Category Archives: My musings
You know when you move house once or twice, make it thrice and swear that your next address will be your last? You even seriously start considering buying a place of your own, until your jolted back to reality; when you check the market rates and suffocating interest rates, not to mention the insecurity that your current job is? That’s me, right now. I don’t qualify for the shopaholic category, I am very minimal. Make no mistake, I like style and good things, but am too lazy to go to the stores. I am the reason online shopping was invented, but I still keep it minimal, something me and my fiancé differ about. So at this moment in time, I regret ever purchasing anything classified as a want. As I pack, dispose, pack then dispose again, I have purposed to re-define the term ‘my wants’ so far I think that,
- Fit in a 10 litre trash bag *so that I can slowly start thinking of them as just that – trash*
- Be acquirable using coins, considering that at any given time I will only have sufficient coins for the parking slot machines.
- Compliment my needs * Am at loss for words as I try to figure out what drove me to purchase 4 similar looking-glass vases whose lifetime has been spent in kitchens’ top most shelf*
- Be easy to dispose, pass over to someone, sell or just toss out. Amazing how my wants suddenly insist on becoming needs when it’s time to pack and move.
- Increasingly have a mutually exclusive relationship with my needs – that is after I have achieved number 3 above.
- Be considerate, other people in my household have wants too!!!
Let me see how much success I achieve at putting into practice my re-defined wants bucket.
I am almost certain that my recurring headache may be as a result of fist fights doing rounds in my brain. For the first time ever, I decided to take advantage of social media – flea market Turku a vibrant Facebook page has taught me never to underestimate the power of a single
digit euro. I am doing a darn good job at disposing my precious stuff wants. I have noticed that attaching a value to my used stuff and realizing that somebody somewhere is looking for exactly what i deem almost useless, motivates me to kill the hoarding temptation and graciously pass my stuff over *give them a new home*
So far, I have dealt with a 15% of the easiest stuff to dispose. Am filled with dread (considering I have to lose 90% of it all) as I go through my wardrobe and once more the wants vs need battle begins. So I have come up with a rational(i think) disposal method.
Whatever can fetch me a dime goes in one heap, it’s christmas so why not have a heap destined for the Salvation Army dumpsters not too far from my apartment? Then there is the hoard category – I must hold on to something especially, my now very worn out khanga, it was my grandmothers. The tossing, sorting, disposing and fist fights *in my brain* continue.
The excitement and adrenaline rush as I anticipate the move to the unknown is the real reason there is some level of sanity in me.
I was born and raised in a part of the world where we broke down our year by school terms, rainy, cold and dry/hot seasons. To others, planting, weeding and harvesting periods. So when, I moved to this part of the world, I was forced to take on a new way of describing my year. Autumn, Winter, Spring and Summer – I arrived on a dark, snowing november
night afternoon *it may as well have been the winter solstice* These times of the year mean different things to different people. I realize that it has taken me quite sometime to arrive at a personal definition of seasons, devoid of external influences. The coming to life of everything in the spring, the warmth and summer solstices or crimson beauty the autumn brings and the exotics of the snow, the November darkness still puzzles me. I find that I am terribly influenced by other people’s definitions and their adjectives surrounding what these foreign seasons mean to them. Yes, they are still very foreign.
Something is native because we are born of it, everything we do is very interconnected to our place(s) of origin, the days we modelled clay and made toy cars from used cloth hangers or dolls from old torn woolen sweaters, or filled Coca-Cola bottles with a mixture of water and soil *industriousness* The foods that define our cultural orientation, the trees we climbed or didn’t and what they mean to us. Music and how it has taken shape in our lives. Going back to my topic of nativeness and foreignness, it is therefore due to reasons such as this that I from time to time get lost in conversations, I am unable to connect present symbols to a past I was not a part of.
Something, annoying and a little funny occurred in my apartment block early this week. Lately, it seems we have acquired a new tenant who seems to be very generous with things loud. I tend to think he lives in the shower because he sometimes outsings the music he’s playing *I believe this only happens in a shower environment* basically his is the epicenter of our recent woes. As much as I welcome occasional breaks from this very revered Finnish silence, am on the verge of signing the petition that is doing rounds. Can’t stand the bass anymore nor the distasteful babble i am being subjected to – no, my walls are not wafer thin, this is just a raucous breed. So, Mr Jukebox decided to take generous to another level. I was convinced that he may have thrown a pre-christmas party because everything was a notch higher plus there was another distinctively high-pitched voice backing up his rusty singing. I was getting agitated by the moment. Petition signed! No amount of plugging my ears or suffocating myself in my covers was working, never mind that this was Tuesday night – of all days!
All of a sudden the music died and i was relieved, idiots must have eaten their speakers, or maybe the men in blue intervened. I have never been so wrong. With the same suddenness, an eruption of yelling and screaming descended upon us. The obscenities, let’s just say am glad I have no children. Then came the slamming of doors and the stern threat of ‘am gone for good’ I was watching from my door peephole. ¨Yes, get gone! back to wherever it is that you came from¨ I almost yelled back. Mr. Jukebox actually has a partner,*eyebrows raised* i was certain he was the young, carefree kind. Well, the lady *I am been very kind* painted a very bleak picture.
Silence reigned, for at least 1,2,3…….10 minutes, then the doors slammed and she was back, this time round, amidst her berating, reminded him that were it not for the weather conditions, that would have been the last he’d have seen of her.
Winter, a spousal fight and an involuntary rapprochement – a new meaning
My heart breaks with you, all you who called her sister, sinister a deed as this, causes beautiful memories to fester, like a leprosy. My aunty, cousin, niece, friend, colleague, neighbor…. My soul is lost, so lost with yours, you remain the amazing lady she called mother. Dismayed, my spirit is dismayed with yours, two adorable angels who called her mother. I am mobbed, mobbed by the maze your robbed soul finds itself in, a long dark Jordan. A walk you must bear alone and guide your broke home through. I summon the gods, for beat you must these odds.
Yesterday was one very bleak day, but for others, bleak doesn’t even come close to describing what an ordinary dawn dragged along. i spent most of my day in a daze, oscillating between images of you, your beautiful face and gentle smile *as i remember it* what your last thoughts may have been, how this will pass, if it ever does. I think i’ll be stuck here for sometime; i still refuse to accept it. No, this happens to other people, people i read about in the news. Not you!
What darkness is this that engulfs a soul so much, that all the love and laughter is drowned in an ocean of a mighty non yielding despair? Why can’t a timely intervention occur, at the point where all the highs have been chased to avoid all the lows and you find yourself on your last drop? Lupita Nyongo during a recent Hollywood roundtable quoted Khalil Gibran ‘The deeper sorrow carves itself into your being, the more joy you can contain.’ I wish this was remotely possible for you. I wish this quote would have come alive for you.
I don’t know what shape this grief will take; for its nature is far from the norm. I can imagine the stilled breathing people trying not to cry – yet sobbing hard anyway. I don’t know how long the going continues after this, especially by that spot, an involuntary shrine. One way or another, life must go on, you must love each other, together, like crazy. This one is messy
So we were just chilling with one of my friends reminiscing about old times. We were particularly dwelling on our folks and the stories told to us when we were kids. Make believe stories which were meant to motivate us or put a hellish fear of failure or position themselves as victims in our innocent minds, stories such as; ‘Be grateful you got shoes, i didn’t have any’ or ‘ i had to walk twenty something kilometers to and from school in my day’ and when we were slightly older, the script took a sudden shift *parental rant* ‘i could easily drive a *insert most trendy car* or * i could live in a leafy suburb like so and so, but i put it aside for you to get through campus’ the list goes on. Am sure there are still more rants in store for me, talk of being trapped. My folks credit themselves for my life – i’d have stuff to say about that – in another blog perhaps. i don’t see this changing. My friend and I had a good laugh at our folks’s stark similarities.
After our last drop of coffee, we parted ways and as i sat in the bus, i begun re-living the parental rant conversation we just had. My bus ride home lasts some 20 minutes, of which i either plug my headphones or allow my mind to just drift away. Today, my thoughts were drowned by this topic. I begun wondering if i’ll be any different, i mean, haven’t i forgone a great deal of indulgence in order to secure a stable future for myself? Yes, myself. Truth is however, it will probably have nothing to do with me. More like for the kids, their needs and wants. So this got me thinking, are these thoughts influenced by the stories told to me by my folks, will my life follows the same exact or almost exact path?
Someone once said that ‘The problem with us now – is not who we are. It’s what we define ourselves by. And we define ourselves by stories’ so can these stories lead me to becoming a ranting, story telling parent? To answer this, my mind created a story. I started out with a statement and transformed it into a chapter, i realized that line after line i end up with the same conclusion.
The decision to be independent had(s) nothing to do with my folks, when i set out to achieve the highest literacy level possible, financial stability, emotional and social stability among others, the image of my parents was nowhere in the horizon. I was inspired by, how/what i would not want my life to end up as. I certainly don’t remember thinking that my this or that degree is to be achieved for my son or daughter, or my last paycheck in honor of my unborn offspring. No, i was driven by among others an innate ambition to excel, this ambition still keeps me awake some nights and on my toes all day because am still miles from where i envision myself.
At this point in my life (must be an age thing) suddenly, i marry my ambitions to my offspring. I feel as if i owe it to them to be successful. I think, this is the genesis of parental ranting or stories. When you begin to feel indebted to someone else, own child or other you are likely to at some point expect some form of payback. In my local tongue gúcokia guoko. The question remains, are we resigned to this, generation after generation? The answer is yes. I will most likely expect the same from my children, i just wonder what shape my stories will take.
I find that i want my stories to remain mine and hope that they will be granted a just interpretation. Easy to say this now hah! bet a real life cast would play out differently.