I wanna go home.
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My skin is like patch work. Different parts of my body are different shades of dark brown. Contrasting colors indicate where my arms have entertained the dancing sun and where my skin has hidden from the light. The different tones are bold symbols of movement, a defined surface area permanently singed in memory of where my feet have travelled. Yet this skin I wear is reviled by so many though it is the color of bare earth. It boasts a heritage rich as the soil, and a resilience coarse as violence. I am obsessed with it. I will always be obsessed with it.
I’ve never been in love with the sun, I’ve always found peace under darker skies. Not because I crave the wake of indiscretion, but because I covet the moon’s quiet embrace. No majestic rays command unsettled existence and yet the glitter of stars guide lovers of night. What greatness is bestowed upon the earth by such gentle light- the glow of a fatigued feature placed beyond the reach of man, pilfering song until the wind is the only whisperer.
“Don’t be afraid to lose him, because if a man truly loves you, he’s not going anywhere.” – Steve Harvey
These past few months I’ve been writing a lot about heartbreak. You see I got my heart broken by someone I loved deeply and somehow unloving him has been the biggest challenge I’ve faced in my personal life lately. He is the 2nd man I have dated but the 1st I have ever been in love with, so understandably there will be scarring on my heart that will take some time to clear.
I’ve never been the kind of girl that NEEDS to be in a relationship; I don’t feel a sense of emptiness when I’m not dating and there is nothing I despise more than serial dating. Which is coincidentally what he has gone and done. This I have to say is what really broke my heart. Now I get it, men and women are different. Some men heal by moving on to the next one and some women (me included) heal by dealing with the hurt, grieving the loss and making peace with what can be no more. Knowledge of this doesn’t take away the pain any faster, so I did what I thought I would NEVER do- I read “Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man”. A relationship book– oh the shame!
I found a lot of it more applicable to older women (I’m in my early twenties), who have had children and past marriages, but what I found helpful was how direct Steve Harvey was in explaining the actions of men and the simplicity that is the male mind. The best advice I took however is what I have chosen to quote above. I wouldn’t go as far as to say he didn’t love me, but I understand that my fear of letting him go will hurt ONLY me. Clearly he has moved on, he is with someone he could possibly grow to love much more than what he could me, and rather than be chewed up by my bitterness, I have to accept that this is a choice he has made. That said, I personally cannot serial date in effort to move on because it just isn’t how I’m wired. I believe people who do so end up carrying baggage from one relationship to the next; which I fear is what played a role, however minor, in the demise of ours. Furthermore, I’ve always believed that if I give my heart away too many times, by the time the right one comes along he will only get what’s left of me, not all I would want to give.
I guess what I am trying to say is, tears and a broken heart mean I actually cared, so I refuse to be ashamed of them or try to bandage them up in something new and shallow. However, time will heal these wounds. Until then I get to focus on being the best possible version me that I can be because I know that the right man will be deserving of nothing less.
I can definitely say having read the book that I do feel a stronger sense of acceptance. It’s over. He’s moved on. I’m single.
And you know what, I think this is ok.
But there will come a day when it doesn’t anymore.
In my experience, it is not uncommon as an African to hear comments about Africa. Most of them are negative, and occasionally misinformed, but all of them are said with such confidence, as though anyone with a functioning mouth is a workbook of knowledge on the state of Africa. But as an African I would like to comprehend what it is people get from making these announcements? Are you searching for a sense of heroism or a pat on the back for demonstrating that you have ‘working feelings’? “Oh there is so much poverty”- congratulations you have eyes. “Oh the starving children in the slums make me so sad”- well done, your heart isn’t made of stone.
What do you accomplish by saying things about us that you pretend don’t exist in your own countries? Have we begged you for pity and opinions, or does this come free of charge? Your dollar-a-day campaigns; your endless supply of grains because children will not suffer from kwashiorkor if they can swim in an undying stream of millet and maize meal; your “quick, we have to save the Africans from themselves“ attitude? You initiate “Hunt-Kony-Down” movements and show pictures at dinner parties of that poor African girl you sponsor, through that multinational NGO, with $25 a month who, “bless her, sends a thank-you note in terrible handwriting whenever she can get her hands on some paper and a stamp in the village”. You take pictures and record stories to share among your social circles, as though we are animals of a different species, with no voices of our own. So while Museveni is passing heinous laws, and other African leaders and criminals are committing unfathomable atrocities, your attention is on what you think is the REAL problem. Why should we make a puppet our priority, when he’s a dispensable pawn on the chessboard of a greater monopoly? Honestly, if I am starving, I’m not focused on the future; I’m living for the present. So ask me to take a picture and give me some food in return, and HEY PRESTO- starving African kid acquired for FB #tbt picture upon your return home. Hunger is a deplorable demon- don’t take advantage of how easily manipulated someone is in that state. Jacob and Esau people, it’s a heck of a story. You’re not a hero, you’re today’s meal ticket.
Perhaps it’s that you’re trying to “save” us by encouraging perpetual dependence on you. But this is not the 16th century- we’re not trying to encourage one-hut missionary schools in a field of dust somewhere in the middle of the Kalahari, where people are learning to read and write, so they can achieve basic literacy for blue collar work- we’re fighting for REAL development that gives EVERYONE a chance to dream of a dignified future. Why must we sell our children a dream, when we know that your ostensibly “helpful” handouts are not sustainable? You say poverty and Africa like one would Australia and beaches. But Africa has beaches, flamingos and sunshine; Australians are just very good at hiding their poverty- so why must we assume the SOLE role of poster child for destitution? You say Africa and aid like New York and dreams. But you don’t do any research as to what this money is used for or whether it is actually beneficial, but the fact that it’s aid MUST mean it’s good. You don’t think we dream? You don’t think there are some people in New York in need too? And yet you will also say Seychelles or Mauritius and associate them with honeymooning and luxury, like they are two magical lands where Dora the Explorer and Boots play. DO YOU KNOW WHERE THE FUCKING SEYCHELLES ARE?
When we don’t put coins in a beggar’s box on the street, it isn’t because we have hardened hearts and have rejected to acknowledge the state of our nations. In many cases it’s because we realise that feeding a man today, doesn’t guarantee he will eat tomorrow. Imagine spending your life begging and every day you live is another day you MUST beg to eat- is this life or is this cruel impending death? There are Africans who work diligently IN AFRICA, who assess the situation, identify the cracks in the system; corrosion of the chains, and their blood sweat and tears go into sustainable development; strengthening of institutions; improvements in the legal system; improvement in healthcare; microfinancing for lower level income earners; investment in quality education; fighting corruption; trying to educate the population on failing leadership; cutting ties with greed; addressing lack of proper security; funding entrepreneurship; exploiting freedoms under the constitutions; investigating how mineral wealth can subsidise poorer communities, etc. If we don’t address the problems that perpetuate poverty, we give it a platform to fester. Would you weed a garden by snipping off the top, or do you pluck from the root? People are WORKING, really WORKING to create something that the generations that follow can inherit. We’re not sitting around waiting for a hero- but we cannot fix many LIFETIMES of errors in a day. So forgive us if we don’t worship the ground you walk on because your band-aid solutions have not as of yet proved SUSTAINABLE in the long run. I know at the end of the day, many people will take offence to what I have said, because your intentions may be pure, but your approach sits unevenly. So please, I IMPLORE you, for the sake of the poverty stricken Africans you ‘weep’ for, if you take nothing else from this, at the very LEAST acknowledge that your pity is not a taxable income.
Some women say after labour they forget the pain that once was and this allows them to entertain the idea of birthing more children. Perhaps heartbreak is similar. We love again because new love makes us forget the pain that once was. A different face, a different size hand to hold, a more intoxicating kiss convinces us that it’s different enough to work this time- even though precedent clearly states otherwise. Our brokenness from the old will leak into the new, and we’ll excuse our bad behaviour by citing open wounds from previous heartbreak. We’ll argue and yell and then we’ll cry and sleep. But every ounce of love we give and every time we say the words to accompany it will be lost forever to a passing moment. And when it ends- when we look for the last time and realize that there are no more steps to be taken and there is no more love to be shared, we’ll regret we loved at all. We’ll hurt and lie by saying that we’ll never love again. But surreptitiously, we know we will. Because like that woman cradling her baby, we will forget that a pain so severe brought with it such a love.
My dad woke me up to see this sunrise. It’s like an alarm that commands the earth to recognise the heavens. It brings with it new hope, new dreams, new love and simultaneously carries forward the baggage we willed to leave behind the day before; like a bearer of bad news ushering in a sequel to yesterday’s misery. But what I admire is its strength. It breaks the binding chains of night to end the lions’ hunt and enhance the birds’ song.
Like the rising sun, I must break through the night and see the dawn of each day as another opportunity to try again. I can’t just move on, I have to move strong. I must end the hunt of my demons and beg the presence of what is good in me. I must live, I must love, I must become my very own- my sunrise.