And so there came a moment when I asked myself, “If I never speak to him again, will anything about me change? Will anything about my life be inherently better or worse?” And the answer, like the stable soliloquy of tv static was a resounding ‘No’. And just like that, I snuffed out any memory of him like a child excitedly blowing out a candle when the lights come on after dumsor. Let’s see what’s on TV.
“It’s not normal.” But it goes both ways.
It’s not normal for a man to love another man or a woman to love another woman. But it’s not normal to express that love before a certain prescribed time.
It’s not normal to be angry about anger towards women. But it’s not normal to be focused on the over-prevalence of that anger being directed at a specific subsect of women.
It’s not normal to expect that a woman will be the head of a household. But it’s not normal for her to value work over having and caring for children.
It’s not normal to be different. But it’s not normal to show any indifference.
Humanity, we have a lot of work to do.
So someone had to point this out to me before I noticed but, perhaps my mother aside, every mentor I’ve ever had has been male. I wish I could say it didn’t matter, but it does. I am obsessed with powerful women, in any field and regularly (and unabashedly) stalk the likes of Mellody Hobson via varying social media outlets and Google alerts that now have their own dedicated inbox. However, when it comes to finding female mentors, I struggle. Not because there aren’t many of them and not because they aren’t willing (you won’t find me touting the misguided belief that all women have an ultra-competitive streak that leads them to undercut other women even if they don’t mean to). It’s more so because with one mother already, I have a stubborn aversion to others.
But I don’t want to be mothered (just ask my own mother). When I have a career related problem, I don’t want to be told a story about the time when you did x/spoke at x/ won an x. I want to be asked questions, I want to be challenged, I want to be told I’m wrong but prodded to defend myself as to why I think I’m right.
Women are great at sharing through experiences, but with many of us being lied to that any success we achieve must be a rarity, we also tend to get a little bit more caught up in them. I want someone who is invested in helping me further develop my own definition of success, rather than following a path that they think they’ve already charted for me. Or worse – getting offended if I don’t want to. Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong; my hope is that I just haven’t met her yet. All this to say, if you have, I’d love an intro.
I recently concluded a consulting gig with a fast-growing global start-up. The kind that holds big conventions and press conferences and the like and claims to be doing big disruptive things to change the world. It was the kind of gig that I felt justified a 75% reduction in my usual rates. Suddenly my LinkedIn was lit and in a city as small but as bustling as Accra, people started noticing me as someone to watch. So I smiled and took the 75% reduction in my rates, filling the financial and emotional voids with accolatory viles of likes and connection requests and ‘OMG so cool you’re working with X’. I allowed myself to be taken in by the association with a job, a position – the manifestation of which was in direct conflict with why I have been slowly driven to consult on an independent basis to begin with. Continue reading “Notes on Everyday Prostitution”
They say you should never meet your heroes. I think sometimes you should never read about them either because while the message of Shonda Rhimes’ “Year of Yes” was loud and clear, it was a little too loud. She is definitely a TV writer. I could hear the words being screamed off the page. Continue reading “Notes on Yes”
I am the Queen of the side-hustle, but lately I’ve been hankering for something more… stable. It’s a new arena for me. I’m not a big planner. I thrive on procrastination. But it works. I’ve excelled at most of the things I’ve done, albeit the fact that they’ve all been done at the last minute.
But I want change. I want to buy a condo and pay taxes and come home tired and crank open a bottle of wine because I can’t be bothered to cook myself dinner. I want a full-time job. Continue reading “Notes on Self-sabotage”
Peak is a brand of powdered and evaporated milk products, sold in Ghana and other neighboring West African countries. Since the 90s, Peak has used the slogan “It’s in You”.
It’s in You. The milk is in you. I think the intention is to allude to one’s inner beauty, which drinking milk brings out, according to ad experts. Even as a child I didn’t get it. Imagine my surprise to have seen the same slogan being used on an advert this afternoon, plastered boldly on the side of a truck I pray hasn’t been upgraded since 1995. Because it’s bad enough that someone was paid for coming up with the slogan “Peak: It’s in You”, but to have it live on is a legacy the likes of which can only survive in an environment that is already well-accustomed to the reek of mediocrity. Continue reading “Notes on Peak Milk”
I still have chills from a long conversation I had last week with a US-based Ghanaian Trump supporter (they exist). His argument in support basically went like this:
USA is losing global power.
USA must have global power.
Ammunitions are the lifeblood of the US economy
Hence, US needs a President who is willing to go to war. Continue reading “Notes on An American Immigrant”
If this is some weird yet brilliantly connived publicity stunt, I am going to be so pissed. I just spent an hour legit googling Rachel Roy and the trail of honey and lemon peels left in her wake as she run for the highlands. The Bey hive is vicious. But it can’t be a stunt if Becky with the good hair, from what can be gleaned, is now being incessantly bullied, and has probably received a death threat or two. Right? But then again it’s hard enough times in the fashion game that I can see how someone who “lives in the light” would come to the dark side for a few additions 0s. She’ll disappear and in a year, no one will care.
Catching feelings is the worst. But even worse when have fashioned a carefully curated aura of nonchalance. The cool chick. The one you can just chill and kick it with. Ugh. Usually, I can’t decide if I am a flaming erotomaniac or have an immense capacity to attract mindfucks. This is the process:
Boy, you may not even be attracted to, is nice to you. All the time. It’s uncomfortable. But.. nice. He cares. Most of your friends don’t. In fact, the majority of your friendships are predicated on the fact that you are a good listener and your friends like to talk about themselves. But boy is nice and he cares and he wants to know what you think. He engages in long conversations usually over some instant messaging platform because amongst your many quirks, you suspect you may also be agoraphobic. But you’ll break out every once in a while to see him and leave strangely energized. You start to notice how happy you are after every coffee, every shopping trip set to the sound of 90s pop music and 3-5 chin-rub-worthy wardrobe changes in your head. Continue reading “Notes on The Feels”