging but we made it! My family and friends were present. I unlearned rigid rules, and gradually accepted kindness and support. I made playlists that I enjoyed and made food that started great debates. And, as I learned new perspectives, some controversial, some fascinating, I did what my friend, Laura Alonso said some time back, I got reintroduced to myself. And on this last day of December, I got the gift I have been looking forward to for the last two years. I met my niece, Avery. My heart is full and my knee hurts from sitting on the floor to make food, check her patients and try to get to the moon, all in 15 minutes. The year 2021 was one that you either wrote a lengthy piece on or just said bye. I chose the long piece because 2021 needed that sort of goodbye and 2022 will be a better year. 2021's losses (friends and bell hooks) confirmed that time is not a luxury. We must use it. Wisely. Friendships nurture us. Do not instrumentalize it. The feminist journey will benefit from our authenticity and love. Love actively as you seek the truth and justice! Thanks to everyone who is present in my life. I remain grateful. Thanks to Yale University (Yale World Fellows Program) and Emma Sky and her team. You helped me keep my sanity. To the universe-your kindness and lessons remain constant! Happy New Year, everyone!

Waiting in Vain for Asky and Arik-Pan African Wahala

Interesting things happen every day. Sometimes, people like myself with an inflated sense of being a global traveller, globetrotter (that should be the same thing) look forward to a new story on every trip. This time, it is not on the plane. There was nothing unusual on the Arik flight from Accra to Dakar. We got the much beaten cliché when we were settled on the plane-all 15-20 of us. Ladies and gentlemen, we regret the delay and wish you a pleasant flight. I could have sworn I was going to hear that when I received my ticket, along with the rest of the fools who bought an Arik ticket. Same story; every time. The anthem of apology and Arik go hand in hand-from unapologetic flight attendants and captains.

Sorry, I made a mistake. Blame it on midnight hunger but there was unusual activity on the flight. Two for that matter. You know that almost nice announcement they make about the spray prior to departure and when they are midway in spraying chemicals on you on the flight? How it is not harmful and only those wearing contact lenses should wear a non-existent mask (I am joking)? Some guy took it seriously and sat as they asked. He was not wearing contact lenses; therefore, there was no movement of hands to nose and eyes like the rest of us who fear anything that has to be sprayed in the name of regulations. He sneezed, coughed, splattered and did things with tissue and nasal mucus from Accra to Dakar. I sat across from him with a small evil smile forming at the corners of my mouth. Lessons come in uncomfortable fashion….I tried to say with that smile.

In a few minutes, I was quickly put in my place when dinner was served. I say dinner but it was food that looked like plastic toys. Really, I can only describe it as the plastic toy that came along with the baby doll-white with long blond hair-when we were little. We craved for that combination without even knowing the meaning of crave. We just did it. Unfortunately, my mother did not lean towards craving and did not know the meaning either. So on Christmas, when we were supposed to get toys, she would buy tie-dye wrap around skirt and t-shirt (for me; not my brother) for the annual November bazaar at our school in Duala. That was your bazaar/Christmas toy and gift-wrapped like the skirt around your waist, she seemed to say every year. Who am I kidding? We were poor people who did not know we were this way so we wished for the plastic food toy and the white blond doll.

Looking at the dinner, I did not want to eat but arriving at midnight meant the next meal was at breakfast. I opened the hot aluminium container and tasted a green pea. How did I expect a green pea to taste? No way. Then I did the unimaginable but most normal thing on a plane when you are about to eat food that will never fill you up. I tried to adjust my seat to just relax and eat. The woman in 21A pushed me right back up. How that happens on Arik is anyone’s guess. Right back to whatever degree the seat was angled at. Ah ah! She said this in a slow menacing voice. I remained in the position she pushed me into.

There is water on my table and you will spill it.

Okay. I would have adjusted it and you did not have to push me back up. I said all of that in my head. Cowardice is unevenly distributed on naija flights and become immediately active when you hear Ah Ah and feel a determined push. I literally stayed in my place, ate my food and smiled in ridiculous fashion at the woes of the man sitting across from me.

Anyway, due to the two hour delay, we arrived in Dakar past midnight. The flight attendants smiled and said good night like the airline had no responsibility for what had happened. Enjoy your stay…blah blah blah.

Everything flowed. From landing to departure from Dakar to Goree Island. I am sure many of you are like me. We get picked up in a crowd. Easily. In earlier life, my conceited self assumed beauty was the driver; now I know people smell crazy, adventurous, loneliness and fear. So on the ferry to Goree, I was worried about my bags. Three of them. I could not take them off the ferry by myself and definitely could not assemble any verbal nonsense that would mean can I get help with my three heavy bags (rouge et noir and grey). So that occupied my mind for a while and may have slipped into my aura because in a few seconds after I decided to go out of the cabin (I am gone Titanic on you) and feel the sun, I had someone asking me questions. Are you American? No. Wanted to say, actually, I am Kpelle but just ended it at no.

This man came up to me. He was physically challenged. His hair, locs were brown. Dusty. The same colour as his clothes. He had cut them short as if he got impatient one afternoon and decided to dare himself. They were lighter at the tips and dark near the scalp. I envy him understanding that my hair did not listen or respond to the sun and the way it add kind colour to locs. My locs are determined to announce my age of almost half a century and have positioned themselves to compete in brutal fashion with hair dye.

He asked many questions as I thought a thousand things about this situation. He wanted to know if I had accommodation and if I had a problem having some water with him after I found my hotel. And if I wanted to take a picture, which is usually nicer on the ferry with Goree as the background. Goree makes me sad and inspired. It is one of the utmost indications of the survival and kind nature of the human spirit-a triumph of people over their oppressor (in his old form). So it is not a picture taking mission I am on, Truth is, I do not have a mission and have vowed with matrimonial passion that I would be open to new things, people, ideas, learning. So I have no mission but to be present and in tune.

The ferry arrives and the memories follow suit. The days flow. More hours than days. Then it is departure time.

At 3am on Monday morning, I must be at the Leopold Senghor Airport. I don’t think about negritude even though this thought almost informed my first debate at 2 in the morning on arrival. I heard this man (some diplomatic type who does political analysis at 2 in the morning) say, Senghor was a Christian who ruled Muslims. Muslims were the majority at the time but they listened to him. He was a great leader to do that. And my uninformed point, really driven by hunger and a little anger at the woman who pushed me, was they were defined and concerned by other frameworks at the time and not one of religion. I kept quiet.

So back to departure.  I get to airport and have this sinking feeling that I had had all through the night, except for the one hour that I slept. Everything seemed smooth. Seamless. I checked in and got my immigration slip. Filled it in in record time and was on my way to join the queue when someone ran towards me and said a lady wanted to see me. I do not know any lady at the airport and if it were not early morning, I would have thought that I was important. I walked to the counter and was sent to the Asky office. The woman sitting in there had nice silver jewellery. Great make up for early morning. These are the women I am afraid to piss off. Some way I always make them angry even without saying a word. So I am treading carefully and searching for that inner smile that would say I am nice and I do not laugh at people having a reaction to the spray on the plane.

She informs me that I am on stand-by and cannot go through immigration. That cannot be true but I had convinced myself that I will not piss her off. So I agree and find a seat right outside her office. Then-I search for an unsecured Wi-Fi network. I find one miraculously. This is not Roberts International Airport. I go to my ticket and I see that I am confirmed. All days. All flights. I stepped into her office. This time, I am not afraid to piss her off. I tell her I am confirmed. So by this time, a couple or more people are in her office. It had a new energy of agitation and growing anger. Then she gives the message. Her message was you will not go today but tomorrow. She informs us in a way that you would think she was giving us small glasses of sugary hot minty Senegalese tea, with drink up encouragement. All of this was done in a small room smelling of cheap wanna be Parisian perfume. I returned to the hotel and realised that most of the scent I could not stand came from that tiny bottle of hotel body wash I had used that morning at 2:30.

Damn! Anger, French, incredible laughter from people who wanted to say, are you stupid but could not say it…flooded the room. Like it is usual, the emotions subsided and we had to agree. We were not getting on a flight when Arik had made a decision. The pilots apparently arrived late the night before and could not do the early morning flight. Quite understandable for more than 10 persons who had booked and paid for flights on that day to Accra. Then we asked for next steps. She said they would take us to a hotel for the night. The name of the hotel was repugnant. It was a name that was aligned to their obvious cost-saving strategy.  No one followed her or agreed to go there.

As I stood outside of the airport waiting for my pick up-this man walked to me. He smelled bloody anger this time. Do you need help? Do you want to buy cards? Taxi? To all I shook my head, while watching for the hotel driver in his grey suit, holding the King Fahd placard. The man got pissed-something I had spared the airline lady of. Karma is not always what you want it to be. He informed me that Rita Marley had visited Dakar; and stood right where I was standing. The difference was that she was friendly and communicated as a true sister. I, on the other hand, did not have locs as nice as Rita’s and I was being unfriendly. He did not have time for that. He said all of this at a volume unusually high for 4 in the morning. I remained quiet.

Interesting things happen every day. There is a story with every travel. A story for every night and sound on Goree Island. With an imaginative, compassionate mind, the current cries of babies outside of the window after midnight overwhelmed me with the real story. How did the babies do long ago-during slavery? How did adults do? How does the man on the ferry make it? And oh, I am not Rita Marley no matter how I pretend that Bob was my lover in my former life.  

It's All About Beer!

My first trip to Addis Ababa was different. I had no experience to inform my appreciation of another country. Mine was an unfortunate baseline and I wasn’t going to pretend about it. For the record, I love to travel and people watch. Airplanes are a good place to do that. You see the real person on a plane…especially if it is an overnight flight; and I am not saying that I have not heard people snore in the afternoon, travelling from Monrovia to Accra. Those things happen.

A few days ago, I am on the Ethiopia airlines flight from Accra to Addis Ababa. This time, I know Addis better. I know which clothes to bring-jackets and colourful West African dresses. In 2000, 15 years ago, I had to lay my jeans and t-shirt on a chair; and could not wear them as they were as cold as a bottle of errrr, water. You assumed I would say beer.

Yes, I am on the flight. My first goal was to find a seat with no one sitting in the line. This luck would allow me to stretch out for six hours to Addis Ababa. There were a few West Africans on the flight. However, they all seem like one big family on our way to see Addis Ababa.

Small background-Calling someone, 'my friend', is quite common amongst Liberians. Like Mark Z, we extend it to every living human being. Sometimes to our pets, including dogs. We would refer to Mandela, the pope (not sure of his name) or Hillary Clinton, since she is the woman of the moment in the self-proclaimed world’s greatest nation as friends. They are all friends, papay or oldma. Informally intimate-that is what we are-Liberians.

My friend on this ET 762 flight to Addis was going to Bangkok. This was his final destination so I assumed this was his country.  He moved with quiet ease, like a smallholder rubber farmer who had made unexpected profit.  His earnings place him in a new category of elites, a place where he can have more than he desired, however, the size of his wealth also keep s him humble at the sub-Firestone level. We are not making tires yet.

 He occupied the seat I intended to stretch my legs out on.  No worries. He was my friend.

He is about my height, which in general terms means if he reaches his target of 10 cans of Heineken beer, someone would have to assist him to take his bag from the overhead bin. Yes, that height is usually undermined by only a few things, including alcohol and tall human beings. He wears black rimmed glasses that have black ropes for support. I have not seen that for years, but you who am I anyway in the broad scheme of fashion things. He wears black jeans, informed by no particular fashion sense or period. Not mom jeans or jeggings. Do men wear jeggings by the way? I do not care.

Covering his oval shaped protruding belly is a navy checked shirt. I can bet my hand tied up in wristbands, he is a size 20 or 22. I say this because I have been that size…20, I mean. His hands and eyes draw my attention. The hands look dehydrated, dry and ashy. His eyes, a mixture of fatigue and joy at the frequent roll by of the food and drinks cart. I hear him say more beer every time. So as it stands now, he has two empty cans on his table; and two under the seat. I fell asleep earlier so something tells me that the joyous familiarity and unending click of can opening relationship he has with the attendant has a higher consumption of cans of beer, as opposed to the five I now see around him. They cannot be five.

What is interesting now is that he leans over to me in conspiring mode and asks for a favour. I assumed he would be speaking about the duration of the flight or maybe we were on a mutual people watch mission. So, in an effort to make my friend an unFacebook friend, I asked about the duration of the flight. He states with unmeasured authority that we had nine hours to go. The actual flight captain said it was 5.5 hours. I learned an immediate lesson about this man and alcohol.

Now that we had done small talk, he decides to enlist me in his flight vices. When he leaned over, he says in a few words-Could I get a beer for him but do not let the flight attendant know I was doing that. My eyes popped despite my new life stance of taking everything off and on flights with little emotion. Why was he doing this, I thought. In any case, I did not answer him. After 30 minutes, the cart rolls by again. I order juice and a cold can of Heineken.  I am worried now about the growing number of cans but when a man reaches out to ask for beer, while he is surrounded by about seven empty cans, that is his business. He knows his capacity.

I get the beer and juice. The flight attendant insists that she must open the can of beer herself-airline rules.  We had broken some, my friend and I, so I complied easily. I slipped it to him when she is two rows away from us. His smile lit up 32 HFD. I, on the other hand, have a deepening frown, worried about my friend, whose final destination is Bangkok.

I hope he does not get into a bathroom situation. I know what beer does to the bladder and what people in plane do in bathrooms. Some women go in to apply full faced makeup.

He hopes for more beer.

Nothing dramatic happens.

We are about to land in Addis. I forgot to mention that somewhere over Accra, he took some papers from his bag and placed them under his shirt. I wondered for a moment then forgot about this. So we are about to land and he removes the paper and starts to ask me questions about my country, assuming I am from Ghana. I quickly correct the assumption. No, I am not from Ghana. He now wants to know. I think Ebola but my Liberian spirit is prouder than the shame of Ebola, so I say Liberia. He has been there-long ago. He talks about the beaches. They are still there, I told him.

Then he asks me for my age. An easy question for me but I decide to get him sober before landing, so I asked him why he wants to know my age. He looks at me for a few seconds and lies. I want to know why you are travelling alone. What is your family situation?

I told him with a direct look. When you say why you really want to know my age, I will tell you. Discomfort covered the seats between us. Then I asked him what he was doing in Accra. He told me that he owns a company that was working on an energy project in Ghana.  Okay. So why were you drinking Heineken beer like you would never see it or could not afford it? I did not say that aloud.

We land, walk out of the plane. I see that his eyes follow me-like in some magical way; he would hear me say my age loud enough in my mind. I look at him too-in a mischievous mood, hoping that the next plane serves Heineken beer.

ET 562 is a 787 plane, flying to Addis Ababa and beyond. Perception is not a great tool to judge people.  Heineken advertisement slogan sums it up: It’s all about the beer!