Last night changed my life. This statement might sound slightly overdramatic, but it’s true, the simplest and most unprepared of moments has completely altered how I view my life.
I have been covering news about Nigeria for a year and a half and through all the turmoil that I have seen, today was the first time that I broke down in tears. This vast, beautiful country filled with fascinating cultures and even more interesting people has become a constant source of bad news – from corruption to fraud to infectious diseases to kidnappings to child marriages to intolerance towards homosexuals – one does not need to look far to discover something which is currently plaguing the population of this West African country.
Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. There’s only one way for this story to go, right? Wrong. So while a very popular television has been on hiatus I have seen my favorite couple on said series fall in love many different times, in different time periods, speaking different languages, in different genres, all through the magic of fan fiction.
I don’t think there was another person who played such a big role in the lives of all six of us than Uncle Melvyn. When we had moments of happiness, sadness, pain, he was always the first person we turned to and it hurts so much for us right now that such a large part of our hearts and our family is no longer with us.
I feel like holidays makes it easier to blog (I have been working on one blog post for a couple of weeks now) and even though Halloween isn’t celebrated in South Africa, we have to admit that the new colonialism tool, the television, has made this one big American world (not that I’m complaining where would I be without The Vampire Diaries?).
This is another in-the-interim post while I’m busy writing up a longish fresh and original blog post. This the poem I referenced in my last post:
When I was an innocent teenager (pause for laughter) and a boy wronged me or righted me (I know that word is highly incorrect and very rarely had a boy ‘righted’ me) I would pick up my pen and journal and write a poem. I am not claiming to be a Sylvia Plath (my poems were never as good or as emo), it will be a compliment to even be likened to Emma Robert’s whiney character in Unfabulous (yes, I watched Unfabulous and I’m unashamed) but poetry was an out for me to express my feelings in a way that wasn’t as public as talking or as open and descriptive as journaling.
Over the last few months, the amount of poems I have written has declined immensely, this could because I have not been hurt enough in order to passionately express in poetry, but rather oddly I am now sitting on 4097 tweets. The sad thing is that life has became too fast-paced for me to wait to get home to get my favourite leather-bound journal in order to gush about my day, I need to describe it 140 characters or less, attempting to maintain the cryptic, ambiguous and mysterious tone I had with my terrible dramatic poetry. So in many ways I would like to think that I’ve grown out of lines like “Then he looked at me/And everything around me faded away” (Bleugh! Eew! Shut up!) but I know that all that has changed is the medium that I use. I still give in tweeting things like “Interested to see once all the excuses have lapsed” which noone who follows me would understand.
Excuse the very silly title, this is an essay I wrote for a job application. Posted here because I’m too lazy to write an original post now:
Shattered glass covers the floor as she looks at the blood flowing down her hand. The pain doesn’t feel real, it seems too theatrical to be part of the life of an ordinary girl. She reaches for the bandage that she had readily waiting and clothed her naked bloodstained hand in the skilled way she had practiced. While she walks over to her bed, which has become her solace in last few weeks, she feels the eyes of the photographs on the wall staring her down. The smiles that so many times used to comfort her now seem posed and fake, a cover-up for people’s true feelings.
Some of my earliest memories are of me sitting on my mother’s bed watching her dress up to go out and throughout her entire routine the part that interested me the most was when she put on her red lipstick. From then I wanted to grow up, because growing up meant that you could wear red lipstick. From the advent of colour films the seduction of scarlet rouge has become love at first sight for many women. When I turned eighteen and it was no longer only acceptable for me to wear lipgloss, my mother bought me Revlon Really Red lipstick, I treasured it as if it was the best friend I always wanted. I planned my outfits around my lipstick and it became the only make-up product that I used. For my 21st birthday my sister gave me a Bobbi Brown red lipstick, and even though it was a different brand to what I was used to, I created just as many good memories in that one as its Revlon predecessor. As I got older my make-up kit grew from just the one lone lipstick to include foundation, eyeliner, mascara etc and the my red lipstick didn’t always go with the rest of my make-up or the soft and delicate look I was trying to portray, so I had to invest in other colours.
Valentines Day. I commented earlier on Twitter that this is the one day when single female bloggers whose blogs have been dormant make a beeline to their blogs and share with the world why Valentines Day is stupid or irrelevant or a consumer holiday etc.I have pulled myself out of my sad little lonely hole to share my feelings about Valentines Day, which against popular belief is strangely not that negative.