*Embarrassed cough* Happy (extremely belated) New Year all! I'm not even going to insult you all with lame excuses. Hope there are some of you still out there reading. This year just doesn't seem to be starting off great for me and I sincerely hope I'm in the minority here. I hope everything's going wonderfully for all of you anyway.

I was having a random conversation with Nsoromma last night about the punishments people used to receive as children and she related a story of a girl who was a couple of years below her in secondary school and I just had to share.

This child (she must have been about 13) had been giving her Nigerian parents the stereotypical teen girl trouble of staying out later than her curfew, hanging out with unsavoury boys etc. etc. and I guess her father just snapped. She came home late from school one too many times and her father frogmarched her to a barber shop in the middle of Peckham and clean told the barber to shave her hair off! Think less Amber Rose and more this:

What makes this whole story worse to me that she lived in Peckham! You're always bound to bump into somebody you know in Peckham amongst the thugs, aunties, and fine boys. This poor child had to get on a bus from Peckham to Elephant and Castle everyday with her shining head until her hair grew back. As punishments go, I thought this touched the heights of genius.

This then lead to a conversation I saw on twitter asking if anybody else was 'gingered' as a child. Now I remember two or three of my friends having this done to them when they were about 10 or so and even now it horrifies me. For those who don't know, getting 'gingered' involved having ginger (or hot pepper) inserted in your vagina or anus as a form of punishment. In other words, total and utter child abuse.

The nastiness of 'gingering' aside, this leads me to the whole point of this post: what is the worst punishment you've ever received? It can't possibly be worse than having your hair shaved off in the middle of Peckham can it?...

Ok, I know that sometimes (maybe slightly more often than sometimes) I can drip pure vitriol about certain people. Occasionally its unjustified. But this isn't. This is the BNP. This is Nick Griffin. Scum of the earth type personality, etc. etc...I'm sure you understand where I am going with this...

Firstly, I apologise for the fact that we let the past couple of months go by without any kind of blog post and I hope you forgive us. Life is getting in the way of blogging it seems and we just can't have that now can we?

Well those of us currently stuck in the UK are experiencing a weather emergency. For the third year in a row, the UK seems to have completely shut down in the face of a little snow. Airports have been shut, train schedules have been completely turned on their heads, some buses aren't running and there's nary a bit of grit or sand where Nsoromma and I live. Yes I even busted my ass on an icy patch whilst attempting to pick up Nsoromma's foster brother from his school. We were effectively snowed in for three days while the rest of London struggled to get around. I know we like to pretend that this weather is 'unusual' but after three years, it looks as though it's here to stay. Other countries seem to manage it fine and I think we're all running extremely low on patience.

What makes all of this worse was that they knew there was snow coming well in advance. Why are local councils caught out again and again even with advanced warning? What are they doing with our council tax? Funny thing is I used to love snow but now it feels as though nature's having a big old laugh at our expense. How have you been coping with the snow? Love it? Hate it? Comment away!

(What I wouldn't give to be in Ghana right now...)

Diversification:[dih-vur-suh-fi-key-shuhn]. noun- the act or practice of manufacturing a variety of products, investing in a variety of securities, selling a variety of merchandise, etc., so that a failure in or an economic slump affecting one of them will not be disastrous.

How many time have you walked past a black owned shop, to find that not only does it specialise in hair products, but it's also laden with mops and buckets, DIY tools, cleaning products, plantain crisps, bread, water and everything and anything else its savvy owner can think of? (Let's not forget the money transfer booth, and the calling cards on the side)

Don't get me wrong, I am not oblivious to one's need to branch out into other markets, especially in these times, but I cannot count the number of times I have walked past shops that seem to be nothing more than glorified junk sales, filled with a mish mash of different products. It's horrific to see the confusion going on in some shop windows. It just leaves me thinking, "mate, you're not being a smart business man, you just look confused!".



I took this photo of a shop on Plumstead High Street today. I remember the first time I passed it. I was gobsmacked! How are you going to name your shop "MONEY & CALL SHOP HAIR SALON MUSIC" and expect me to take you seriously? If you're going to branch out, at least invest some thought into it!

Earlier this year, I was walking down the same high street with Sankofa, when another one of those "anything will do " shops caught my eye.



You may not notice it at first glance, but there is actually a lot of activity going on in this shop. How many products and services can you see up for sale here? I'll start you off with the £5 hair cut being advertised in the window :)

This is the wonderful Tic Tac line from Kwani Kwani which me and the other girls love so much. In fact I have always wanted to say it to somebody. Which actually sounds quite mean however, I don't want to say it to be mean...well actually....errmmmmm...look right, THAT IS A LINE AND A HALF!

Ga. Ashanti. Ewe. Fante. These are a few of many Ghanaian ethnicities. Believe it or not, Ghana is populated by a cool 23,000,000 people. With this is in mind, let me ask one question: Why on earth would anyone expect all Ghanaians to look the same?

As a Ghanaian woman living in London, this is a question that has wandered around my mind for some time now, and has still found no answer. Seriously, if I got one pesewa every time I was asked if I was Ghanaian, I would be a millionaire by now. I would be even richer if I received a pesewa for every time my response (a big YES) was followed by a look of surprise from my interlocutor. What do I need to do to prove to you that I am not Nigerian, Caribbean, Sierra Leonan and all the other nationalities I'm apparently supposed to be?

For those who walk around expecting me to be a few shades lighter than a black board and short with too much junk to fit in the trunk just because I happen to be of Ghanaian descent, you really need to take a trip back to Accra and take a good look around.

I remember being at a cousin's wedding. I was speaking to a family member, when I noticed a man nearby staring at me. Although I carried on with my conversation, I was becoming a bit unnerved by how intently I was being stared at. I was beginning think I can't take any more of this when he finally approached me and rudely interrupted my conversation, "eh! excuse me, are you a Ghanaian?"
"Um, yeah" (that was me, a little surprised about the audacity of some people). I then got the once over as this man's eyes slowly ran over my body, from head to toe. When he was done, he focused on my face again and responded "it's up to you."

THE CHEEK OF IT!

Although I understand for each nationality there may be a 'typical look', I don't get why people act shocked when they stumble upon someone who looks different from 'the typical'. It's not as if I go through life never expecting to be asked where I am from, I just find it very annoying when I am treated like a compulsive liar.

THIS gave me a good chuckle this morning. You have to wonder at the thought processes that were put into place before this endeavour....

I was having a conversation recently with Afrocentric and Nsoromma about travel in London and it was interesting to say the least. Travel in London has the potential to be soul-destroying or life-affirming. Hopefully, it'll lean towards the latter if you take note of some of these general observations. Now place your tongue firmly in cheek and remember these the next time you venture out with your (increasingly expensive) travelcard!

1. If there are empty seats available anywhere on the bus/ tube/ train, DO NOT SIT NEXT TO ME! You have just given your thanks to God above when you get on a half-empty tube/ train carriage or bus when a leering man decides to park himself right next to you. Never mind the 15 other empty seats available. It's Boris Johnson's law that somebody must sit uncomfortably close to you, stinking of stale cigarettes, whilst trying to rub himself against you. With that goes your 27 minutes of thinking up what excuse you're going to give work about why you're late (again), instead, begins the game of how far away you can edge away from the person whilst they're trying to physically sit on your lap....

2. It is not proper transport etiquette to stare at your fellow passengers during the daily rush hour. Yes we're a city of people watchers but one must be subtle with it. So when the 6"3 man wearing a tartan dress, bovver boots, and sporting acid pink hair steps onto the Northern line at Camden, feel free to stare at him all you like but only via the reflection of the windows! I can't vouch for your safety once the words that strike fear into every Londoner's heart are uttered: "What you looking at?!"

3. One must remember that the South Londoner is a different breed of Londoner, in particular those that hail from the South Eastern region. Eye contact is seen in one of two ways: a declaration of war, or an indication of willingness to marry a person. A personal music player and an engrossing book are your only friends in this part of town.

4. There's no point running for the bus. Really. Most bus drivers take malicious pleasure in watching you frantically waving at them to stop via their side mirrors. 171 bus drivers in particular take great enjoyment in waiting until you're a a mere metre away from the stop and then zooming away into traffic with enough skills to rival Jenson Button. If you're lucky and a driver takes pity on you, by the time you pant and heave your way onto the bus winded by the whole 20 metres you had to run, the hostile stares of your fellow passengers will be enough to ruin your morning. They'll have to wait a whole 36 seconds as you simultaneously hunt for your Oyster card (you probably left it on the kitchen table) whilst trying not to display just how unfit you really are.

These are just some of the few recurring travel observations we made. How's travel different where you live?

Image Source

Ummm, it's late and I really want to go to bed but I am up in arms!

Akwaaba! This is the word on every Ghanaian's lips as a display of how welcome you are in their territory. Touching down in Kotoka International Airport for the first time in ten years presented us with quite an unforgettable akwaaba experience.

Firstly, after ten hours on the plane - yes ten, not the promised six - the aeroplane's wheels finally hit Ghanaian soil, (note to self: Ghanaians are seldom on schedule) and we were ready to begin our holiday in the Gateway to Africa. Or were we?

What is a Ghanaianism? In my definition, a Ghanaianism is that peculiar thing, a way of thinking, a type of methodology which makes sense to nobody else except for Ghanaians. At Kotoka International, we were hit by an obstacle course of Ghanaianisms. Here goes...

Ghanaianism no. 1: Immigration. The immigration officers were catching a feeling off me and Keera. Yes I tell you, those officers get the first pick of women who enter the country. They greeted us with  "are you married?" while nonchalantly looking over our passports. I could be carrying Michael Jackson's passport for all they cared!

Ghanaianism no. 2: After immigration control, we were immediately faced with a big Akwaaba sign which also read, "Ghana does not welcome paedophiles and other sexual deviants". I learned right there and then that Ghanaians do not beat about the bush.

Ghanaiansm no. 3: Collecting our luggage from the circular conveyor belt was a task in itself. If I'm standing in a spot trying to get my bag, why cut in front of me without saying "excuse me" first, especially when your bag is nowhere near where I am standing? Silly me for thinking some politeness principles were universal! 

Ghanaianism no. 4: One word says it all. CUSTOMS. We were ordered to open our suitcases for inspection. "What are these things for?" we were asked.  "My family" responded I. "Are you sure?" Well, duh! Then he asks again, "what are these things for?" (By this time, I was getting mildly annoyed, but in hindsight, we did have the whole world and its mother in there. I'm talking suits, bags, tins of tuna, ipods etc. Note to self: if you are Ghanaian, NEVER EVER EVER tell your family you are travelling to Ghana. They will definitely make sure that all 46 kilos of your baggage allowance and your hand luggage is filled up!) Anyway, after being asked for the third time what the things in my suitcase were for, I 'fessed up, "half are gifts and the other half will be sold in my auntie's shop".  Ooops! "You have to pay duty then", he replied coolly. Really? I actually though he was joking. "Come on Keera, let's go". I later found out that Mr. Officer was far from joking, and had just let us go without paying out of good will.

Ghanaianism no. 5: Just when we thought escape to freedom could actually be a possibility, we were slapped by another obstacle in this long obstacle course. The next thing is the official border, which once crossed meant you were officially in the Republic of Ghana. Keera was able to step over the border - no questions asked. But me on the other hand, yes, you guessed it, was stopped. "You don't have baggage stickers on your suitcases" he offered. Well duh! They only got ripped off by Mr. Customs when he insisted on opening our suitcases!! (These stickers, which are put on your bags from London have a number. The same number is stuck onto your boarding pass, so when you arrive, the sticker helps to identify you with your bag.) I was pissed by this time. My general mindset was: Great! my light skinned friend gets authorisation to cross over. Well excuse me for having black skin! But it turned out that I got stopped because I was pushing the trolley stacked high with our suitcases, while Miss Yellow Skin was only carrying our two hand luggages. 

Ghanaianism no. 6: Last but not least, Ghanaianism no. 6 cracks me up the most. Imagine workers, not employed by the airport, but  self appointed, who busy themselves with loading your bags into your waiting car. I was wondering why they were being so helpful, until they said to us "tip us" (tr. pay us) Paaaahaaa!! talk about self employed! Well, needless to say, they quickly scuttled away when I replied "ask my uncle".

What can I say? after all this is Ghana, the Gateway to Africa!

I can't believe I'm actually writing this post. I am a life-long, die-hard Liverpool fan and everybody knows that Arsenal is the team I hate most in this world (followed closely by Manchester United). I also have no particular feelings either way or another for Manchester City. However, I've been reading/ hearing all sorts of rubbish today about Adebayor's behaviour towards Arsenal today and I thought I'd throw in my two cents.

Quick recap of the background story before the game today:

Emanuel Adebayor just signed for Man City from his former club Arsenal this summer after publicly declaring his desire to leave said club. Basically Adebayor said he would like to play for AC Milan because he felt as though he was being treated unfairly at Arsenal and this abviously did not help to endear him to the Arsenal fans who had already turned against him. The deal with AC Milan fell through but he eventually ended signing for Man City at terms that were more than agreeable to both clubs.

Ok, now keep in mind that the Arsenal fans have given this man all kinds of abuse both before and after her expressed a desire to leave the club. One "fan" even attacked him at an airport amidst accusations of his laziness whilst at the club. Now some may argue that this abuse was/ is warranted given his outspoken declarations against Arsenal. Fair enough. However, I feel that if one can dish it out, one must be able to take it too.

This brings me to today and Arsenal vs. Man City. Now keep in mind that this game has been hyped up to no end and the entire footballing world is waiting with bated breath to see how Adebayor will handle himself against his former club. Footballing wise, Adebayor thrives under the pressure and scores a goal against his former team-mates. In celebration, Adebayor runs to the Arsenal fans, who have been booing him incessantly throughout the match, and slides on his knees, arms held out in jubilation. This clearly riles up the Arsenal fans who respond by hurling any available missile at him. In a post-match interview, Adebayor apologises (without any urging) to the Arsenal fans he offended and admits that his emotions ran away with him.

Now this is football. Arsenal fans have been giving this man stick for months now, booing his every touch, hurling insults etc. etc. and now they want to get up in arms when he decides to rub their noses in it a little? Like I said, don't dish it out if you can't take it. I've heard criticisms bemoaning the fact that as a professional football player, he is a role model to kids and blah blah blah. Please! He's a mere man who happens to be a good football player. If you're looking to a random stranger to be a role model to your children, may I kindly suggest that there is something quite wrong with you? These same people accusing him of being a poor role model, are the same people who today, displayed such acts of classlessness by throwing missiles at him, spitting, etc. etc. Yeah, great role model you are.

Now after all this, I have to admit that I don't even like Adebayor. The man is a whiner and you all know how I feel about grown men whining.... His actions towards his former team-mate Robin van Persie were questionable at best and each angle of the video replay tells a different story as to whether he deliberately stamped on his face. However, I have to say that I really felt Adebayor today. Like him or not, his reaction after scoring that goal made me very very happy inside.

Agree? Disagree? Let me know in the comments!

Image courtesy of BBC Sports

Remember when you were in school and had to have a roll call in the mornings before classes and in the afternoon after lunch? You always knew when your name was coming because you got "the pause". In the interest of anonymity (lol) let's pretend my name is a typical Asante one like Nana Owusu-Mensah. You would be sitting in registration:

This is in the same vein as the first Laugh of the Day. Ummm, the recession is hitting people so hard that instead of bargain designer bags ebay are selling, well, designer bags with a difference...Paper bags!

So I haven't written a blog post in a while and I was complaining to Afrocentric that I felt like I had nothing to say lately. Then, for some reason, I realised "hold up"! I'm always complaining (or "passionate" as some people call it) about something. I realised there have been two things that have repeatedly put my back up in the last few years and this is one of them. Yes people, I'm talking about skin bleaching. Interestingly enough, just as I was formulating this post, I noticed that the BBC website had just posted a story on this very problem and it had rocketed to the top of their "most sent" article column . Clearly this is an issue by which many of us are concerned.

Growing up, I was never really conscious of skin colour until I progressed further and further up the educational ladder. When my sister, who is eleven years younger than me, was born I remember a great hoopla being made over her beauty. Now don't get me wrong, Sankofa Jr. is gorgeous but I noticed certain terminology was always used to describe her. "Oh Sankofa Jr. is so pretty and fair!" "Sankofa Jr. has such lovely and bright skin". You see where I'm going with this right? However, the older Sankofa Jr. got the darker in tone she became and a move to the ATL only expedited the issue. I remember showing a recent picture of her to a certain family friend who exclaimed "Oh no! She has gotten sooooo dark! Have you not been keeping her out of the sun?" She had to get a big


Since when did black Africans become so obsessed with skin colour? If I had a pound for every time I, or a friend, has been slyly given skin "brightening" creams or been told that we're pretty even though we're dark skinned.... Let's just say that I'd be making an appearance in Forbes. I am well aware that there is a difference in attempting to even complexion and straight up "Casper-ification" but some people need a big fat SIT DOWN! Hey, fine with me if you want to destroy the protective melanin God gave us. Or if you wish to expose your skin to hydroquinone (C6H602 for all you science buffs) of which the long term effects include premature ageing, blotchy, collagen- damaged skin, and skin cancer (yes black people can get skin cancer). Skin bleaching creams also contain mercury and trust me it's in a far more potent form than the type in a thermometer. Mercury, as pregnant women will know, can lead to kidney and liver failure in addition to leaving blue pigmentation in the folds of the skin, not to mention that these products are illegal in the United Kingdom. Now let me ask you, when you think of a beautiful woman do these images come to mind? Don't even get it twisted, it's not an exclusively African disease. Skin bleaching creams are prevalent in Caribbean countries and Asian countries also. In my opinion, the world is going mad. You've got white people going mad with the tanning and black people embracing the Casper effect hard. Sorry to be insufferably cheesy but whatever happened to loving ourselves? God gave me my skin colour for a reason and for that reason alone I'm gonna love it till the day I die.

Also, if you're so determined to bleach, why attempt to hide it? You ain't slick. I am sure all of you have encountered the phenomenon I named this post after. The "fanta face, coca-cola body" woman. Don't come and tell me you don't bleach when your knuckles and feet look like you've been grazing in charcoal but your face is more orange than the "You know when you've been tangoed" man. Come on!

Truthfully speaking, thinking about this issue made me think about the other side of the coin. Remember when we were in school and the light-skinned boy and girl were automatically the most popular people in your class? (St. James' holla! lol) Yeah just admit we were all on light-skinned boys until Moris Chestnut, Tyrese, and the ilk came along and put them out of fashion. I've happily said that light-skinned men are not my cup of tea as I've grown up. However, I have seen men straight up ROASTED for preferring light-skinned black women over their more melanin- endowed counterparts. Now where's the difference? Yes from today, I am really trying to stop that foolishness. It's a free country, just as I have my preferences, why should I lambast somebody for also having their preferences? But preferences are just that- preferences. If a man I like prefers lighter-skinned women does that mean I need to chemically alter my skin to better fit his preferences? Hell no! Come on people, if this does not apply to you, urge your mums, your aunties, (hell, your uncles too) to put the bleaching creams down. Our skin is beautiful in the myriad shades it comes in. Let's celebrate this.

Never mind everything happening for a reason. Some things are just not fair. These are my exact sentiments towards the nonsense Sankofa and I had to go through today. I mean, today started off well: breakfast at Whetherspoons in the morning, followed by church - and we still managed to make it sort of on time to church.
The f**keries began after the service though, when a "distinguished gentleman" decided to pay me a back handed compliment about my bag. Trust me, Sunday's EastEnders omnibus couldn't touch the drama that goes on in church.
Anyway, let's get to the point: aside from my phone taking a hard fall from my pocket and breaking into pieces while I was running for the bus 185, the afternoon simply couldn't get worse.
We did make it on the 185 (thanks for asking), and got off at Lewisham. While still recovering from our conversation with the "distinguished gentleman", we decided to take a trip to Sainsbury's. We were both fed up and annoyed, not to mention the weather being temperamental today. So we got into Sainsbury's and the first thing Sankofa reached for was a drink to calm her nerves. We got carried away in the shop, trying to find popcorn, biscuits and drinks etc. etc. (Did I mention we were en route to the cinema?) Anyway, we finally got it together, paid and headed out of the shop.

What do you think happened next?

We walked out, and practically got jumped on by a fat bele security guard. "Did you pay for evritin?", he asked in his thick naija accent.

"yeah, you wanna check our bags?", you know that was us in our south london, bad gyal accents.

"you took this drink, drank it in our shop, and dumped the bottle without paying for it". Yes, you guessed it! The drink Sankofa so badly needed when we first arrived in the shop.

"would you like to follow me , girls".

He was so smug. Do you think he cared it was a mistake? Did he even want to listen to the simple explanation? Did he give a s**t that we were with my three younger sisters?

NO, NO, NO!!!

We were proved right in the end, and Sankofa paid for her drink afterwards, but it's still unfair. Big bele was clearly judging us by his own standards. Don't you just hate it when someone accuses you of something you never did and refuses to listen to what you have to say? Or when they know they are in the wrong but won't admit it because they are trying to save face? Grrrr!!! It's so annoying.

Hi people. How have you all been? It has been a while, hasn't it? For those of you who have been doing exams, how did they go? If you have not yet finished, well good luck with the rest. But if like me, you have kissed good bye to the wonderful world of academia, you are probably findng ways to fill your time. I decided to fill some time on Friday night, by going to see the U.K. premier of the Ghanaian film, The Perfect Picture, at the Odeon Cinema in Surrey Quays. Me and my girls enjoyed the film - it was entertaining from beginning to end. The story line wasn't your cliché story of wicked step mothers, witch doctors and women who can't have babies.
Unfortunately, the film was not the highlight of the evening. Bad time keeping and organisation stole the spotlight. Firstly, the (very helpful) organisors of the film premier sent me a list on facebook two weeks before the screening of the the ticket outlets that would be selling the £10 tickets. I was enthused to find that there were two outlets down the road from me. You can imagine my dismay then when I went into one of the shops, three days before the screening, only for the shop owner to tell me, "sorry, I don't have any tickets. My shop is on the list but I don't know anything about this film premier". And as for the second shop - let's just say the shop owner up and left one day, and is still nowhere to be found, not even to sell me my tickets.
Anyway, by stroke of luck, divine intervention or just pure coinsidence, me and my girls got our tickets (which were apparently sold out - again, according to the helpful orgnisors) about four hours before the movie was due to start.
So, after a nine hour shift at work on Friday night I knew I had to sprint, or even better, fly accross the underground network, from Canary Wharf to Canada Square to make it for the film (which was to start at 9pm prompt - so said the lovely organisors).
After meeting up with the girls, we get to Surrey Quays cinema at 9.10pm (Oh my gosh, have we made it on time? Has the film started yet? What if they don't let us in?) Well, there was absoloutley nothing to worry about because the film did no start until 11!!! Yes, I kid you not. My people had actually outdone themselves with the whole lateness thing.
Let's not even forget that ONE cast member out of the whole crew that was promised us turned up, and oh yeah - the lovely, helpful organisors sold more tickets than there were seats, so we had people ready to kick ass in order to get a seat, people sitting on people's laps, people standing in the ailes and people even sitting on the extra chairs they decided to put out at the front. To put it this way, by the time the film actually started, people were fed up, pissed off and tired - but still very anxious to watch the film.
We were all relieved when it actually started, so can you imagine the total "pissedoffness" that filled the room when the M.C. decided to talk over the much anticipated "sex scene"? (And, yes, I am using the term "sex scene" very loosley.) I can't even front though, the film was really good, and I do recommend everybody to watch it.
Apart from the "minor" set backs, it was altogether an enjoyable evening, except for the fact that the film didn't finish until after 1 in the morning, leaving me and the girls (and our long faces) on the night bus back home.

I know we're in a recession but I have no words for this. Click on the link and see for yourselves. Wooooooooow....
Madness I tell you

Now, I've always liked surprises you know, secret birthday parties, unexpected visits, the twist at the end of 'Sixth Sense', just love 'em, I suppose that's why I flick from channel to channel after Neighbours watching Diagnosis Murder then good ol' Murder, She Wrote and sometimes even A Touch Of Frost (or Midsomer Murders). That wonderful element of 'whodunit?' even when you know exactly whodunit, is just so cool! Partaking in collective 'shock' and then being able to just get on with other things is just what one needs on a weekday - oh speaking of which, is that Zeke really dead? I know what I think AND I haven't cheated by going on Neighbours.com- anyway yeah on a weekday I love a good mystery with an obvious surprise thrown in for good measure. The old surprise Birthday is also a good'un, you drive the unsuspecting celebrant around the area 15 times saying, "yeah man we're going home in a minute just gotta buy a glue gun" - or something just as subtle, then you get the call, and then SURPRISE!!!! and the best thing is when they actually are surprised and all your efforts have paid off, I really do love it. So in this vein I decided to keep a secret, everyone loves a surprise right? Even one about the 9 month time bomb ticking away in my ovaries - right? ? ? ?

Ok. maybe not. Well, what could I do? after surprising myself (looking at that stick saying 'merde alors!') The next step was to 'surprise' my nearest and dearest - it was not pretty. It worked though, and although I'm not sure that surprised was the word they would use for what they felt, I do know that they weren't expecting that!
So, what did I learn from it all? well, now that the memory's only as painful as period pains (compared to the earlier pain of stage 3 labour it induced in me everytime I thought about it before) I can tell you that I did learn, a lot. If you can't stand the (minimum) 10 hours of labour, stay out of the boudoir, also please know that actions really do have consequences, and not just for yourself, and often what you try to make yourself think is being mysterious is really just hiding, oh and of course : not everyone likes surprises.

So, Houdiniism, a five-syllable word, say it now: Hou-Di-Ni-Is-Sm, good, now you may be thinking what are you on about? Well, let me tell you, houdiniism is an affliction of the modern male, where they become experts at escaping situations, and coming out unscathed, only to be captured, locked down and to escape...again.
This may sound like good ol' commitment issues, but this is more, it creeps silently into the relationships of many males, whether these relationships be platonic or other. The first reported case of this condition, lets call him Joedini, suffered very badly from it, and therefore so did his girl -he's the one who'd make the appointment, tell you "you better be there...2 o'clock yeah?" implying that he just needed to see you, then , at about ahh 14.50, the call - and don't be silly you know you're calling him - he'll say,"I'm just coming blah blah, trains, blah blah, my mum, blah blah I'm on my way now", using your name and 'ish when he profusely apologises, you'll say "oh, it's ok the snow isn't too heavy at the mo'...wish I'd brought a coat..." and then he actually WOULDN'T TURN UP, like seriously, he just wouldn't come, and off you'd trundle, knowing he'll call you when you get to Brockley station (as if he knew) giving you some TALL story, which, even though you don't believe, will have you back at Norwood Junction saying "Oh it's cool, there's a really nice crackhead telling me about his pipe collection..."

But people, don't be fooled this maladie has varying symptoms and manifestations, trust me, take this guy I know, lets call him LightNTall (LNT) an intelligent, musically gifted nice chap, he'll call and it's all good...until "oh...let me call you back..." which he doesn't or does at like 4:37 am the next day, or there's ShortNDarkWithBlazerPatches (SDWBP) who displays an alternate form of houdiniism. The kind of escapologist who will 'toot-toot' you while you wait in the rain at the bus stop after you thought the jokey banter from the night before meant you were getting a lift...sorry yeah! As you see SDWBP escapes home at 35 mph, no curve, no bend, with all the affirmations of close friendship toned down by the blatant selfishness and unwillingness to share that 15 minute ride with you.

Now, this affliction has evolved over the years since the original Houdini (Harry, that is) who merely escaped from physical chains. These 21st century houdinis will leave you wondering, 'when the hell did he leave?' in both physical and emotional ways, shoot, you'll be having a face-to-face chat, look at your watch, and he will be gone, his shadow still lingering because he left so fast! But before I lose focus, and get too personal I'm just gonna rein it in, Houdiniism appears to be a natural phenomenon, whether its the one who never calls back, or the "partner" who you see once every 4 months, or the one who tells you 'I'm coming to Norwood Junction now Babes' (Babes?) while he sits sipping mojitos in Jamaica or something schtupid like that, or the Igbo boy who leaves you and your cousin buying Expensive drinks in the bloody Hilton at Trafalgar, only to stretch his big lips into what he thinks is a pacifying smile...Ahem (!) or the one who manages to slip away after church when you wore heels because you knew you had a lift, blaad, they're all escapologists in one way or another, and if they're not... well they're something else, and that's whats up!


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Why is it that some men feel no way about harassing you in public? I can't even begin to count the number of times I have been happily minding my own business on the bus or walking down the street for someone's uncle to approach me and ruin my day. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't mind giving you the time of day if you didn't look like you were my dad's senior in school, or if your chat up line wasn't knackered and over-played. Yet, it be oga who get big bele who dey wan mek i talk to him. (Don't laugh at my pidgin!)
I remember being on Welling high street, with two friends, when a man driving by, who really should have been concentrating on the road, decided to slow down and beep at us. One of my friends turned around and waved. "Hi, uncle!" she shouted. I was thinking "yes! we are getting a lift home!". But when she turned around, I could see from her face, which showed nothing less than pure disgust, that it wasn't a trusted family member. I was in stitches when I realised it was her way of reminding 'uncle' that he has a wife and children to go home to.
Seriously, is this a new trend? Or have the older generation always thought it appropriate to harass girls two to three decades their junior? What kills me is the confidence with which these men step to you with.

Just for laughs here is a list of the top 5 chat- up lines uncles have tried (but have miserably failed) to entice me with.

5. Have we met before?/ Do I know you from somewhere?
4. Excuse me, is your name Yinka?
3. Give me your number so I can call you later. (seriously! no "excuse me" or anything!)
2. Are you ghanaian/ nigerian?
1. Excuse me fine girl, I want to be your friend.

And as you have guessed, my response is always "no uncle".