A Day in the Life

'A day in the life' makes me think, first, of the Beatles song of that title and the lyrics "I heard the news today, oh boy ..." Which brings me to my next thought, which concerns a particularly charged photograph I saw on the cover of the Globe and Mail on January 30 (2008). Unfortunately, my mission to find it online, and post it here, failed miserably. As such, I'll have to do my best to describe it and hope you have a good imagination.

The photograph, taken by AP photographer Ben Curtis (who has some other very striking snaps on his website), is explosive. It immediately demands the attention of the viewer. A Kenyan youth, shirtless and wearing what looks like a Winter hat. His left hand is raised, the index finger slightly raised in a pointing gesture. His right hand rests on the steering wheel of an old, abandoned and beaten up light blue truck. His open mouth and expression clearly indicate that he is shouting/yelling something. Some people in the background are smiling. But what pulls all these elements together and brings them together into a fist that hits the senses, making the picture so very striking, is that on top of the truck there is a tire engulfed in flames. In other words, a tire on fire.

What I find so compelling about this photograph is that it so unapologetically assaults my senses, plays with perception, demands my attention, and conveys meaning. What it means to the parties involved may vary, but one thing is inescapable: it is a powerful image. The emotions it brings forth for me are quite strong. If I had to pick one feeling to convey my reaction to this image I would likely pick 'stunned awe'. I feel as if I should be more disturbed or concerned in an "oh no, that's terrible sort of way", but that would that necessarily be a better reaction? What's important, I think, is that one be left grasping for answers. Why did this happen? How? And also acknowledging that the people in the photograph are nameless participants in an image. They have names, to be sure, but the picture merely conveys a moment, a portion of a day in their lives. In this photograph, they are a collection of frozen smiles, an open mouth, a neutral expression I can't read. I don't want to say 'I love this photograph', because that seems macabre and objectifies the scene. But I am drawn to it, like a moth to a flame.

I wanted to write more, about how sometimes I think about the day in the life of someone somewhere else and wonder what it is like. I am frequently awed, in both positive and negative ways, by the scope of human experience.

And on that note, I must experience sleep. Just over a week until I leave Canada again and I have a lot left to do.

'Speech is my hammer' (Mos Def)

... "bang the world into shape, now let it fall - huh!"

I feel overwhelmed by moments, present and past. Memories of moments. Moments unfolding before me like a river. My life, flowing as my feet slip, slide, float, flutter, and stutter across the dance floor. I dance best when I move to my own rhythm. If you dig it, great, and I appreciate that you appreciate the way I move, but I don't want to be in the spotlight. Which is why I don't do the cypher thing. I just wanna do my thing.

Listen to Mos Def and swim in his words, feel my body rock to the rhythm, be moved, and Love ...

"I start to think, and then I sink
Into the paper, like I was ink
When I'm writing I'm trapped in between the lines ...

My pops said he was in love when he made me
Thought about it for a second, wasn't hard to see
I could hear he was sincere, was a game of promotion
The entire affair's probably charged wit emotion
But love call your heart, I guess you got to persue
12-11-73 my life is testament
Praise the beneficent, element that rest
Devoid in the form that make love manifest
I spent my early years in Roosevelt Project
It was a bright valley wit some dark prospects
In '83, Venny C was the host wit the most
I listened to the Rap Attack and held the radio close
I listened to the Rap Attack and held the radio close
This is far before the days of high glamour and pose
Aiyyo power from the street light made the place dark
I know a few understand what I'm talkin about
It was love for the thing that made me wanna stay out
It was love for the thing that made me stay in the house
Spendin time, writin rhymes
Tryin to find words that describe the vibe
That's inside the space
When you close yo' eyes and screw yo' face
Is this the pain of too much tenderness
To make me nod my head in reverence
Should I visit this place and remember it?
To build landmarks here as evidence
Night time, spirit shook my temperment
To write rhymes that portray this sentiment
We live the now for the promise of the infinite
We live the now for the promise of the inifinite
And we believe in the promise (love, love *repeated*)"

Love - Mos Def (Black on Both Sides)

This is the stuff I live for. Music, moments, and magic.

My head was so full of thoughts tonight. Sometimes I wish I could record it all down, but words cannot truly express everything a person experiences and, no matter how eloquently, cannot capture the enormity of it all. Thank goodness for memory. Granted, there are some moments that I don't like to remember as much as others, but they are all a part of my life and, as such, of me.

I was thinking tonight about my experiences in Nigeria. I said to friend that I hope I don't spend my time in Ghana comparing it to my experience in Naija. I do wonder how I will find Ghana, though, and naturally there will be a tendency to compare, but I also want to see, feel, and experience where I am independently of where I have been. I wonder how it will feel, living and working there. I have an idea, but I am also bewildered and overwhelmed by what is coming. I have a feeling that some of it will seem familiar. The people and the places will be very different, but some moments will likely remind me of my time in Nigeria. Thing is, it's not like I'm going back to somewhere I've already been. I find it weird when people say they've been to 'Africa 'or want to go to 'Africa'. I hear Africa and I think of a continent of many different, diverse nations, which are internally complex societies of diverse persons. Going to Ghana will not be like going to Nigeria. That would be like going home. I truly believe that. Or, perhaps I should say, I know that, because some things you just know. You feel it, in every part of your being.

I was also thinking tonight about how much I hated it when expats would whine, bitch, moan and complain about life in Nigeria. I had no patience for such nonsense. The only time it seemed acceptable or appropriate was when it had to do with a sense of frustration with certain aspects of life that was tempered and informed by an understanding of the larger context.

For example, I had moments where I felt like I hated where I was, but I quickly understood that it wasn't the place that was the problem, it was the situation. And 99% of the time I could deal with whatever wahala came my way by controlling my response to it. I don't know if the percentage is entirely accurate, but you get the idea. Like the time I was working in my room in Asokoro, using the laptop a friend had loaned me, and heard a loud bang. It sounded like something fell down. Something big and heavy. I paused, listened, sat back in my chair, and eventually decided to investigate. I was not worried or concerned, just curious. I was utterly unprepared for what followed.

I came out of my room and entered the open space between the building I was staying in and the walls that bordered the compound. Emmanuel was looking out through the side gate, which was kept locked at all times. I greeted him and said something like "did you hear that loud sound? do you know what it was?" He informed me that one of the guards at a compound down the block had fired his gun in the air. I'm undecided as to whether or not my reaction to this information was completely insane or daft. Basically, I was struck by the idea that firing a gun in the air is dangerous and stupid and that I should pass on this information to the man in question. Now that I'm thinking about it, that does seem like a stupid thing for a small, single woman ,living in a country that is not her own, to do. But I was restless and feeling a bit righteous (self righteous perhaps?).

I walked to the other gate, down the street, and turned onto the street that Emmanuel had been watching. I encountered the following scene: 2 to 3 security guards standing around a man who was being harshly beaten by one or two of the guards. One guard was behaving particularly brutally, beating the man with his belt. For a moment time seemed to freeze. I felt a cold dread spread through my body. I was frozen, horrified by what I was seeing.

I am uncertain how long I stood like that, unable to comprehend or act, but eventually I overcame my shock and ran toward the men. I don't remember what I said or how I approached the situation, only that I pleaded or demanded that they stop beating the man. One of the guards effectively told me to mind my own business, and may have suggested I "go back to [my] country". I refused to be dismissed, to be told that this had nothing to do with me and that I should leave. How could I? There was shouting. Finally, a man came out of the compound. He must have been the owner, because he defused the situation and the guards listened to him.

From what followed, and the exchange I overheard, the man the guards had beaten had come to collect his tools from the compound, where he had been working (earlier that day, perhaps). He had gotten into an argument with the guards and had ended up attempting to enter the compound (he may have entered, that part was unclear to me). He was forcefully removed from the compound, at which point I think he proceeded to verbally abuse the guards, and they ended up beating him. Not everyone would agree with me, but nothing justifies beating another human being. I can understand defending oneself against an attacker, but that does not describe this situation. One man, unable to defend himself, being abused by 3 men. I was horrified. After the oga came out, the man was able to enter the compound and collect his belongings. I waited until he returned and moved away as he walked to his car. We were walking a few feet apart, in the same direction. The man turned to me as we walked and said, his voice strained with emotion, "thank you". I replied, my voice cracking, "sorry, sorry". If you are from Nigeria, or are familiar with the Nigerian use of 'sorry', you will understand what I meant.

I was heartbroken and overwhelmed. I walked back to 'my' compound, my eyes burning and my throat aching. The guys (Patrick, Emmanuel, and, I think, Iyke) looked over as I walked in. They were sitting/standing out front of the first building, talking. By this time I was crying. I don't recall what I said, but I remember thinking "this place is crazy and I don't want to be here." I walked to the other building, through the wall that separated the two sides of the compound, went into my room and sobbed. I rocked back and forth and choked out such words as "I want to go home". I hated what I'd seen and I wanted to leave. Luckily, I realized that I had a choice. I could either sit in my room crying and being miserable or I could go outside and talk to my friends, who might be able to help me understand and remind me that there were good people in this world. I chose the latter and it did help.

After talking with the guys for a bit, I asked Emmanuel if he wanted to walk with me to the shack on the corner to get some candy. He accompanied me to the small, make-shift store, and I bought sweets to share with him and the others. Their words, the sweetness of the candy, helped me centre myself and deal with the experience. Because of their friendship, their willingness to share with me and listen to me, I was able to return to my room that night with dryer eyes and a greater sense of comfort with my surroundings. I didn't forget what I'd seen or how it had made me feel. I didn't dismiss or trivialize the experience as 'just one of those [9ja] things', but I was able to deal with the emotions it had provoked, the horror and disgust that I'd felt. Talking about what had happened with my friend at work helped as well. A fellow Canadian, she'd been living and working in Nigeria for 30 years and considered it her home. That is, she was Nigerian, despite not having been born there. We talked about how situations like this are most likely the result of the overwhelming frustration and stress that people feel on a daily basis, coping with life in Nigeria. For most people, it's a long, hard struggle. It gets to people and some times this leads to violence. I don't like it, but I understand how it can happen.

Anyhow, that's my story for tonight. Next time I'll write about something beautiful.

Thank you.

"I escape when I finish the rhyme."

A dis-dressing issue

This one's for SOLOMONSYDELLE and others interested in Nigerian affairs and gender equality.

In Nigeria's immorality is about hypocrisy, not miniskirts, author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie examines issues surrounding a bill that porposes to regulate what women wear in Nigeria. As Adichie points out, the bill is not only absurd but would have a disproportionate impact on "women who do not have cars, who have to hitch up their skirts to climb on okadas (motorbike taxis), who do not know a Big Man or Big Woman to call for help, who will be vulnerable to rape at police stations". She also argues that "this bill is, in a larger sense, about societies for whom women are safe scapegoats, and Nigeria is only one example. The country is immoral, and we must legislate morality by imprisoning women in miniskirts. (Most Nigerians use 'immoral' to mean sexual. They rarely use the word to refer to real immorality: institutional corruption.) Adichie provides a reasoned a critical examination of the bill and speaks to the underlying issues of sexuality, culture, gender, and gender roles, as well as actual evidence of immorality in the form of corruption and hypocrisy.

The article reminded me of a debate that I had with a friend while in Nigeria in which I expressed the view that no one has the right to assault, harass, or a abuse a woman based on the clothes she chooses to wear. In cases of sexual assault and harassment, it is the aggressor who is at fault, not the victim. His (or her) lack of self-control causes the crime to take place. A woman wearing a tube top and short-shorts has the same right to personal security and freedom from violence as does a woman dressed in a long skirt and a long-sleeved shirt. Naked, partially clothed, or 'fully' clothed, we all possess the same rights to be free from violence. Any bill or policy that tries to make us believe otherwise is a threat to human rights.

To read Adichie's article, click on the link above.

Other articles on this topic:

The Indecent Dressing Bill - Women Against Women
An article from This Day which provides a compelling case against the bill. I particularly liked the scenario presented at the outset of the article in which a victim of a robbery is unfairly blamed for encouraging the crime that was carried out against him. The article also cites examples of sexual violence against women, thereby emphasizing the point that victims must not be regarded in any way responsible for the actions of their aggressors.

Nigeria: Senate Bill on indecent dressing - Press release
A press release from the Nigerian Feminists Forum (NFF) which addresses critical areas of importance related to gender equality, women's empowerment, and human rights. I fully support the NFF's position that "a Bill on indecent dressing with an attendant jail term of six months for a female offender (bearing in mind that there is a high violence record against female prisoners in our current prisons) is a gross violation on the fundamental human rights of citizens."

Text to Change

A pilot program in Uganda plans to use text messaging to increase HIV/AIDS awareness. From the Text to Change web site:

Vision

“Spread the message stop the virus”

Text to Change is dedicated to contribute to the fight against the worldwide epidemic. To begin with we intend to focus on HIV/AIDS education. We strive to educate people in a playful but serious way, by using practical and innovative mobile phone based activities, in order to increase awareness and realize a positive behavioural change among young people to curb the spread of HIV/AIDS.

Objectives

With Text to Change we want to realise the following objectives:

1. Create a dialogue in order to increase awareness of the disease and achieve comprehensive knowledge levels among young people
2. Reduce HIV/AIDS related stigma and discrimination
3. Motivate people for HIV testing and treatment

With these objectives we want to contribute to Millennium Development Goal 6: halting the spread of HIV/AIDS and rolling back HIV infections by 2015.

http://www.texttochange.com/

Hm ...

From Rob Brezny's Free Will Astrology:

"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love how well you're maintaining your sanity as you weave your way along the curvy uphill path with the wasteland on one side and the fake paradise on the other. I admire the fact that your sense of humor is expanding, not shrinking, in the face of floods of ambiguous data. And I adore the fierce poise and open-hearted skepticism you're able to muster as you struggle against all odds to be true to yourself. You're my hero, Braveheart.

* P.S. It's often easier for us Cancerians to love than to be loved. We feel more comfortable giving than taking. In fact, we're even susceptible to believing that we're powerful when we're nurturing others and weak when we're being nurtured. Yet the best astrologers agree that until we learn to receive love, we can't fulfill our life's mission. In the next 35 years and beyond, I urge you to practice this art with all your fierce and vulnerable heart. And then practice and practice and practice some more."

*

Some of this is so true (of me) that it's almost spooky.

Scatter brain (messages from another life and this one)

I must clear my mind and think of the words of Lord Buddha: "The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, nor to worry about the future, but to live the present moment wisely and earnestly ..."

Which is not to say that one shouldn't acknowledge and learn from the past, or plan for the future. It's about being true to the moment; living earnestly is a beautiful way of putting it.

So if I meditate on this, attempt to see past it and through it, where will I find myself? Perhaps I'll reach out and grasp the first thought that comes to mind. Will it melt in my hand like a snowflake, as random thoughts and lines of poetry melted on my lips? Or will it fall and settle, forming sparkling snow dunes? So, so many thoughts ...

I thought about people, places, past and present. I savoured the present, with it's earthy past - the soil on which the present was planted - and zest (I'm sure there's a better word, but I can't think of it right now ...) for the future. Truly, though, I suspect I may be too tied to the past. I allow myself to become too comfortable with my surroundings in an unhealthy way some times. But I don't want to talk about me or analyse myself, not now. I want, instead, to think and speak about the universe's infinite capacity to delight and inspire me.

One thought I had tonight was "what's the word for someone who loves people?" I know the word for those who dislike (hate?) people is "misanthrope". Such a lovely sounding word for something so poisonous. Would someone who likes, loves, cares about people be a 'humanitarian'? The Oxford English minidictionary defines humanitarian as "concerned with human welfare". Is that what it really means? It doesn't seem to be enough, if that's what it really means. I would need another word to describe how I feel about people. Because I do love people. I hate what many do, but I try not to hate them and focus my energy on loving the best human beings have to offer. We are so very flawed, but also beautiful.

A random thought floats to the surface ... Feet padding across the dirty snow, hushed footsteps whisper through a Winter night ... I thought of the many doors in my mind, all leading to thoughts, and suddenly feeling lost, moments becoming memories tucked into boxes and hidden in closets. Chance meetings of people - Shum (I could swear that's what he said), Adil (was that it? am I remembering correctly that people called him Ade?), and the guy in the hat who asked me about Africa. We all had good conversations. It was nice to be recognized and to represent my Nigerian self.

As I've said before (or have I?), I don't claim to be Nigerian in the sense that Nigerians are, but then who are Nigerians? They do not have a single identity. They are diverse and yet there is a sense of shared understanding, if not identity, between those that I have met. Perhaps it had something to do with living in Abuja. A very strange place with some serious problems, but a great place to meet people from all over the country. Perhaps the same could be said of Lagos, although I got a different feeling about Lagos when I was there. Of course, I only visited, which is a big difference from living there. But, again, I've gone off on a tangent ...

What I had originally intended to say concerned the guy in the hat and how he saw the African side of me. Or, rather, in the clothes that I was wearing, which is an expression of my personality. I was wearing the pants (or trousers, as I learned to call them) that Mary's tailor sewed for me and a length of matching fabric wrapped around my head. Putting on these clothes feels good, although the trousers have become a bit tight (hey, it's Winter in Canada, putting on a bit of weight is a good thing right?). He recognized the pattern on the cloth as an African design, though he didn't know where I got it from. I can't remember exactly what he said, but I think he asked me where I was from in Africa or if I was from Africa - something like that. I replied "I'm Canadian, but I've also been told I'm Nigerian".

I asked where he was from. He replied "Africa", which seems like something many people from different parts of this vast continent say, at least in the conversations I've had here. I said "but where in Africa?" Is it that he doesn't think I'll know the place he's talking about or ... and why would he think that? Have people not known when he's told them where he is from or is it something else? He said he was from East Africa and either proceeded to list a number of countries from this region. I was astounded at how many countries he'd lived in. Kenya, Tanzania, Sudan, and possibly Ethiopia? The music was loud and it was, at times, difficult to her what he was saying. He concluded by stating that he'd been born in Zambia.

I told him how I lived and worked in Nigeria for a year and a half, that it was under my skin now. I might have said "Africa's here" holding a hand to my chest "it's in my blood". And he smiled. I meant every word. I don't claim to know what Africa is through and through and I even wonder what it means some times, whether such a diverse and vast collection of places can be spoken or thought of in the singular. From what I've been told by others, there are indeed marked differences between nations and regions in Africa, but there are also key commonalities. It's not unusual. Is it really so different from the 'Americas'? I mean, just look at Canada and the United States - There are noticeable similarities between these nations, but also significant differences between places and people.

And, truly, I could write all night (which has become morning), but I ought to give my mind some rest. There is, after all, time for more thoughts and hopefully some decent poetry, in the future. For now I must revel in the glory of sleep, something I also love doing.

Flip-flops

Reading the following passage from Rory Stewart's The Places In Between made me smile:

"On the street corner, I watched men unloading tablecloths from China ad Iranian flip-flops marked 'Nike by Ralph Lauren'."

It reminded me of scenes from another place I once called 'home', thousands of miles from where I find myself now.

Why we're Soul Sisters

Because we feel Fela -
groove to d afro beat
- a most exquisite expression
of African jazz and funk -
the immaculate combination
of sounds form
music to my ears,
my heart and hips
beat and sway.

And I am forever grateful for Ikeja
and Lekki, Modern Marvel on the beach

And then Fela's voice pipes up, a full 10 to 11 minutes into the song, and I wonder if he was not just commenting on the/his present, but also predicting the future. It's hard not to think such things with lyrics like:

"Dem no wan take am
*[CHORUS] BUT DEM TAKE AM - [AFTER EACH LINE]
Dem no wan take am
Who go wan take coffin?
Dem must take am
For the bad bad bad things
Wey dem don do
Dem no wan take am
Obasanjo grab am
Y'aradua carry am
Yes, dem no wan take am
Obasanjo carry am
Y'aradua tow am
Dem no wan take am
Dem no wan take am
It der for dem office
Dem no wan take am
It der dey now now now now
It der dey now, now, now, now
It der dey now, now, now, now ..."

Now exchange Fela's mother with democracy and you've got present-day Nigeria. It's eerie. Perhaps I'm being overly analytical again, who knows?

But it appears I've drifted away from my original line of thoughts. All aboard the Cerebellum Express. Uh, yeah, maybe not ...

What I wanted to say, what I was thinking of was - my times in Lagos with Sutton and how they changed everything and made Nigeria come alive for me in an amazingly beautiful way. Not that it didn't have a harsh side, but the good was just so very good. She opened my eyes to a new way of experiencing, living, being. I had it in me from the beginning, she just lit the fuse, so to speak. But what a way to light a person's fire!

On that note ...

Maybe I think too much, but other people don't think enough.

Western hypocrisy

I read an interesting article in the Guardian today, which brought up a point related to what I wrote about in my last post.

[Kenneth] Roth [Executive Director of Human Rights Watch] said the current violence in Kenya, prompted by the seemingly rigged election on December 27 which returned President Mwai Kibaki to power, could be traced back to overseas reluctance to challenge a similarly flawed poll in Nigeria 10 months earlier. "Nigeria's leader came to power in a violent and fraudulent vote, yet he's been accepted on the international stage," he said. He said it led Kenya to believe fraud would be tolerated in the presidential election.

Source: Peter Walker, "UK and US accused of hypocrisy over despots", Guardian Unlimited, Feb. 1, 2008

I think it is an interesting point to consider. I remember being both relieved and disappointed that the rigged elections in Nigeria didn't result in civil unrest. Relieved because I didn't want my friends and Nigerians in general to be exposed to harm and violence (although it is worth noting that Nigerians are exposed to harm and violence every single day) should civil unrest occur after the elections. Disappointed because Nigerians had every reason and right to be angry and express their disgust with the 2006 elections. Of course, protests were planned and people did speak out against the election results, but almost a year has passed and the PDP is still in power. I've seen some articles here and there about state election results being annulled by tribunals, but I wonder how much has changed and what is being done to address injustice. I thoroughly support efforts to bring about change through jurisprudence, legal action, and non-violent means, but it is a slow process. I suppose all one can do is support those who are working for good governance at all levels of government.

Identity and struggle

Where to begin?

I cannot legitimately claim that living for a year and half in Nigeria, in Abuja of all places (which we often joked 'is not Nigeria'), makes me Nigerian, or African for that matter. But, through my experiences living and working in Nigeria, I confirmed a long-standing suspicion, that you don't need to be born in a specific place to consider it your home, to care deeply and profoundly about a place and the people who live there.

I saw a picture yesterday, on the cover of the Globe and Mail, of a car, on top of which was a burning tire. Inside the car was a young man, his expression defiant and passionate. He was not afraid. Perhaps he had set the fire, I don't know. The picture was taken in Kenya.

Seeing this picture and others, reflecting on the recent unfair elections in Kenya, I can't help but think "this could have been Nigeria". The 2006 elections, which ushered the PDP back into power, were a slap in the face to democracy, to Nigerians, and to me. I can't claim that I was cheated as Nigerians were by this miscarriage of justice, but, as a person who developed bonds with friends that became family, I can honestly say that I was aghast at the amount and extent of blatant rigging that took place. And so, when I see what is happening in Kenya right now it sends a chill down my spine because, perhaps, something similar could have happened in Nigeria.

What bothers me about what is going on in Kenya right now is not that people are angry about the elections, but who their anger is being actively directed against. Citizens are killing other citizens. I do not endorse violence, but if people are going to rise up against oppression it should be against the big-men that rigged the elections in order to maintain their positions of power. Then again, is it really my place to make such judgements? As a human rights activist and proponent of non-violence, I feel compelled to speak out against what is happening (both in terms of the violence and the unfair elections). But I also try to recognize the complexities of what is happening and how it has come about as a result of colonialism and imperialism.

When European nations colonized the vast continent that is now known as Africa, they established nations and borders that did not take into consideration the needs, wants, and desires of the people who lived there. Moreover, they pitted tribe against tribe in order to divide and conquer people and subjugate them to an inequitable and unjust system of colonial rule. Perhaps it was a matter of reinforcing animosities that already existed between different groups of people. Does that matter? The point is that whether or not different groups coexisted peacefully or nor, colonial influence actively sought to prevent bonds of solidarity from forming between them. I believe that it is a result of this negative influence, and the endemic poverty that characterizes developing nations, that people are fighting one another based on cultural, ethnic, and tribal differentiations. And so I see where the current situation likely has its roots in complex historical factors, but as someone who considers people of diverse cultural, ethnic, racial and national backgrounds to be her family? It is hard for me to understand, on a personal level, how difference divides people to the point of hatred and violence. We're not all the same, but isn't that what makes us interesting to one another? And yet, on some levels, we are the same ...

As Public Enemy front man Chuck D said:

"People, people we are the same
No we're not the same
Cause we don't know the game
What we need is awareness, we can't get careless
...
My beloved lets get down to business
Mental self defensive fitness
...
You gotta go for what you know
Make everybody see, in order to fight the powers that be
Lemme hear you say...
Fight the Power!"

But as I've said, my place of origin is not Nigeria, nor is it Kenya, so I can't claim to know how people who were born and raised in these nations feel. Truly, what is needed is for the voices of human rights activists from these nations to be heard. Kofi Annan may be able to play a role in resolving the current situation in Kenya, but he is not Kenyan and his voice, I think, will not carry as much weight as Kenyan citizens who might be in a position to end the violence. It is for Kenyans themselves to determine how to resolve this conflict and achieve solidarity amongst different stakeholders. We must support their efforts to gain peace and democracy. They are no less my brothers and sisters than are any citizen of any other country, including the one I was born in, and I care about their past, present, and future.

I suspect the Golden Compass has driven into my subconscious -

Not saying that's a bad thing, I'm just saying ... I picked stones out of the dish on a friend's table tonight and started examining them closely. I decided that I would look for symbols and read them, which makes me think of Lyra and the alethiometer, except I sort of felt like I was reading my past and not what's to come. Then, the symbols became difficult to interpret, meaning couched in subterfuge. Here is what I thought I saw and how I chose to interpret it ...

An hourglass (Tm) - seagulls (a voyage ... overseas) [...] a beach (land)
something small giving way to something much bigger (into the unknown?) -
caught between 2 spheres of existence (somehow familiar, oh yes) -/-
follow the horizon ...
a period of darkness (doubt and despair?)
* an opening *
a head with mane of fire (enlightenment, realization)
- a bear & an arrow's head -

And I stopped there. It's good to know how to keep your mind busy, even if it doesn't seem to have an obvious purpose. Thinking for thinking's sake can be a good thing. Maybe?

But sleep is also important.

Mmmmmm, sleep ...

wide as the earth, deep as the sea

Wide as the earth, deep as the sea ...

To the girl I saw crying, do you remember me? Late December ... you descended on your porch steps, a blanket around your shoulders, a sob in your throat. I turned where I stood, several paces ahead and across the street, in response to a sound of movement, a front door opening. Your sadness reached into my chest and grabbed hold of my heart, tugged at my gut, tapped into a primary place inside of me.

[a bit of an aside ...] It is moments such as this that define us, make us who we are in relation to others and the world that surrounds us. When we have a choice to make a fundamental decision that says something about the kind of people we want to be and are. On the one hand, we can choose to turn away from someone's suffering, out of indifference (which I hold to be one of the greatest threats to the survival of humanity), self-interest (I don't want to get involved), rationalization (someone else will take care of it), fear (for many reasons, including 'feeling uncomfortable'), malice or other. OR we can choose to move, to interact, to respond with compassion. It is the second of these two choices that drives me, at my very core. It is something I hold to be sacred, a way of being that gives my life its meaning, a reason to be, to exist. And so ...

I found myself standing there, temporarily immobilized by emotions (yours and mine) and an awkwardness (wondering if I was intruding on your grief, not knowing what to do, etc.). Someone, a friend or a flatmate, opened the door and I thought perhaps that she might sit with you and provide you with the comfort I believed you deserved and needed. But she didn't come out, just stood for a moment as if paralysed by indecision and/or an awkwardness not unlike the one I felt. I watched her retreat back into the house and found myself thinking "I can't just keep going, walk away from this person in pain." As I approached your house, you looked up. The sobs that shook your small frame, and rent the stillness of a deserted street in the earliest hours of the morning, ceased. The awkwardness I had felt was, for the most part, gone. It felt right, coming over to you. I said "I don't know you, but you looked like you could use a hug." The thanks you spoke were mirrored in you eyes as you opened your arms and accepted my embrace. You shared the reason for your distress with me and I empathized, spoke words of encouragement: "I've been there, trust me, you'll get through this. It won't always feel this way. You're strong." You said you knew, that it would eventually go away, but that you wished it didn't feel this way right now. I nodded, understanding exactly what you meant. However brief and temporary, our interaction seemed to alleviate your pain, which was what I had set out to do. We had shared, what I hoped you also felt was, a profound moment. As I turned to leave, I felt the need to leave you with words that might help lift your sadness. I said "you're beautiful." You thanked me and perhaps said "I love you." I don't quite remember. What has stayed with me is the feeling of a fairly simple but basic connection between us. You moved me and I responded with kindness and compassion, moving you.

Thank you for sharing this moment with me.