I’m up at 5am. I sleep off until 6 and then finally jump up at 7am. I’ve been checking my notifications by the hour. 5am notification about some random reply to a comment I made on a post on Facebook, 6am notification about someone getting married on my high school group chat and 7am notification about my dwindling credit score on credit karma. This country is cursed no doubt. You want to know what’s more painful than whatever pain you think you’ve gone through? Real pain is when you think you’re about to get richer. The money hits your account but then there’s a negative balance in there so the freshly dropped bucks go to cover the old debt. How nice.
All along, I’ve been navigating this life with a clustered mind full of to-dos. My heart is in one place and my mind is in another. Society teaches us not to give a fuck. Needless to say, books are being published on the Subtle art of not giving a fuck. I’ve watched this book’s Ted Talk and decided that it was a good one. I was probably going to get the book to learn more about assertiveness and being unapologetic, protecting one’s interests and emphasizing the need to be independent minded. There’s so much busi-ness around me. People are barely finding time to wipe their bums to the extent that it gets equally easy to dispose of people who stress the hell out of us. Sometimes we feel justified in letting go. Other times we feel bad and try to reach out but then we let life kick in, we allow real responsibilities or made up responsibilities pile up, and then we forget the mental note we made to reach out and rather remind ourselves to not bother. We’re independent, loveless, strong and maybe proud. Money over mushiness.
Months ago, my childhood best friend and I had a misunderstanding over something trivial. She got upset and I decided to give her some space. I missed her along the line, took my phone on many occasions to text her but very much aware of how the act might make me look weak, I chose my busy world instead.
Today she texted me, and defenseless, I texted her back. I missed you.
I was told that I was going to get some cake with some strawberries. Strawberries with an S… I had the cake and all I literally had was a strawberry.
I had to admit that though old, this man had a sense of humor that was both annoying and endearing at the same time. In addition to that, he made me dread being tall. What was the use of being tall when eventually, time’s winged chariot would cause our back to bend?! Almost every other tall senior I knew had a bent back. My friend’s grandmother from elementary school had a dangerous stoop that forced me to think of a tree after a storm. Branches bent, stalk bent, leaves all drooping and downward facing. It felt like time eventually taught us, tall people, a lesson or two about the kind of conceit that comes with height. We look at short people with this kind of I’m taller than you look. We strut about confidently and expect life to bow to us because we are tall. How tall are you? We are quick to fill in the blanks…and then when we meet a taller person than we are, we somehow stay on the brinks of admiration and envy. Life catches on with all of us, and the short people stay short, erect and unwavering…and then we just bend. Probably to all that conceit from earlier life. Poetic justice at best. Like big bouncy breasts that stand glorious in youth and stoop miserably low in old age. Do the smaller boobs apologize for their full mast upwardness despite the strokes of time? No. Voila la vie.
Today though, I found myself in a lighter mood. Lighter than usual. And why wouldn’t I be happier? I had this old man and the many residents who lived here to keep me in a lighter and reflective mood. The first thing I noticed when I got to this place was the ambiance. It smelt clean and had a good amount of hominess to it. The kind of homeyness that manifested itself with familiar smells. Smells that clung to one’s nostrils and remained no matter how far away one went. These were smells that stayed in the memory and heart. I doubt I was ever going to forget the smells that filled this place for a long time to come. While cinnamon filled my nostrils, I wondered how many stories were seated in the room. The seniors looked like perched and roosting chickens. I saw old age in different manifestations; some heartwarming, and some dreadfully sad. The common denominator though was the fact that there was some kind of ominous acknowledgment of the awaiting of death. I mean, what were a bunch of almost hundred-year-olds and in some cases more than a hundred year olds waiting for? Quite bluntly, they were waiting for it. Death the leveler. It was ominous yet some of them had wholeheartedly accepted that at some point, it would come. The oldest resident questioned why God still kept her around. Hers was the kind of wait that was not altogether ominous. At her age, the only defects she had were a bad vision and bad hearing. Glorious white hair, a straight back, and a high pitched voice. She was in better shape than others; she’d been blessed. In the land of blind people, the one-eyed man was truly king.
My professor looked me squarely in the face and said, you speak French, yet that isn’t enough, really, I think it’s time for a new language and I believe Portuguese would be a good fit for you.
Among many emotions to choose from, I felt nothing. I agreed totally with him; I had French as a second language….. and I’d had this conversation with myself before and had stayed tentatively between admiration and envy of people who spoke a third or forth international language. Though I’d imagined and hoped I’d take on another language, somehow there was a disconnect between my wish to do so and what I actually did in real life. Even as I continued to engage in wishful thinking, I never for once considered Portuguese. Portuguese for what?! My considerations were Mandarin Chinese or Spanish but most likely Spanish. Portuguese seemed a bit too steep and irrelevant and mostly unattainable.
On the first day of class, I was completely lost! I was so lost it was so funny: luckily I made out my name in the target language and kept my ears open for more information. The class was entirely in the target language and the professor was talking so fast. So much for teacher talk! Teacher talk is a technique used by language instructors as a buffer against falling back on the native language all the time. The biggest attributes of teacher talk are a slow pace of speech and using very basic vocabulary or cognates. Introspectively I thought about my French language students and how frustrated they likely got when I rushed through a lesson expecting them to know what I was talking about.
6am. I’m doing homework while questioning myself over this lofty decision. I should be ready by 8am so I can get to work in one piece but the truth is, once I get to work, there’s no way I can do personal stuff. It’s either I finish this homework or go to class once again feeling low and upset over not having done homework. I hate the feeling of irresponsibility that comes with not doing what I need to get done. At the same time, the feeling of accomplishment and confidence that comes with completing tasks is the kind of sentiment I’d rather have all the time. ‘Do something your future self would thank you for’… this thought stayed in my mind so I completed the homework and went off. It’s been a sleepy week already but at least I can rattle off some Portuguese verbs;
Acordar – to wake up (my favorite because it sounds like ‘ak)daa’ in Akan which means child)
Comidar – to eat
Chegar – to arrive
Ficar – to stay
Falar – to speak
Fazer – to do
Viajar – to travel
And I know how to conjugate these and a few more in both the present and past tense…isn’t God wonderful? 🙂
The Grammar 😐
Most regular portuguese verbs end with the letters AR . ER or IR this means that these verbs will have different and specific endings when they’re conjugated. Though different, a previous second language helps me envisage these differences and the need for some kind of technique for keeping these verbs and their different conjugations in mind. It gets overwhelming though, but then our brains are capable of so much more than we can imagine. Any person who grew up in Ghana would tell you about a time in their lives when they did some mad random guessing on a multiple choice answer test or exam of some kind; normally, the student in question would sing a made-up song while gingerly pointing at the various answers available. Once the song ended, the particular multiple choice answer the song ended on would be decided as the best answer. It was more like musical chairs, same analogy as sitting on the chair closest to you when the music stops. I used to do that a lot! Oh, my! A whole lot, because I was mostly clueless or too afraid to pick an answer and go with it; I relied on chance to take me through. Did it work? Well, sometimes it did. Other times I’d say the Hail Mary prayer while doing this and leave my choice at the one that my finger rested on once the prayer was done. Mary wouldn’t fail me though, would she?In all of this though, I learned to trust my memory. Afterall, I wasn’t as blank as I thought I was. I noticed that outside the random crazy guessing game, the one thing that happened was that whenever I concluded on an answer and came back to change it, the previous answer was the better one. This taught me to trust my memory ( and maybe instinct ) and choose unwaveringly.
The Post Colonial Perspective and Personal Musings
Doctor Negash would quote me, Franz Fanon;
‘The colonized intellectual, at the very moment he undertakes a work of art, fails to realize he is using techniques and a language borrowed from the occupier. He is content to cloak these instruments in a style that is meant to be national but which is strangely reminiscent of exoticism’
Sitting through postcolonial theory classes have made me feel weird about my foreign language pursuits. Or maybe I’d probably have to read Fanon well to fully understand the way I really feel about this. However, does my speaking foreign languages have anything to do with my loyalty to my heritage as an African? How well do I speak my African languages? I think I am as fluent in Fante as I am in French or English or as I will eventually be in Portuguese…but then, Fanon says again that ‘no innocent, shame-free cultural production is possible after colonialism; not even after decolonization‘…and that reminds me of the glaring links between Fante and Portuguese and to a larger extent Akan! Voltar is a verb in Portuguese that means to come back…does it have any link with our Lake Volta and our Volta Region? Bread in Fante is ‘Paano’, bread in Portuguese is ‘Pao’, shoes in Portuguese are called ‘Sapatos’ shoes in Fante are called ‘Asopartsee’, the word bucket in Portuguese is ‘balde’. In Fante, the same word is ‘bokitse’ never mind that the letter ‘d’ when reproduced phonetically in Portuguese is ‘dji’ so there is a huge possibility that the word has been adulterated to sound like what it is today in Fante language…. ‘no innocent, shame-free cultural production is possible after colonialism’…maybe the quotation haunts me….no innocent shame-free cultural production is possible after colonialism... and I still have questions;…..how authentic will my work be? Will it ever be possible to write my story or live without a trace no matter how small of colonialism? Indeed, the traces are everywhere, not just physically, case in point the Cape Coast castle where I literally grew up but even in the most abstract sense….. and now they occupy my linguistic dreams.
It is such an enlightening experience learning Portuguese not only for linguistic and cultural gains but also as a key to personal rediscovery of history. There’s no way some vocabulary words in the target language will escape me when I grew up hearing my grandmother tell me those same words no matter how adulterated in Fante.
I grew up with my grandmother who is such an entertaining old lady. She would not back down to an intimidating Christian song just because she did not know the lyrics. The solution was quite simple; either invent her own words or substitute words with sounds that she made . The problem though was that these sounds sounded more like the repetitive tooting of a klaxon and soon became my special indication that it was morning and time for school. Living with my grandmother was both intimate and educative. My identity as a Fante and a Ghanaian was molded and instilled in me right from infancy. I was taught the name of the moon and how to call God using a variation of Fante words such as Nana Nyame, Nyankopon, Ewuradze and Oky3so Nyame. I heard my grandmother pray loudly in the middle of the night and God’s Fante names were unavoidable and unmistakably present in our home. I learned them, it was impossible not to.
There were also those Sunday afternoons that met me sitting in the kitchen for hours on end making Palm nut soup with my grandmother. Making palm soup was annoying and one I do not miss in the least. It involved pounding the nut, removing the mixture of smashed fruit and kernel and chaff, squeezing them while separating the kernel all in water, passing everything through a colander, repeating, and doing all these cumbersome things until you obtained a thick orange liquid which we were going to spend another two or so hours boiling and observing…..and that was not it! No, no! After this ordeal, I still had all the dishes to deal with! Mind you, that was also no easy task since palm oil has abnormal adhesive qualities and will stick to every container! This meant that I needed to scrub the pot doggedly like my very life depended on it. Guess what, my grandmother’s eyes can spot oil stains as minuscule as a grain of dirt. Squeaky clean quickly became an understatement. #Mylife. I doubt my grandmother could relate to my pain. She did not obviously because we came back to this soul draining work almost every other week. Her simple and obstinate reason for sticking with this overrated delicacy was simple; that it was the best food for feeding the entire family over a long period of time. WHAT entire family? AND WHAT long period? Who wanted to spend an entire life time eating Palm nut soup?! I looked left and right, it was only her and me, there was no real huge family, it was just us, but unfortunately, she was right. The soup did feed us and for a long time! The thing about Palm soup is that the longer it ages, the better it gets; more like fine wine. So basically, a huge cauldron of soup could last us a whole week; lunch and dinner inclusive for seven days, sometimes more. Palm soup was not the only type of soup that lived up to its utilitarian claims; indeed, the palm tree itself is a three in one resource that can produce not only food but alcohol, brooms for cleaning the home, baskets and many more decorative and visually pleasing accents for the home. My childhood was loaded with cultural information that was either intentionally or unintentionally shared. In addition to knowing the home remedy for almost every kind of condition, I was seamlessly socialized to be the woman I am today. We grew spices and medicinal grass and plants we used ourselves. Knowing which one exactly to use to cure a slight malaise, which to eat for strength and which to use to achieve flavor in a steaming pot of stew. I grew up with a wealth of cultural information at my feet. I became the woman that did not imitate in an empty attempt to be Ghanaian, but the woman who knew the reason behind every reproduced cultural act. My children are going to inevitably learn from me too.
When it was time for me to go off to college, my grandmother convinced me to go to the University of Cape Coast. She wanted to see more of me and couldn’t stand the thought of my going away from her. I’d lived with her from birth till high school and now I was ready to move on. We parted with a promise of seeing each other whenever we could. I studied French at the University of Ghana and one of the most profound statements I came into contact with while learning this language is the fact that one cannot fully appreciate another ‘s language if they are oblivious of their very own. This thought stuck with me and after living in parts of Africa, Europe and now America, this thought has grown to become even more relevant in my life. In a society that is a melting pot of many different cultures, I realize more than ever that the oral traditions and folklore and pretty much all the cultural information my grandmother introduced me to help me understand that I am a product of a unique culture that forms the core of my being. I remain unfazed if someone utters some kind of vulgarity to me in English. A thousand Fuck you’s will meet an indifferent stare yet insult me in Fante and I will definitely be ready to fight back. My ex-boyfriend who was born in the United States speaks to me in Fante. Fante is the language of banter, familiarity, and intimate discussion. Casual conversations that begin in English make me fully aware of the possibility of a bad day that he’s had or that he’s in a state I prefer not to relate with. To this day, I pray in Fante to my God; Nana Nyame who I believe hears and understands me. I’d like to think that Nyame and Jesus are one and the same, and that Africans are not necessarily pagan but have an understanding and knowledge of God for themselves even though they may not necessarily express it the way the world deems fit.
My knowledge of my culture helps me appreciate and respect the unique differences and similarities that groups of people across the world have. I have over twenty international contacts in my phone and the only way I have been able to keep them that close is because I appreciate my culture and know better to respect theirs too. My grandmother’s telling and re-telling of stories to me forms who I am, a lover of the literary arts. For this reason, I grew up yearning for more stories and soon, my grandmother’s oral accounts led me to seek more in written accounts. I grew up reading Ama Ata Aidoo, Efua Sutherland and a lot of Ghanaian poetry by notable poets such as Kofi Awoonor. I also read some Nigerian literature and had a childhood surrounded by a line of books called the African Pacesetters series.
One of the ideas that drive me to contribute to the body of literature is; I believe that we all have stories to share. I recently read Yaa Gyasi’s novel, Homegoing and I was happy to find that this book which is written by a Ghanaian who lives in America reinforces most aspects of my culture and childhood. The book made me realize that I hadn’t eaten with my fingers in a very long time and for weeks I have been doing just that!
To conclude, I’d say that I believe we all have stories and I am driven to tell Ghanaian and African stories and let the world know more about my culture, pride, and world. No matter where I live, the strong sense of identity and self that was ingrained into me right from childhood is the point of departure and foundation I will use as an African in the world’s cultural basket to tell my own unique story.
Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing assures me more than ever of the importance of storytelling! Outside being Fante and being more than able to relate to a lot of occurrences in the book including the refreshing use of Fante diction, I am happy that through this story a lot more people will be exposed to the immensely rich aspects of Ghanaian culture. The story is set in southern Ghana, Gold Coast in the narrative, and highlights not only the peculiarities of the group of people called Akan, (Fante and Asante encompassed) but also thoroughly educates readers on the dynamics of the slave trade and other equally important historical events that happened concurrently in the West and Africa, specifically the Gold Coast at the time of the slave trade. This post’s main aim is to highlight parts of the narrative that unravel the parts of Ghanaian culture that lie subtle yet remain pivotal aspects of who we are as a people and how these parts add to the wealth of cultural information this novel holds.
Each page in the book somehow reminds me of my childhood and events witnessed as a child such as eating with one’s fingers, lounging in the courtyard making small talk and listening to inconsequential neighborhood or family gossip or using terms of endearment such as ‘odo’. In the opening of the novel is a proverb that basically talks about the difference between the stark truth and impressions, facades or appearances. The fact that every family looks like a dense united front (forest) yet a close exploration of this ‘forest’ shows the reality of separation since each ‘tree’ (family member) is literally standing alone and apart from the other trees. So, in essence, each family has its own problems that divide them no matter how good or unified they look in the public eye. I dare say this reality of family differences gets more chaotic with extended families. What makes these family troubles more dramatic is the fact that the more traditional the setup, the more the fire is stoked since the partakers in the snags live literally next door to each other usually in a huge enclosed compound. Therefore, this pettiness continues until someone decides to begin thinking differently. I have witnessed my extended family go through these valleys and some of the occasions have been funny and others not so funny.
In some Ghanaian homes, certain didactic anecdotes are told and passed on to children to serve as deterrents mostly with the general aim of preventing accidents or discouraging some actions. The moral of these stories help us understand why those actions need not be done hence these stories have a cause and effect structure which is meant to directly influence the listeners’ choices. In the novel, there is a brief story of a woman that carried hot oil around her home and ended up scalding her husband who lay in the woman’s path; the woman was banished as a result and later became known as a witch etc. Growing up, I heard stories of losing good luck if one swept at night. This anecdote and Yaa’s anecdote of the hot oil form part of the culture of telling didactic stories with the aim of keeping children safe. The truth behind the discouragement of carrying hot oil around over distances in your home is to avoid accidents. Sweeping at night, on the other hand, is also discouraged to avoid the sweeping away of precious possessions because the logic is that at night visibility is low as compared to the day.
I didn’t even know that the Fante and Twi languages and tribes are branches from one and the same Akan tree! It only made sense then to me in a huge eureka moment that this is the reason behind both languages sounding so similar with only vocabulary variations. How shameful that as Ghanaian, I thought I was very informed about my culture and pride. Happens there’s only so much I know. I also liked the way a whole page of writing was dedicated to explaining the essence of matrilineal dominance in both Asante and Fante lines. A man is more interested in his sister’s children and considers them more his priority than his own children because his sister is born of his mother but his wife is not; so interest in nieces and nephews guarantee the maintenance of property in the ‘mother’s house’ versus wealth being lost to ‘outsiders’.
Obroni is a term anyone who grew up Ghanaian would know otherwise you probably grew up under a rock . However, this word which originally read as ‘Abro ni’ has gone through stages that have finally brought it to the way we say it now. ‘Abro’ translates to wickedness or malice or the act of knowingly doing what is wrong. ‘Abro ni’ then goes directly to mean a wicked person. This two-word expression gradually becomes the one word we use today; ‘Obroni’.
In addition, I never really understood the full meaning of the pronounced gesticulations of the Adowa dance, I mean we definitely can’t understand everything right? sometimes you just gotta appreciate and leave everything at that but then Aunty Yaa Gyasi gives that insight into one of the meanings of the hand gestures in the Adowa dance. In the novel, a character did the Adowa and hands were brought up and over ‘as though ready to receive and give back to the earth.’ In that particular scenario in the story, the people had gone through a long phase of famine and the ground/Asaase Yaa had finally been able to bless them with abundant food and harvest, therefore, the little hand movement repeated severally in the dance became a direct symbol of appreciation or acknowledgment of everything they owned as a people having come from Asaase Yaa. In the Adowa dance, every dancer has a unique message they use their body to communicate, one of which is this special hand movement which is a gesture of thanksgiving.
Reinforcement of traditional Practices
The story ends with two people who are attracted to each other. The interesting twist to this is that the two are related. Yaa ends the story with their returning to Ghana and taking a dip in the deep blue sea. Yet the reality of these two people being related hangs on the reader’s neck and we itch to see how this knot will be unwound. Like the proverbial two halves of one fruit, these two characters are from the same family, lost over years and decades and reunited by some random working of fate. Though Yaa leaves us in need of a sequel to satisfy our curiosity about what would happen between these two characters, the part of the book where we are left shows us the potential for love between these two characters.
The reinforcement of traditional practices is highlighted at this point and gives us food for thought because up until this point, Yaa’s character’s have married with no background checks whatsoever. One of the things that make Ghanaian marriages different is the exhaustive background checks done to ensure that incestuous relationships are not allowed to happen. The novel’s end forces a particular line of thought which encourages a renewed appreciation of some of our traditional practices.
Yaa Gyasi’s book is a wealth of information about slavery and the aspects of history that are not too easy to talk about today. It is insightful material for anyone who wishes to learn more about slavery, Africa, Ghana and an intimate narrative that brings the reader into the story, allowing for active participation and not a dormant reception of information. We are on a journey with the characters, feel their pain and relive moments from the slave trade.
Most importantly, the story removes readers from the impersonal and mostly detached and factitious way that our schools teach slavery. Slavery is reduced to a narration of facts and dates and fails to show the cultural-emotional extent to which this bit of history meant to many groups of people over long periods of time and even until today.
As a lover of the literary arts, I keep piling up reasons that ground my deep interest in this art. Below are a number of reasons;
Literature becomes a vehicle through which many topics can be discussed in a not too rigid way helping for the flexible accumulation of knowledge outside technical material
Literature exposes a people, their thought processes/social consciousness/belief systems, and culture….. this thought aligns with the first point…
We learn about own selves through literature, some works can emphasize what we already know and enhance our understanding of self.
A friend and I had an extensive conversation in which I literally forced him to agree that racism had a hand in the original plan of slavery. We had time on our hands, and we were high from shoving down what would later turn into poop. We were bursting with a raw desire to toss around ideas. His main argument was that slavery had economic and political backing. Yes, but racism too, a desire to portray the superiority of one race over the other….That too! I screamed!
So, when he mentioned this book, I was drawn immediately to its title. Among many things, How To Make a Slave. Okay, let’s go see what this literature held!
This material is simply a letter from Willie Lynch (whose last name is asserted to probably be the source of the word lynching ) to slave owners on how to keep their slaves from rebelling for a long time, (He promises them that if used well, this method could work for 300 years from the 18th century in which it was shared) Though I think this material aligns perfectly with some happenings in our world today, it is believed to be a hoax. Yet, it is written in such logical detail that it makes me believe it is ‘real’. The more I think about it, the more my conviction of an existence of what I like to call ‘workings behind happenings’. The fact that there’s always some twisted plot behind occurrences. Ebola, shootings of young black males in America,….Whether true or not, it is striking material that deserves attention.
This piece would highlight striking portions of the document while briefly discussing opinion on how it aligns with modern social happenings (largely in my Ghanaian society).
‘Use of fear, envy, and distrust for control’ (As a method to control slaves)
‘You must use the dark skin slaves vs. the light skin slaves, and the light skin slaves vs. the dark skin slaves. You must use the female vs. the male. And the male vs. the female. You must also have your white servants and overseers distrust all Blacks.’
The social consciousness of pride associated with our black skin is growing, at least online, because of posts that demonstrate this, particularly on an online social space such as Instagram; however, how and why has there generally been a subtle preference for lighter skinned people women? Without any research, a cursory glance at my Ghanaian society, for example, presents anyone with a huge prevalence of lightening products. Lighter skin girls seem to be preferred by ‘society’ and playful accolades such as ‘Akosombo Kaniya’ (Ghana’s electric power source) is thrown around playfully hinting at the underlying thought of the lighter skin girl being preferable to the darker skinned one. Why would such a metaphor exist if it doesn’t hint at the superiority of a lighter skin tone? To compare a source of electricity of a whole country to a person renders that person quite powerful. Moving on, terms like ‘mi broni’ my ‘white babe’ (if you like) are terms of endearment some Ghanaian men use on their women. What does the use of ‘broni’ allude to? or bring to mind?
‘You must also have your white servants and overseers distrust all Blacks. It is necessary that your slaves trust and depend on us. They must love, respect and trust only us. Gentlemen, these kits are your keys to control. Use them. Have your wives and children use them, never miss an opportunity. If used intensely for one year, the slaves themselves will remain perpetually distrustful of each other’.
Why do we seem to prefer doing business with Obroni versus another black man? In Chimamanda’s Americanah, she alludes briefly to one of the characters’ prosperity in business if only the face of his business is a person of Caucasian descent. This mentality is demonstrated further by the general preference of western products on our markets. Which is why the West (including people who trace their heritage back to Africa) can get the Shea butter, Cocoa, Angelina/Dashiki and Ghana- must-go and recently our Ahenema slippers repackage it for us, and we still buy…..
The Dashiki/Angelina cloth being a whole new conversation because do we own them technically if we don’t make them? We can argue that we do own them because they’ve been adapted to our tastes over the years and also because we have embraced and use them….
The other interpretation of distrust can be the encouragement of the use of the colonizer’s language versus our own languages. Slaves were beaten forced to speak English and not their languages so that in doing that, plots and attempts to escape would be eliminated. Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing is a great novel that features several examples to back this example. Check out the post here
The rest of the post features other parts of the letter that struck me. Yet, my commentary ends at these two points. I made a concluding remark at the base of this post and added a video I think sits well with the theme of this post….enjoy…
‘Let us make a slave. What do we need? First of all, we need a black nigger man, a pregnant nigger woman, and her baby nigger boy. Second, we will use the same basic principle that we use in breaking a horse, combined with some more sustaining factors.’ What we do with horses is that we break them from one form of life to another that is we reduce them from their natural state in nature. Whereas nature provides them with the natural capacity to take care of their offspring, we break that natural string of independence from them and thereby create a dependency status, so that we may be able to get from them useful production for our business and pleasure
‘Hence both the horse and the nigger must be broken; that is breaking them from one form of mental life to another. Keep the body take the mind!’
You must keep your eye and thoughts on the female and the offspring of the horse and the nigger. A brief discourse in offspring development will shed light on the key to sound economic principles. Pay little attention to the generation of original breaking, but concentrate on future generations.
The Breaking Process of the African Woman
‘Take the female and run a series of tests on her to see if she will submit to your desires willingly. Test her in every way, because she is the most important factor for good economics. If she shows any sign of resistance in submitting completely to your will, do not hesitate to use the bull whip on her to extract that last bit of resistance out of her. Take care not to kill her, for in doing so, you spoil good economic. When in complete submission, she will train her off springs in the early years to submit to labor when they become of age. Understanding is the best thing. Therefore, we shall go deeper into this area of the subject matter concerning what we have produced here in this breaking process of the female nigger. We have reversed the relationship in her natural uncivilized state she would have a strong dependency on the uncivilized nigger male, and she would have a limited protective tendency toward her independent male offspring and would raise male offsprings to be dependent like her. Nature had provided for this type of balance. We reversed nature by burning and pulling a civilized nigger apart and bull whipping the other to the point of death, all in her presence. By her being left alone, unprotected, with the male image destroyed, the ordeal caused her to move from her psychological dependent state to a frozen independent state. In this frozen psychological state of independence, she will raise her male and female offspring in reversed roles. For fear of the young maleslife, she will psychologically train him to be mentally weak and dependent, but physically strong. Because she has become psychologically independent, she will train her female off springs to be psychological independent. What have you got? You’ve got the nigger women out front and the nigger man behind and scared.’ …….
‘Keep the body take the mind!’
The slavery that took the body and human effort ended long ago yet mental slavery continues to exist. Though the term ‘mental slavery’ sounds so overused and bloated, it still very much exists and is a term that should be revisited often and put in perspective. Ignoring the elephant in the room because we are more concerned with our individual lives instead of going to war for the greater good of the race or mankind is expected, however, talking about issues at the barest minimum will provoke thought, trigger conversation and gradually bring change. as seen on our social media pages …
He knew I liked the dark. He called it the silhouette effect. Of seeing and not seeing entirely. Of inhaling sharply, touching and feeling taut smooth warmth.
We drove seeking the dark that night.
His signature cologne was held in a dark bottle and I thought it was such a rip-off using a product whose longevity one couldn’t determine. You would know you’d exhausted its contents when the puff no longer bore liquid
When the puff no longer bore liquid.
His puff no longer bore any liquid the third time and I knew he’d given me his all.
I was half amused at the thought of seeking the dark for what only we knew. I’d agreed with the zodiac character trait list that was attributed to his birth month. This was a person whose depth was not face value. He held furtive glances and a silent demeanor that opened with familiarity. Then there was that episode of an occasional admission that only surfaced with intense emotion.
‘This feels so good!’
He was highly guarded and immune to vulnerability. I smiled secretly each time I sensed that in a pile of words, there was a hidden message that needed my attention. I knew when he wanted something. I learned that this was more about perception than overt expression.
More sensual than visual. Parallels with the idea of Dark Fall nights where everything was really more about perceiving than seeing or saying.
The idealistic part of me hated the job but the realistic part urged me and told me to go gather life experience and sauce for my writings. I’d read Emile Zola and how the repetitive imagery of darkness fills Germinal. A white horse trapped in the bowels of the mine remained untainted and my classmates and I took turns pontificating about why a horse could remain a solid pure white in a dark and dirty mine…Happens the horse symbolized hope. Hope of the common man’s resurgence after the ruling classes’ exploitation of them and blah blah
This morning though, darkness didn’t dominate my surroundings. The area was fairly lit and I stood in a sea of people, mostly women who were here to make croissants, brownies, cinnamon rolls and whatever else for the president. The task was simple. Perform the work of a human-robot picking and stacking containers with as much of what was rolling out on the carousel. And in an orderly fashion. These human robots had been at this task for years and their dexterity and pace was unmatched. How long? Twenty, thirty years? They were very protective of their work and reflected a collective sense of pride and confidence at being this excellent at their task. The task of stacking plastic boxes with cinnamon rolls for thirty years?! I shat on their ‘achievement’. I was not in awe of excellence at a career in stacking. The simplicity of the task rather exhausted me and I zoned off deep into my thoughts for life.
It was the era of the Octopus. He lay on the White House and puppeteered everything with his great long tentacles. I suppose he ate croissants too. Or did the Octopus eat croissants? Cos if he did like other normal people, he wouldn’t stir such trouble…then again, the idea of trouble is subjective so…. He probably ate croissants, that or at least some of the baked goods that this Bread company got its profits from. I wondered if the women would all pass E-verify checks. It was that or no work. You’d return home if you went hungry. Then again it was strikingly clear that this place was full of the Wall people. The people who were supposed to stay behind the Wall once it was built. They made no attempt at speaking some English and were very unapologetic about talking trash about other people just because they thought they had some kind of code language. I looked sideways at them. Another group of people here was the Dark people. The Wall people dominated though. Some of the Dark people had very dark lips, a slur and frankly needed the paycheck for the next pair of trendy sports shoes. What a life.
My guess was that the factory made more than five thousand pieces of baked goods each day. The ones that didn’t get sent off were frozen to be sent off later. A lot of the Wall people had a gold tooth or two. Was it a trademark like the Indians and Senegalese and their elaborate rings? Outside of this, I also noticed that some of the Wall people had backs that were tense and curved with years of repetitive work that no one wanted. I decided on day two that whatever this was wasn’t for me and with renewed thinking, I learned not to look down on the Factory Girls’ hustle.
They were right after all to be this protective of their work because no one else except they could do it this well.
The Octopus could have their work if he wanted to. After all, he had eight tentacles and near perfect business acumen.