The Colorful Times » Women

She’s Gotta Have It

Dani — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 07:22:20 +0000

I lost my virginity at fourteen: didn’t realise back then that virginity is a thing that cannot be reclaimed. If I’d realised this simple truth at 14, perhaps the young Dani would have waited before entering into the world of sexual intimacy.

At the tender age of 14, I developed an unusual appetite for sex that did not cease until recently at 25. My friends tease me and often say I have the mentality of a man when it comes to sex. I even bet a male friend in college to see who could have the most sex in one week. The bet was not monetary, but simply laughs and bragging rights (I won). So, the thought of being celibate for money would have warranted a laugh and a kind ‘no thank you.’ There were not enough church services or communions to coax me out of premarital sex. There were not enough HIV commercials to scare me from fulfilling this sexual appetite; nor did the thought of pregnancy.

For years, I tried to examine the reasons this appetite grew so strongly in my belly. Could I attribute it to sexual abuse as a child or low self esteem? Perhaps I just wanted acceptance from men. Maybe I am a woman who is simply comfortable with her sexuality. The reasons resounded in my head over and over again for years. However, none of these reasons appeased me at the end of the day.

Eventually, I came to the reality that one cannot erase the past. One can, however, pave a clean path for the future. This led to futile attempts at being a ‘born again virgin’ with desires to abstain from sex and take on a ‘quasi’ state of celibacy. Each attempt failed miserably. Without effort I found myself right back where I started: entering into meaningless sexual relationships with man after man.

So, at 25, when a man I was dating approached me with being abstinent, I nearly lost my mind. Numerous thoughts ran across it. I thought perhaps he was homosexual. Then I thought perhaps he has HIV/AIDS. Maybe he just does not find me desirable. Besides, we were already involved in a sexual relationship. So why the sudden change? The request was suspect and I refused to let naivety get in the way, but I was in an awkward situation. Normally, I enter into sexual relationships with men for fear of losing them. However, this decision was reversed. I feared that if I did not abstain, no matter what his reasons, I would lose him. I knew that whatever the end result, I would learn much from this life lesson.

Today, I look on this experience as myself saving myself from myself. At first, the lack of sex had no effect on me. Between church, two jobs, and living a considerable distance from the man I was dating, the initial stages of celibacy were easy. Then as the days grew into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, my whole psyche began to break down. I came to the realisation that I was physically addicted to sex and suffering from withdrawal in the worst
way. I was frustrated with people and even more frustrated with this man for torturing me. Then I began to dig introspectively realising that there is more to interactions with men than sex, and that my self worth extends beyond how I please men sexually.

Abstaining from sex was short lived, however. I do admit, it was the longest that I have abstained from sexual intercourse and during that time I experienced the purest interaction with a man. I felt a greater sense of empowerment, no longer mentally enslaved by the act of sex. This experience has taught me that yes, I can abstain, and any future attempts at abstinence will no longer be a chore, but just a regular task.

For further details on treating sexual addiction, visit www.sash.net

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Fairytale Princess

Staff — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 14:12:11 +0000

Kwame Nkrumah once said, “Far better to be free to govern or misgovern yourself than to be governed by anybody else.” This statement directed against the British colonial forces oppressing Ghana at the time has inadvertently come to represent a way of life for one Stephanie Benson, modern heiress to the ancient Queen of Ashanti throne.

Sultry, sexy singer, mother of five, independent woman, and loving wife are just some of the hats worn by Stephanie Benson. Dressed casually in jeans today, this beautiful woman would cut a dashing poise in any setting. But don’t let the chiselled features, hour-glass shape and sexy pout belie the strength of character and steely determination that drives this woman towards her single-minded path for happiness.

The stories of a fairytale princess never normally go from rags to riches, not that Stephanie is short of a bob or two these days. But never did the Brothers Grimm or The Arabian Nights tell tales of beautiful princesses who gave it all up for love and a bungalow in Kent. Then again, these stories were written long before Princess Akua Ohenewaa Asieanem of Kokobin (a.k.a. Stephanie) was born. So, this daughter to millionaire pharmacist Samuel Benson and Queen Nana Achiaa Boahemaah II decided to marry an English bloke and live in the unsanctified world of unsanitised people.

It all started when Stephanie’s father died. She was sent to live with her strict uncle in England. At the age of 15, she thought that she had escaped the restrictive lifestyle of royal protocol but found out that although she was living in North London affluence, her movements were still constantly supervised and under the watchful eyes of her uncle and his employees.

When she had finished her schooling, she took up employment as her uncle’s secretary. Whilst there, she was sent on a computer training course where she met her future husband, Jonathan. It was more or less love at first sight for him, says Stephanie, and she recalls that it took slightly longer for her to warm to the idea.

“I was 19 when I went on my first date with Jonathan. And I ended up falling head over heels in love with him. I had also realised that my uncle would never accept it, so we had to meet in secret.” When Jonathan proposed Stephanie eagerly accepted. The night she rang her mother to tell her the news, her uncle insisted that she return to Ghana immediately.

Once there, a huge party was arranged and the place filled with eligible suitors. Despite thinly veiled attempts by the family to force her to stay, Stephanie quickly returned to England where she is now twenty years into her marriage. Five children later, a chocolate shop and factory in Tunbridge Wells, a record deal she walked out on, and a flourishing career as a singer, she still claims to be very much in love.

But who in their right mind would follow the little man’s dream in reverse – from riches to rags – and still loudly proclaim to be happy?

Why would anyone want to give up a life of luxury; personal servants, a 25-bedroom mansion, education in the best schools of the world and, an annual trust fund as big as most people’s lifetime earnings?

Sultry, sexy singer, mother of five, independent woman, and loving wife are just some of the hats worn by Stephanie Benson. Photographed by Kofi Allen.

“My life growing up was really never easy,” she sighs. “My mother was never around very much. Our life was governed by strict protocols, customs, rules and old-fashioned traditions. I couldn’t just run up to her for a hug when other people were around, or even call her mom,” she says rather wistfully.

This enforced distance between mother and child is in stark contrast to the relationship she cultivates with her own five growing brood, aged 9 to 20 years old. Her busy day-to-day world is very much like any other mother, yet despite a hectic schedule, daily school runs, live performances, time in the studio, and helping to run the family business, she still somehow manages to share quality time with her children.

“I like to be a trendy mum. My children know they can talk to me any time. I am their mum, and their friend,” she says matter-of-factly. So what lessons on race, identity and culture does a black woman who grew up in the royal lap of luxury pass on to her mixed-race children, particularly when deciding on schools and where to live? None, apparently, and it works just fine. “My two eldest daughters went to a private school from the age of three and, as it were, they were the only black children there. They never suffered any harm from it,” she shrugs.

“The only time we had a problem was once when another child told my son, ‘We don’t sit next to brown people.’ My son didn’t understand what he meant and was quite upset by it,” she says now, visibly disturbed by the memory. “That was probably my mistake. I never really discuss racism with them. I never had a chip on my shoulder in that way.” This statement, which to many may seem both ignorant and cold, underlines the reality of Stephanie Benson’s world view.

She has never really seen herself as a ‘black’ woman as such. She has never really shared the same cares or concerns as the masses. What Stephanie Benson knows above all else is that she is in-line to the throne of the royal Queen of Ashanti. She carries within her the lineage of great warriors and daring heroines, and that knowledge of history coupled with determination is what propels her through life and gives her an edge on self-worth.

In fact, Mrs Benson comes across as fiery, rebellious and very, very confident. None of it is a front. She is a consummate professional and utterly charming with it, too. This strong, rebellious, single-minded ancestry is what she claims to pass on to her children, and hopefully, they in turn to theirs.

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Uncircumcised Girl Day

Matt Gibbs — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 02:20:36 +0000

Female Genital Mutilation/ Cutting is barbaric. Few subjects can make my face contort in horror, nor make my blood boil with anger, than FGM/C. There is no reason for it. People who hide behind ‘culture’ (whatever that is) to justify it are cowards. Old women who continue to perform the operation perpetuate their own sex’s subjugation. It reduces a woman’s sexuality. It causes lifelong pain. It kills.

Organisations the world over have been advocating against it for years. I’ve read dozens of papers and reports on strategies to change attitudes and behaviour – some very successfully.

But the last strategy I read about in Ethiopia made me smile. Uncircumcised girl day. The strategy was to encourage whole villages to celebrate the marriages of uncircumcised girls. “See? Uncircumcised girls can get married too!” I get the point and apparently it peaked enough interest for communities to form action committees to abandon the practice. Brilliant. But imagine those shy girls on their wedding day. They’re blushing brides, but not for conventional reasons. They blush because in these conservative communities where sex-chat is taboo, their in-tact genitals are the focus of discussion. The world is talking about their private bits so that generations of girls to come will not have to put up with any uninvited party touching their private bits ever again. It rather seems to take the romance out of it… but perhaps it’s a price worth paying.

So any lady who is reading this and is fortunate never to have felt the rough edge of a rusty razor blade or the sharp flint of a piece of broken glass, spare a thought for your sisters in Ethiopia, Sudan and other countries besides. And celebrate your own “uncircumcised girl day.”

http://www.stopfgmc.org/

http://www.unicef.org/protection/index_genitalmutilation.html

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A Traditional African Wedding or Not?

hushcolor — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 13:29:42 +0000

Last week, I attended a wedding accompanied by my West African workmates. It had been their dream to attend a Kenyan ceremony right before they left for their respective countries. So, when one of our colleagues sent me an invitation card to his wedding, I decided to tag them along.

The church service was normal. In fact, they seemed to identify with how the Anglican service was conducted. I was even pleased with myself when we walked outside as the bridal party proceeded to take photos. No major hiccups. Nothing had made me cringe. The pastor had spoken in fluent English.

Then I got this question from the elderly mother of my West African friend who had accompanied us. “How come both the bride and groom were only represented by their respective single mothers?” she asked, curiously. I was hasty with my reply. I mean, with a trend in developed countries of families broken by divorce, I thought it would have been quite clear why the couple were only represented by their single mothers. “I believe their parents divorced,” I shrugged.

I didn’t know that I was opening up a can of worms. I was then given a lesson on how even though families break and married couples divorce, at the time of weddings, everyone should forget their differences and come together for the occasion. Moreover, in West Africa, it is only men who walk the bride down the aisle. If the father is deceased, one of his brothers is the only man allowed to substitute for the absent father.

I was afraid to tell them that in this part of the world, some men use the names of their mothers as surnames. A good example being one of our record-breaking Kenyan athlete, but that would have fuelled another debate. And besides, why should I need to justify that?

I was just shocked that people still bury their heads in the sand over single mothers. If for example in the case of my colleague, his mother had got pregnant and the supposed boyfriend/father abandoned her, and she went ahead to raise his child to a man by herself, why would she want anything to do with the biological/ceremonial father at the wedding? Not that I stand for divorce and single motherhood but in the society in which we live, these are common things.

Anyway, aside from being asked why the bride did not consider adorning traditional ornaments or putting on an African wedding dress, we went to the grounds for the reception service. I was glad that they enjoyed the njahis, chapattis, mukimos and rice, which are the common food for that particular ethnic group.

The entertainment segment followed. The event’s MC spoke mainly in Kikuyu with a bit of English and Swahili in between. They were utterly bored and with good reason. I spent the better part of the afternoon translating the MC’s jokes. Not that they sounded the same after translation, but yeah, I tried. The thing with African jokes is that you cannot possibly translate them and come out with the depth of humour. Lost in translation, the jokes just loose their meaning.

We then danced to a mix of songs the Deejay played. At least the one thing all Africans have in common is knowing how to dance. Whether you understand the particular language matters not. From Zimbabwe’s Oliver Mtukudzi’s Tuku music (may his wonderful son rest in peace) to danceable South African Kwaito or even better, the Nigerian tunes that are currently threatening to rule our airwaves, we danced as if we could not stop.

I was made to know that in West Africa, this ceremony would have been accompanied by drummers mixing the beat and dancers moving to the excitement. But I was glad they enjoyed our dancing, anyway.

The speech and gift segment followed. This is usually my favourite part, well, the dancing too, except, I also enjoy the “oh” and “ahs” when certain members of the couple’s family give speeches. Guests are always whispering, add giggling, “Oh, they are so learned,”…”Oh, his mother looks so young,”…”Oh, they look so much alike.” I think the ‘oh’ we stole from the whites who colonized us and we misuse it a lot in our conversation.

I wondered, and I know most of Kenyans who attend these weddings wonder, why there is always an unused gift tent put up on the wedding grounds with beautiful ladies waiting to register gifts. It doesn’t make any sense because in this segment, the MC normally calls on both sides of the bride and groom family to offer their speeches. This involves the parents of the bride, praising her prowess in cooking, and sometimes, even issuing empty threats to the groom’s family. Most often, it’s threats about the daughter being taken back to her parental home, if not treated well. Then automatically, you see a huge unpacked gifts brought to the high table, usually a refrigerator, big plasma TV, a gas cooker, or a bed.

Then it’s the turn of the groom’s parents to brag about their family and how lucky the bride is to join them. How they will take the best care of her possible, and once again, an unwrapped gift reaches the high table. The crowd go into whispers, debating which side bought the biggest gifts.

A Kenyan wedding, like any other, cannot be completed without the wedding cake. Guests wait for their piece of the cake as if they have never eaten cake before, and as juvenile as it may appear, it always works for them. “Hmmm,” they’ll sigh, licking their lips and debating the taste. Then, just like clockwork, they all vanish one-by-one, even before the occasion has finished. I hear this happens in West Africa, too. So that was sorted--I didn’t need to explain our flight from the scene to anyone.

As we were leaving, I was asked one final question. “Why is it you Kenyans do not dress-up appropriately for weddings?” You see, my guests had arrived in beautiful kitenge dresses and head wraps, while yours truly wore a long skirt with a casual blouse. My dressing was mild compared to those who had come in jeans trousers, they told me. But I could learn a thing or two, they continued, on how to be ‘truly African’ and stop living in my modern ways.

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Precious – Black, Fat and All In Your Face?

Dani — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 12:41:21 +0000

Anyone that knows me will tell you that I loathe urban fiction. Despite the fact that this genre is selling and filling the bookshelves at major chains, I just can’t get past the lack of substance in many of these books. However, with the buzz surrounding the movie Precious, I needed to see what the hype was about.

The book: Push

The movie, Precious, is based on the novel Push by Sapphire. The first few pages were in your face with urban vernacular and the gritty details of Claireece Precious Jones’ life. The reader quickly learns that Claireece, known by most as Precious, is uneducated and having her second baby by her father. After reading the first few pages, I smirked, “Just like the rest of the books I have read.” But despite my early cynicism, I continued reading and quickly departed from my initial bias. Sapphire had presented a story that was cohesive, thought provoking and, at the same time, poetic. Each chapter ebbed and flowed onto the next, and as I read, the writing had remnants of Jamaica Kincaid with its repetitious thoughts from the narrator.

Push is a story about survival and overcoming great obstacles. I am Precious Jones, and if you polled a dozen black women walking down the street, I can almost guarantee that the majority of them will relate to various elements of that troubled life. Perhaps the most poignant strand of the story was the negative self-image and abuse suffered by the central character. She described herself as, “big, five feet nine-ten, I weight over two hundred pounds. Kids is scared of me.”

At another point, she says, “Sometimes I pass by store window and see somebody fat dark skin, old looking, someone look like my muver look back at me. But I know it can’t be my muver ‘cause my muver is at home…Who I see? I stand in tub sometime, look at my body, it stretch marks, ripples. I try to hide myself, then, I try to show myself.”

Precious ultimately believes it is her looks that cause her to be abused by her father and often dreams of being white, skinny, or having long hair. If her father ceased to see her as the black, ugly girl, then he wouldn’t abuse her. So riddled is she by this abuse and poor self-image that Precious even questions her own existence.

When she enrols in a new school, she begins to exist for the first time. She meets a teacher who doesn’t judge her and truly cares about her development. Her class is filled with girls who have similar stories. Ultimately, the girls provide a support system, a much needed outlet for Precious, and most importantly, friendship.

The story took an unexpected twist when Precious was diagnosed with HIV. Precious didn’t really know what that diagnoses meant. She knew her father died from it and it wasn’t good. She began asking ‘why’ once again, but was encouraged not to focus on the ‘why,’ but just to focus on ‘what’s next?’ But what could be next for a girl like Precious? All she can say is, “Not where I am.” This simple sentence is so poignant because we have all felt as if things could not get any worse--and we have all been in positions where we couldn’t see our way out of that tunnel. Yet despite all the hardships, this young woman remained optimistic, and that’s the enduring quality of this story.

The movie: Precious

Brought to life by Philadelphia native Lee Daniels (who produced Monsters Ball), the film opened in just eighteen theaters across the United States and grossed over $2million in its opening weekend. Its success was largely attributed to the promotion by Tyler Perry and Oprah Winfrey who both put their executive producer stamps on it. The cast was star-studded with Mo’Nique, Paula Patton (Robin Thicke’s wife), Mariah Carey, Lenny Kravitz, and introducing newcomer, Gabourey Sidibe in the title role.

Precious has been getting Oscar buzz and recently Mo’Nique won a Golden Globe for best supporting actress playing mom to the central character. Lee Daniels is no stranger to the Oscars, either. Remember a teary-eyed Halle Berry as she accepted her award for Monsters Ball? Whether or not this film receives an Oscar, Precious is bold, daring, well put together, and educational. The issues I have are not with the screenplay or the book, but with the lack of continued conversations about sexual abuse, teen pregnancy, and self-image in our communities.

Gabourey ‘Gabby’ Sidibe, star of Precious, has openly criticized the project for being too focused on race and size, but seems to have missed the important themes. The novel highlighted the importance of support mechanisms, such as the incest survival group Claireece belonged to in the original story. Many people underestimate and dismiss the lasting effects sexual and other forms of abuse can have on the physical and emotional well-being of individuals, where in America, teenage pregnancies have reached record levels. A Chicago high school made national news in 2009, for example, when over 14% of its female students were found to be pregnant or already the mother of a child. While Precious’s pregnancy was involuntary, many young women are freely engaging in sexual activities with little regard to their health, STIs or the possibility of pregnancy.

Some have even strayed away from the book and its cinematic interpretation claiming that “it’s all too gritty and in your face” for their liking, but perhaps we could all use a little ‘in your face’ with our cup of tea these days. Maybe, then, important issues like these will get pushed to the forefront instead of to the back, dialogues can start in homes, schools and on street corners, and measurable actions can be put in place to help young women like Precious, and myself.

Precious is scheduled for UK release at the end of January 2010.

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Does being a full-time working mum really ‘save’ your sanity?

London City Mum — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 07:30:47 +0000

Rarely a day goes by when I am not asked whether I work full time. By answering “Of course.” You’d think that would settle the matter. However, it is inevitably followed by, “Why?”

“To preserve my sanity,” I reply. Although these days, I do wonder sometimes. How is it that I so often come out of a meeting with supposedly grown up professionals feeling like I should have put half of them in the naughty corner and half of them at the table with crayons and strict instructions only to draw on the paper? The mind boggles. Is working full-time really a case of getting away from infantile behaviour and temper tantrums, or just a substitute for the same albeit with older, and presumably, more mature participants?

The issue in essence goes further than these flippant observation. Being a full-time working mother to three young children certainly presents challenges. How do you ensure that all your offspring are up, washed, dressed, fed and ready to walk out the door by 7.30am every weekday morning? Military regime? Yes, that works. Reward schemes? That too. And let’s be honest here, a lot of shouting by yours truly. I dare anyone not to shout after asking a four year old to “please put your shoes and socks on” for the twelfth time.

What about wraparound care? A case for endless debate. In my view, a blessing. Don’t know where we would be without it. Actually, not true, I do know. At the bank asking for an extended loan repayable in the year 2035 most likely. Do the children feel excluded, unwanted, unloved by being ‘handed over’ to others to look after them? Are you kidding me? More often than not I have to rein them in as we approach the school breakfast club: their eagerness to play with their friends before the school day begins is surprising. As for after-school, if I had a pound for every time I have been scolded by my eldest (now six and a half) for coming to collect him too early, that fictitious loan from the bank would probably be in credit. Much the same goes for the youngest, if I collect him from nursery before 6pm.

My point is this. I love working. I enjoy my job: it is challenging, rewarding and the people with whom I spend my working hours are (on the whole…there are exceptions) talented individuals. Would I feel as rewarded, if I had opted to be a stay-at-home mum? Possibly. I may never know. I do know that the times when I have had to remain on home premises–sickness, redundancy, gardening leave (wonderful term that), maternity–I have loved looking after my children, but in small doses. There are only so many drawings you can do, books you can read, trips you can make before repetition sets in, and I start to look at the clock wondering, “Hmmm, how long to dinner, bath and bed time?”

Does this make me a bad mother? I hope not. The children are well-balanced, happy, and healthy. They are great companions and curious about the world around them. Their social skills are good enough that we have never had to take them back to a restaurant to apologise, and they are much coveted as ‘play mates’ by their peers. So, something tells me, I have got it right.

A more pressing factor however – in case it was not obvious – is that I have to work. Living in London and opting for a certain level of lifestyle (nothing lavish, the occasional trip to cinema is about as exciting as it gets) means that surviving on one income alone is simply not viable. Even if we were not paying for childcare, which, let’s face it, is extortionate at any rate. A single income would mean a lot of cutbacks.

Quite frankly, I am not sure whether my other half would actually appreciate me giving up work. Coming home to a whining wife complaining about the latest child development intricacies she has had to deal with like wrestling the remote control off one of them, the increasing cost of fruit and veg, and the latest gossip from the school playground drop-off/pick up, and other shenanigans, would probably tip him over the edge. It’s bad enough having to deal with my nagging (at least, I admit it) without asking him to put up with a bored wife.

For it is my firm belief that I would be just that: bored. Although there have been studies galore about the pros and cons of working mothers versus those who opt to stay at home and bring their children up, I am yet to find one that truly asks the working mums what they want and prefer. Those that choose to work, I mean. It is easy to point the finger, and say, “an unbalanced child is the result of insufficient parent care/love/attention (delete as appropriate), but when I drop the kids off in the mornings, I do so in the knowledge that the people who are looking after them are far more capable of balancing tolerance (of children’s antics) and entertainment (learning through play) for extended periods than I would be on my own. And at any rate, they certainly do not yell as much as I do.

I am, undoubtedly, also influenced by what I see around me. A number of girlfriends have given up careers – some left very promising and rewarding jobs – to dedicate themselves to bringing up their children. Many are very happy with their choice, but there are exceptions, and these are what I seem to take note of. One girlfriend now bemoans no longer having a job and after some ten years out of the workforce is torn between going back to college to retrain for something else, or trying to find a part-time position that still satisfies her ‘career aspirations.’ The latter is unachievable in today’s marketplace, she worked in the City, and the former is a demand too far on her precious time. She is fortunate to be in a position where a second salary is not a pre-requisite to maintaining their lifestyle–although she does admit that she misses not having an income of her own.

Another wife of a colleague gave up everything to focus on the family. Some twenty years on, she has settled with a younger man after five years of surviving on uppers and downers to get through everyday life, and coming to terms with the children leaving home. A rather drastic example, perhaps, but my point is that beyond her circle of focus, she had nothing else to fall back on.

So is my attitude selfish? Possibly. Is it healthy? Let’s put it this way, it keeps me sane. Will I feel, in later life, that I have missed out on the formative years of my children’s lives? Excuse me? What about weekends and holidays? Do these not count? I think there is only so much you can give up to raise your children to the best of your abilities, and surely, it often boils down to quality of time together not just quantity.

For me, giving up full time work is certainly not an option I am willing to consider. At least not for the time being.

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