woman scorned, woman burned ii

14 February 1967

Stanley isn't here. You'd think the bastard would have come up with something contrite, even a clumsy romantic attempt, to apologize. But I arrived home this morning to a cold flat - the hearth had never been lit. Three days ago, I might have cared. But now... I asusme he's with his whore.

It's just as well. I needed the time to myself. To think about things. Last night's things. So I lit the fire and put on the heater, preparing - reluctantly - to wash away last night's smells. Smells of champagne, the stale tobacco from John's lumpy couch, his cologne...

My lips are still soft, even a little sore. He couldn't bring himself to stop kissing me. When was the last time I kissed a man first thing in the morning, with no regard for sour morning breath? It was...delightful. I woke up to the feel, then the sight, of his pale fingers entwined with mine, his other hand playing with my tight curls. He was breathing deeply, even though I could tell he was awake. I smiled before I knew why. I'm not turned off by his paleness or ruddy splotches of skin, perhaps because I've seen him in the summer - he has a deep tan that matches my cocoa complexion quite nicely. Those summers on the yacht, bobbing lazy in the Lagos harbor, a cool breeze calmly wafting away the day's humidity. But for decency's demands, who knows what we may have done and allowed the ocean to wash away?

Our love was frantic last night. Desperate. We clawed at each other, as though it were our last chance. This morning, we took our time. It was...perfect.

So why do I feel so guilty?

Since I left John, beneath the exhilaration, I have felt slightly dirty, unwelcome, even to myself. I'm so angry for feeling this way. Am I not justified? Can I not enjoy the pleasure of finally feeling wanted by someone?? I was wronged! A man marries you, takes you away from your home, where you have never wanted for anything, where you knew where to go when you needed a yard of fabric, a juicy piece of gossip, a hot bowl of fish soup - he marries you, and brings you to his home, over rivers, seas, desert dunes. He has been estranged from his family for years; they hear about you, the native bride, and find more reason to maintain their icy distance. My responsibility to fit in, my duty to ignore the whispers, the ignored invitations to our dinner parties, with grace and dignity. I thought I left my happiness in Nigeria...now I think my happiness may be with John.

Maybe. I told him I'd see him again, though we never agreed when. And though we both know we shouldn't.

The bed wasn't slept in. Where could he have gone? What will I do when he gets back? What will I do if he doesn't?

I will draw a bath and inhale last night's smells one last time. And let tomorrow come and handle itself.



9 March 1967

I'm pregnant.

sadness

i feel sadness in my hand. like a heart attack, despair shoots down my left side and tingles in my palm. which means if i shed a tear, if i dwell on this sadness, i will conjure my own death. so i don't. i will scream, i will bite, and i will throw things. i will kick, i will slap, and i will say things. and none of those things can be taken back. they will build on each other, mounds of insults atop a foundation of hurt, until they create this enormous wall of animosity between us. and then, just like that, we won't be friends anymore.

then. only then. will i cry.

because i just can't seem to post every week...

25 random thingumajigs about kulu

1) I have 20/20 vision, but i squint when i look at objects at any distance.

2) This is due to a phase of my life when I envied people their various disabilities, no matter how temporary, and wished I were astigmatic, asthmatic, and diabetic with a couple of broken bones and braces. what a sight I would have been to behold...

3) I color-coordinate my wardrobe, down to the hangers that the clothes hang on, and I HATE it when anyone ruins the order. HATE it.

4) I detest water stains, so I wipe down everything that gets wet after I've used it. I only recently trained myself to stop wiping down the shower curtain, because it was making me late for work.

5) I have unabashed love for Janet Jackson. She is the only celebrity that could get me to stand in rain, sleet or snow, waiting for a concert. And she can't even sing!

6) Dimples...I love dimples. I love a man with dimples. And I love dimples so much that I have tried to create a dimple in my own cheek by smiling really hard with my forefinger poking my face. I don't have a dimple.

7) I'm unbearably shy, and it's not getting any better. I now RSVP to events I have no intention of attending, simply so I can seem more outgoing than I am, but I hate being around strangers. I really do.

8) I still wish I were a mermaid. For a 3-month period after watching The Little Mermaid and Splash (I was 8 years old), I would go to the Shell Club swimming pool in Port-Harcourt and swim like a fish, with my legs together. If wishes were mermaids...

9) I still bear scars I've had since my father took me and my sister to the village in 1991 and LEFT us there for a WEEK! I refused to go to toilet that whole week, and got so many sand fly bites that ALL got infected, and then I went to school at Hillcrest and, following a fateful history lesson, the boys used to call me "Battle of Wounded Knee" behind my back. My aunt, who we lived with, wouldn't let him take us anywhere for more than a day after that.

10) I don't like insects or pictures of insects. If there's a picture of an insect (or an amphibian for that matter) on a page, I have to hold a part of the page that doesn't have the picture touching it to turn it, or if it's a full page picture, I have to shut the book and try to continue reading from the other side.

11) I forgot how to dance. The 2-step is my new best friend.

12) For a very long time, I didn't want to touch or be touched by white people cuz I had managed to convince myself they weren't clean or something, I dunno. I was nearly 17 by the time I got over it, and 20 before I got over it fully. To commemorate the occasion, I made out with this Italian guy.

13) I don't like physical affection - kisses, hugs, etc. And I'm dating the most physically affectionate person in the entire world - it's exhausting, but I'm calling it 'therapy'.

14) I didn't know how to cook until I came to America and lived here for a couple of years. The first time I made stew, I tasted it and thought I was subconsciously trying to kill myself. But I kept at it, and now I'm a badass! You don't believe me, ask about me!

15) How can I only be on #15??? I don't like long questionnaires. Dammit.

16) I don't sleep in the dark. OK, OK...I can't sleep in the dark.

17) I never ran a whole mile until I was 22 years old.

18) I wish lesbians would hit on me.

19) I have to contemplate my death - or rather, people's grief at my funeral - in order to cry real tears.

20) I HATE - oh my God - I HATE people who smack their lips when they're eating food or chewing gum. I have moved train cars, pumped music into my ears and crossed the street to get away from their crass incivility.

21) I wish I could dress like Erykah Badu. But I don't have the tits. Or the ass.

22) I love driving long distances - a 7-hour drive is pure bliss to me (if I have enough CDs). And I prefer not to have company.

23) I want to be a screenplay writer, but I don't really like movies. How's that for irony?

24) I develop drug-resistant insomnia when I'm stressed out.

25) I wish I had more friends and a bigger living room so we could play Taboo. I love Taboo.

had it to Here

The one question that followed me after the week I've had was: can you get fired for telling off the CFO where you work?

Not for the first time, my inability to hold my temper has given me cause for worry. At the same time, however, I have to wonder: how many times should I be expected to hold my tongue in the face of unbearable disrespect? The stamp of my organization is disorganization. The folks who run the programs work on the second floor, and carry out their responsibilities very differently from the people who support them: the operations team, the finance team, the HR team, i.e. the folks on the third floor. It can create significant tension, most of which I avoid in my usual way: by keeping to myself. But I understand the frustration that gets passed around - part of my job, as a left- and right-brained individual, is mediating between my free-spirited supervisor, who has no regard for accounting principles or receipts, and the exceptionally patient senior accountant, who only ever does her best to comply with this company's ever-changing standards and requests with a smile.

The week started with one of my team members snapping at me. She, like many of us, is frustrated because she doesn't think she's being allowed to do her job. She is also, apparently, one of many people who is frustrated specifically with my supervisor. When my boss is away, I'm her mouthpiece. So, by extension, I got snapped at. I wasn't offended, because all she said was, "I don't fucking know what to do about this," and apologized immediately after. In fact, I tried to talk her off the ledge. But when the senior accountant went on a diatribe the very next day, I started to wonder whether it was 'shit on kulu' week. Little did I know: it was. She berated me for a full five minutes, ending with the inflammatory "it's not you..." speech, and if I didn't see her as a mother hen at the office, I'd probably have found some way to lash back. It's a very simple concept: if I'm not the one you're mad at, don't yell at me. But I chopped it, which was probably where things started to go very wrong.

I went home on Tuesday night, very confused and upset. For the first time in a long time, I didn't want to go to work the next morning. And unfortunately, Wednesday was no better. I had my first run-in with the CFO when I went to ask him a very simple question about creating a new internal budget, based on the ever-changing policies of the 3rd floor, and got a 15-minute demonstration, complete with marker and whiteboard, that didn't even answer my question! And the whole time, he's talking to me like I'm an idiot. The last straw was when he said, "Now, what's 90 plus 10? 100, right?" I refused to answer, partly because I was afraid of what I'd end up saying, and partly because I was sure he didn't expect me to answer. Would you believe this motherfucker actually TURNED AROUND, looked away from the whiteboard, and said, "It's 100, isn't it?"

Sweet Lord who created everything that is good. Several thoughts sprinted through my head at that point, including the one that reminded me that he is, after all, the CFO and that it would behoove me for the meantime to just get past this very awkward moment. So I choked out a very restrained Mmhm! and prayed for him to move on. I was doing well, I thought, until he was demonstrating how to multiply 100 by 25% and asked me if I understood how he did that. The rage that had been simmering in my gut shot out of my mouth in five terse syllables: I understand, Jack. Even he had to pause. He turned to me again and said, "Is there something the matter? Did I do something to offend you?" I forced a smile (I doubt I did it convincingly) and mumbled something about being totally fine. Then he switched tracks. He makes it a habit to speak in a falsely self-deprecating, run-on manner he obviously learned at some seminar; he thinks he's playing on your psychology and that you can't see through the act. It's infuriating. "Oh, well, you know, I know you know this, but you know, I'm an old guy, so I have to talk through the whole thing, just for me, you know, because my brain doesn't work as well as yours does, since you're younger than me, and I know you're smart as a whip, young lady, but just be patient with me while I go over this step by step, OK?" Wink, smile.

Slap him, said the devil on my left shoulder.

Slap him, said the angel on my right. But not right now.

They were hard to ignore (But when can I slap him, angel? When?? I busied myself thinking), but by some stroke of luck, I made it through Jack's torture without pointing out that he didn't even answer my question. Presentation over, I went over to the senior accountant's office and got the answer to my question in 3 seconds flat. Then I made the budget and sent it in to be approved. I don't often make mistakes when it comes to something as straightforward as math, so I was surprised to receive an email from the grants & budget manager that said, "Kindly be sure to use the following form when you turn in your budgets. NOTE: Your budgets will not be approved if you don't follow proper procedure." Now, I'm already having a fucked-up day, on top of a fucked-up week. The very last thing I need is this bullshit. No, the very last thing I needed was to scroll down (why, God, did I scroll down?) and see the email Jack wrote to the g&b manager, which said: Could you please make sure she understands the way we want to see budgets?

She? She?? I have a name, you bastard! And furthermore, I used your damn form! Is it my fault the form changes every month?! Maybe if you had a central place where one could go to submit their budget forms, we wouldn't have this problem! And frankly, I was just tired of being talked down to. Tired of having to deal with a bunch of yokels who barely know how to tie their own shoes, and are managed by a liar and a thief. Any peanut-brained moronic fool can do accounting at the level they're expecting to do accounting in this organization, and wouldn't have a problem doing it if we weren't presided over by an iron-fisted man who so happens to have no respect for the money he is granted by donors, big and small.

Whew! You think this is where I exploded at the CFO, don't you? Think again. I thought all this silently to myself, alone in my office for a welcome change because my office buddy was home sick. And then I re-submitted the budget using this most recent form, and went home to bitch to CB and plot my escape from that nonsense. I was already patting myself on the back for having come a long way on my journey to self-control and evenness. Little did I know the ingredients for my internal ticking timebomb had already been mixed. All they needed was a spark.

Enter Thursday: spark. My feet were like lead. It was all I could do to drag myself through the elevator doors to my desk. I just didn't want to be there. I heaved a huge sigh as I sat down at my desk and opened Outlook to check my emails. 25 new. I sighed again, and got up to get a cup of coffee. On my return, I noticed an email from Jack, subject line: Approved. I should have stopped right there, I really should have. But noooo, kulu has to read shit. Opened it up, skimmed the email, which was pleasant enough: Your budget has been approved. I just made a couple of changes. Could have stopped there too. But I opened the attached file and noticed he added some columns and numbers that just didn't make sense to me. I suppose I could have said anything else in my response, but I like to know things and understand things, and so I asked Jack another question instead of just saying thanks and keeping it moving. But my stupid ass decided to ask the jackass (pun not intended) why he added the numbers the way he did, and if he wouldn't mind calling me when he got a chance to let me know.

The day rolled on, and all the little things that take up my time quickly swarmed in my email and my door. So it was hours until I got back to my desk and saw Jack's response to my question from the morning: Oh, well, I'm certainly happy to help you fix this as well. Though I'm surprised, because I thought you'd be smart enough to know what to do here. I should tell you, though, that it's not my job to fix your mistakes so you should take more time to go over your work before you send them to me from approval.

Spark. Light. Fire!

I remember I tried to do several things at once in the following moments. I tried to smash my computer, while hitting Reply. I tried to type a scathing email, while trying to leave my office and never return. In the end, the adrenaline pumping through me proved stronger than any other act requiring thought. Before I knew what I was doing, I had picked up my phone, dialed his extension and was telling him how rude and inappropriate I thought he was. Enter Seminar Jack: "Oh, well, I certainly didn't mean to offend you, but I really have to say, I think you're a little angrier than I'd expect you to be over something as trivial as this. Is there something going on in your personal life that's triggering this reaction?" To that, I said, "Well, just how angry do you think I should be, Jack." Exclamation point.

It took a little while, but he eventually apologized. And because I felt it was the politically correct thing to do, and because the chilling reality that I was arguing with a senior manager was starting to break through my anger, I said that I would come upstairs to his office when I was feeling better to apologize to him. In retrospect, I'm glad I did that because I needed time to figure out what I could apologize for. Otherwise, my insincerity would have no camouflage and I'd almost certainly be on probation right now.

Lead re-entered my feet as I made my way up to the 3rd floor. I came to a complete standstill outside his office door, which was a shock even to me, so rarely am I physically overpowered by my visceral instincts (outside of anger, that is). When I walked in, he had that look on his face, the one I hated seeing, knowing that I had brought it on myself: that smile that said I pity you, lowly peon, overly emotional female, who would be so classless as to lose her temper at work. I felt so wretched, so mad at myself.

He invited me to sit down; I politely declined and launched right into the apology I had practiced at my desk and perfected in the stairwell. We went through the motions of formal apology, I guess. It was odd enough, given that I've never had any sort of confrontation in the whole year I'd been working at that office, but the conversation really took a weird turn once we'd determined that we were, in fact, sorry for our respective roles in the decline of decorum. Seminar Jack showed up, once again, and stuck around for the next half an hour. If you're counting, that's thirty minutes. "You know, and I don't know whether you know this, but I just really like to help people. And I'm very, very good at sensing when a person is going through some personal...distress, and you know, if you're having some personal problems, you should know that you can always come and talk to me in the strictest confidence."

I was shocked. What manner of blatant busybody was this? At the same time, I couldn't help but feel the tide shifting; I'd found his weak spot.

"Well," I said, "thanks for that, Jack. I appreciate it."

"Yeah, cuz you know, I used to work in a church. And one of my responsibilities there was just to listen to people and try to help them, because you know, I really just love to help people. So you can always come and tell me if you're going through anything. If you just woke up today and said, Fuck, I don't want to go to work today, you know, you can always come to me and say that. Or if your neighbor said boo to you, or your car didn't start, or someone cut you off, or you lost a parent, or a sibling, a child. Or if your coffee just didn't taste right. Or maybe you lost a bunch of money over the weekend. Or someone yelled at you. Just...anything. Because there has to be a bigger reason why you'd get so mad over something so trivial."

Apparently all that time at work didn't have any effect on his vocabulary. I was going to enjoy messing with this guy. "You know, I really should think about that, Jack. I'll go back and have a think, but ultimately, anger is a subjective thing. And frankly, I think it was enough that you would choose that response to what was an innocent question."

His play. "Yeah, I'll admit I was being a little bit of a bitch, you know, but y'know, I still think you are going through a little something that you just don't want to share."

We did this for half an hour, folks. Half an hour. Eventually, I got bored with it and started moving towards the door. "Thanks again, Jack. Really glad we could handle this professionally and thanks for accepting my apology."

"I know there's something you don't want to tell me!" he squealed.

I laughed as derisively as I dared. "Don't worry Jack; as soon as I can think of what the problem is, I'll be right here, knocking at your door." With that, I left.

Now I'm avoiding him. But I'm hoping I really have dodged that bullet. If they fire me, though, I might be grateful for the possibility of a life change, forced though it may be.

And now, I must run and catch the last quarter of the Super Bowl. Adieu.

expression

What are your favorite African expressions? Tell me on the AfricaLab channel: www.youtube.com/user/africalab. (Look in the sidebar for the link.)

More videos there as well - enjoy!

woman scorned, woman burned

13 February 1967

Last night I caught my husband fucking someone else in our bed. In six hours, I shall be fucking his best friend. And he will know all about it. Revenge shall be my orgasm. Which is more than I've ever gotten from that rat bastard.

I was worried when I started writing this that I wouldn't have enough anger left to fuel a complete account. Or that, forced to re-live that terrible, terrible moment, my pain would consume me and push me to abandon my plan. I am as relieved as I am scared to discover that, not only am I certain that I want to capture the memory forever, I am still as determined as ever to make that bastard suffer. I want to do this. God...who am I?

The worst part of his betrayal is that he was fucking her on my sheets. My brand-new, sultry, white, Egyptian cotton sheets. I haven’t even slept on them yet! He deliberately took them out of the airing closet, re-made the bed, and then proceeded to lay her on them and fuck her. That fucking BASTARD!!! If ever there was an indication that he was doing this just to spite me – that it wasn’t merely a matter of passion, or reckless abandon, or simply a lack of control – that was it. In the end, I didn’t even care that he had his face buried between the cunt’s legs (the son of a bitch has NEVER done that for me. Too risqué, wasn’t it, Lord Marcher? Not for the white woman. That PIECE OF SHIT!!!). I didn’t care that I could hear her pleasure howls before I even unlocked the front door (why was I home so early? Fate? Was I destined to have my life frayed in an instant?). I don’t even care that she’s white. Yes I do. Fuck, I do. Why should I?? What’s happening to me?? I’ve never cared before. My dignity has been soiled, like my sheets. And who am I without it? A woman scorned, thirsty for blood. The blood of her betrayer. Stanley, Stanley…you’re going to wish you never met me.

So there they were, having the time of their lives, if their moans were any indication. In my bed. I stood there for a moment, wondering how she could possibly have let a man so old propose to give her intimate pleasure. Of any kind. She looked around 28 years old! The dog…

Of course, the gasps and stammering, the frantic scrambling for clothes to hide their dreadful shame, followed soon after. Quite frankly, it bored me. I surprised myself by how collected I was. I just walked out. I left him in our marital bed with a whore nearly a decade younger than I. Ha! The more things change, the more they stay the same, don’t they, Leslie? Perhaps it’s time I use my real name. Would this have happened to Lolia? God…I’m so tired…

There was nothing else to do, so I made tea. God knows what they were doing the whole time while I was in the kitchen, why she only decided to step out after the kettle stopped whistling. Stupid cunt. I made her sit down in the parlour with me, interrogated her. I’m still marvelling at that one. If it’s true that one only comes to know one’s true self by one’s choices in the middle of conflict, then I am one very twisted woman. I asked after her name (Josie – how simple-sounding), her job (receptionist – how cliché), if she wanted children (she didn’t know). She was quite young, and appeared even more so as our interview progressed, stammering and blubbering, making a general fool of herself, really. I enjoyed it. I especially enjoyed asking her if she wanted a cup of my tea with lemon and sugar. What was she going to say? No? The whore drank a whole cup with me directing every sip she took, and I savoured thoroughly the look on her face as she contemplated whether she was being poisoned or not. I hope she threw up in the side alley on her way out. Pole bitch.

Stanley came out a little later. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t even look at him. He sat across from me. Couldn’t help but notice it was the same armchair Josie’d picked. Perhaps they’re soul mates. He started saying something after some time, but I wasn’t paying attention to a word he said. I was concentrating on keeping my tears firmly inside. If he really thinks I’m a cold bitch, then that’s exactly the person he will have. But I nearly lost my head when he started talking about children. What the hell did that have to do with anything? So we can’t have children; so what? I’ve never punished him for that. Never blamed him, never felt I was missing out on something exceedingly precious. He said he thought I wanted to be free, that he didn't think I loved him anymore. Free to do what? I do everything I want to do – I’ve always done. He wants to be free, the snake! He wants to be free, how dare he blame me!

I only have five minutes left. I still haven’t spoken to Stanley, in part because I haven’t yet decided what my first words to him will be. I slept with John. I’m going out. With John. To torture him with the thought of what I might be doing with his best friend, or to keep him wondering where I’ve been until I inform him. The haggard old bastard has been tearing up all day. Talk to me, Leslie. Say something, for God’s sake! I will say something. I will put on a dress that says I’m going out to get fucked. I will wear my come hither heels. And I will spray a perfume on my neck that beckons to all men, whispering, Kiss me…. It’s his favourite. I would hope it kills him on my way out, but I want to see the expression on his face when I’ve done all that I’m going to do.

Til tomorrow.

she hates she

I love the velvet softness of her chocolate skin. I have learned to love my breasts; still I desire hers: never obviously paler than her sun-touched face, the same tone as her stomach, thighs and legs. She has no wrinkles, none of the acne scars that mar my own face so obtrusively. Her lips, like mine, are full and soft; after brief, heartfelt visits, we used to kiss goodbye, and the love I had for her, coupled with the intense shock I always felt to discover that my face could sink into hers, made the hairs on my head rise. Her teeth are perfect white squares; when she wears blood red lipstick, and her lips part into that smile that could never be too wide, I melt in awe of her.

And yet. She cannot love herself.

She dresses her luscious curves in trendy fashions, but avoids the mirror of other people's eyes. I have known this woman all our lives, but never have I heard her accept a compliment. Not a smile, not even a quiet nod of acknowledgment. Her eyes glaze over for an instant before she moves the conversation along, as though all her efforts at style are merely a continuous internal competition that she knows she will not win. She doesn't want your validation. She doesn't need you to notice. She will never see herself as perfect. When we shop for makeup, she sighs and says, I wish I were mixed. They're so much prettier than we are, don't you think? No, I don't think. You are as dark as mahogany and you are perfect to me, I tell her, always. She shrugs, and tries the darkest shade of concealer. So I think she must know. She must agree, or she'd try to make herself lighter. So I leave her alone.

When he stepped into our story, she became lost to me forever. Scrawny and pale, with sharp nose and cruel eyes, he managed to captivate her somehow. I know now that it was because he was her first. Not just a lover, but a white lover. Apparently, any one would do. He must not have believee his luck when she looked at him, in all her beauty, and deigned to kiss him with the lips I love so dearly. From that moment, I know, he swore never to free her; and in her ignorance, she locked the door to his prison with her own hand and swallowed the key.

She thinks he's better than she is, though he doesn't work. She thinks he's better than me. His hair dances in the slightest breeze, it's true, but what is that to a woman who knows to see herself through her own eyes and love what is there? My hair towers above me and with combs and thread, plaits made by my own fingers, I can create sculptures in it, majestic pieces of art befitting of my own personal royalty. The queen that I be. But she hates me. She thinks I'm too proud, and foolish to boot. Were I more sensible, she says, I would tame my wildness with lye and force it to lie flat and straight like those who would rule me in thought and deed. Her white superiors. You'd look so much better with a perm, she said once. As I laughed a hearty, derisive laugh, she spit at me then walked quickly away. It was years before we spoke again.

The next time I saw her, she was hard to recognize. Her eyes were still wide, still brown, but they had no shine. She still had her style, but now she used it to cover up the mounds of fat that rolled and cascaded beneath the satin brown that is her skin. And her mouth, soft and pouty that I had always wished was mine, smiled smaller and less often.

You're fat. The words escaped me before the thought was even complete in my mind. She isn't the one I meant to blame; the accusation in my voice was directed only at him but, as is her wont, she moved the conversation swiftly along without acknowledging my misstep, and I never was able to explain that he was the one I hated for doing this to her. We had lunch. She nibbled at everything but dessert; when she finished hers, she asked me if I was going to eat mine. Confused and inexplicably, thoroughly sad, I passed her my plate. I don't remember anything we spoke about, but I did ask her about him. He was fine, working hard to take care of them both. She lost her job at L'Oreal, now she's preoccupied with making sure she's not a burden. But you supported him for six months before, I reminded her. Yes, but I'm not his responsibility. I have to be able to pull my own...colossal weight. She laughed for the first time. I didn't laugh with her.

On the way to the train station, we stopped in the supermarket to buy sprouts for the stirfry I was making for dinner. There was only one bag left in the shop, and the sprouts looked fairly miserable. But I needed them, so I picked it up. She bought doughnuts. A baker's dozen. Here, try these, I suggested gingerly and handed her a small bag of satsumas. Cautiously. That's when she stopped and looked me in the eyes for the first time. They were clear. She spoke with purpose. He beat me, you know. Just once. But I'm fine and he won't do it again. Then she brushed past me to the register to pay for her doughnuts, leaving me holding the last bag of sprouts, wilting on their expiration date. That was the last time I saw her.

They had a baby last year. A girl. Summer. I haven't seen her yet, but she sent me a lot of pictures once. Summer is pale, paler than I would have expected from a mother so dark. I looked through the photos, smiling wryly as I imagined how hard she must have willed her partner's genes to overpower hers. They are beautiful pictures: Summer with the cat, smiling. Summer grinning in the bathtub, reaching for the bubbles her mother blows over her. Summer staring into the camera lens, a question mark on her face, a carefree exuberance in her. She looks just like her mother, my sister. I hear my sister doesn't agree - she wouldn't dream of having a child that looks just like her. I hear she is as large as a house. The doughnuts are still a favorite, but now she eats - no, inhales - everything in sight. She works at Safeway, so she has a discount on groceries. How lucky. On Summer's first birthday, she had a garden barbecue for close friends, some family. I wasn't invited. There was an impressive spread, I hear; she made most of it. Everything but the cake. She ate most of it, too. Just as well I wasn't invited, I suppose; you're not supposed to cry at a toddler's birthday party.

I like to imagine what I would do if I had been forced to witness this latest manifestation of her demise: make a scene, insist that she pack a bag and follow me, that sadistic bastard be damned! Drag her and the child who would follow in her footsteps away, against their will if necessary, and promise her that I will help her start over, re-build. Beg her to forgive me for letting it get to this point. Beg her to let me show her what real love looks like. But she hates she, and always has. The choice to change can only be hers. And I choose to stand back and watch from afar. I have my own life to live, after all.

I'm looking through the pictures again. I am staring at my favorite: Summer staring into the camera lens, a question mark on her face, a carefree exuberance in her. I smile. I know that face. It reminds me of a happier time: of making mud pies with my sister by the side of our house, "cake" to eat with "candy", which we called the palm nuts we cracked open with broken cinderblocks. I run my fingers over the dark, dark curly hair in the picture. I kiss the image of my niece's face. I think to myself, At least she believes you are perfect. So maybe there is hope for you. When I put the picture away, I will have to go and start dinner; my fiance has invited some friends over. So I linger just a little longer and delay the mundane to pray for a brighter future.

kulu 2.0

Let's dive right in, shall we?

Loc'ed and Loaded: The Eight-Month Recap
After firmly deciding that I no longer wish to stay away from my practice space, I'm back on Blogger. No more exciting than I used to be, no wiser, no happier, no better at my craft. It's funny how the road less traveled always seems to lead back to that more familiar, well-worn one. Now I'm back at the drawing board. Truth be told, I couldn't be happier. There's something very comforting about my Hyena's Belly - talking to no one in particular, at the same time knowing that I somehow manage to touch someone out there. Here's to the second time around.

So here's the (inane) dish: I quit NFTHB in order to focus on work, which I did. Then I got bored, so I decided to shake things up a little bit. I started locking my hair, which has been fun and super-easy so far. I fell in love, which was also fun and pretty easy, but then I grew bored with that and started sowing seeds of discontentment in the relationship to see what would happen. So far, they're only germinating in me, which I don't think is quite what I was hoping for. Anyone's guess what will happen next. I got a job offer in Nigeria, which I turned down for what I imagine are several good reasons, but given my lack of progress in the months since, I'm starting to wonder if I didn't act too hastily. No matter - I've decided to acquire a new skill: screenwriting. I credit the books I'm reading with my decision to return here. The recurring message is resounding: practice, practice, practice. And I won't write anything special until I spew out the mundane. It's coming though. I feel it. Nollywood's next big thing, anyone?

What else? Bought some Uggs (love 'em), went to London (loved it), started to, then didn't, buy a new laptop (stupid, because the battery cord on my old laptop has burned right through and off the battery - now I have to write at work). I also made the surprising discovery that I don't actually hate babies - around the right one, I'm virtually obsessed with making a fool of myself solely for her enjoyment. Apparently, this lady doth protest too much. Hold on to your credit cards - I won't be signing up at any baby registries any time soon!

Anyway, it's January, and I'm back in the spider's web (which is what I'm calling the office), struggling to get out, hoping I can disentangle myself before I suffocate. Voila. My life since May 2008.

Harken to the Call...
As I've said, my time away has been pretty uneventful. I've been working hard, but growing more disenchanted with my work daily. (Did you get that? Shall I say it yet again?) Maybe it's the disorganization. Maybe it's that I don't find any of it particularly inspirational or even appealing. So I'm looking for work anywhere...sort of. I'd like to be happy - I do much better work when I enjoy what I'm doing. So if anyone knows anyone who is looking for an editor-at-large (or not even so far away); an executive assistant; a creative writer; a copy editor; book reviewer (are we seeing a theme here? "Is highly organized, has proficient writing skills, works well as part of a team, extremely handy with MS Office Suite, doesn't do pun, etc., etc.") - call me! I'm thinking magazine houses, film studios, e-zine development. I'm also thinking "paid". The bills don't stop coming just because I want to be "different" and "creative". Keep in mind: I have a master's degree. From Yale. Just putting that out there.

Vision 2009
It's time to get my shit in order. I'm not getting any younger. NFTHB will have to be revamped, as will Wellspring Green. For one thing, I'm going to need a schedule. It's all about discipline in 2009. As soon as I can commit to a regular updating schedule, you'll be the first to know. kulu with your Monday morning coffee...kulu as your Friday night standby...something of that nature. The Green Pages are a different story. But you'll hear about that too.

Positive thinking! I'm only 26, but I think like Death is upon me and there's nothing to live for. I no longer wish to age so prematurely. I credit CB with this...will I ever tell him? I wonder. Which brings me to my next point...

Honesty! Honesty? Surely kulu always speaks her mind? Yes - but it's time to re-frame my idea of being honest. Time to be nicer about it. I'm not necessarily worried about burning bridges (though I still feel guilty for some of the unkinder things I've said in the heat of an argument); my motive is entirely selfish. I'd like to keep my blood pressure even as long as possible. And I need not air my opinion merely because I've been presented with an opportunity to do so. Sometimes, silence is the strongest response. Most of the time, though, it simply doesn't matter. '09 is all about keeping it moving. If it doesn't need to be said, don't say it. Write about it :-).

More than anything, though, I just want to write. I want to create something powerful and everlasting. Re-reading my profile, I remember when I thought life was intended to nurture my growing soul. I've lost that optimism, that minute sliver of hope. So '09 is about recapturing that too. Finding a channel to let my 'me' blossom. I've been a roving carcass way too long. I can only hope not to turn into a replica of my office mate, who is a bleeding heart, through and through. I find his brand of optimism more than a little annoying, I must confess. And I let him know in not so many words, as often as I possibly can: gruff responses to very pleasantly-put questions, lack of eye contact, firm refusals to do anything social he asks me to do. And yet, he was so happy to see me after I got back from Christmas break. He hugged me and kissed me and said he was so glad that I decided not to defect to Abuja (if only he knew). If the universe is going to surround me with people who manage to see through this crusty exterior I've worked so hard to create, I might as well let it go.

Anyway, I guess my point is: I'm back. May we not live to regret this.

Oh, The Flies You'll Kill...

As we speak, millions of US dollars are being poured into fighting one of nature's deadliest - if not peskiest - predators: the fly.

Scientists are not only using high-resolution, high-speed imaging technology to figure out how The Fly manages to outwit us all despite the obvious formidableness of our rolled-up newspapers: they hope to utilize groundbreaking methods in entomological psychology to figure out why that tiny Fly feels it's necessary to escape Death's scythe.

Keep reading "The perfect way to swat a fly"...

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/science/article4629543.ece

F**k humanity...save the fly!

P.S. I especially like how these "scientists" claim that they are doing this research so people will appreciate the complexity of the fly's atomic-sized brain and double-think killing them...and then teach us the swiftest way to kill them. Nize!

When Something Is Too Good to Keep to Yourself...

BOUND

I might have suspected something was awry long before I stepped into the Red Lounge. We had, after all, seen the DJ walk out of the metro before we stopped him for the brief chat that led to an invitation and a promise to put our names on the guest list. Entry guaranteed. The DJ was wearing black leather, including thick, heavy boots with severe steel buckles that traveled from his ankles to his calves. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth and drooped over his shaggy brown beard; his eyes were red-rimmed and dark. They glared at the world from underneath a greasy mane of brown hair.

"And how do you know this person?" I asked, incredulously.

Said CB: "We work together at the restaurant. Remember the guy I told you about, that if I ever got him as a server, I'd ask to be moved to another section?"

I did remember: the dirty one, who clearly held exception to the use of soap and often showed up to work with days-old food smears encrusted on his clothes and lips. So he was a DJ on the side.

The information was well on its way to the part of my brain where statistical equations and birthdays are stored when CB's next words halted it in its tracks.

"I wanna go check him out."

Ohhhhh God! was my thought, but I'm trying out this new thing called being supportive. So instead I said: "Sure! Sounds good," and mentally checked my bank account to make sure I could afford to get well and truly blasted if necessary. Turns out: wasn't necessary.

The usual bouncer was standing at the door, looking bored. It was only 10:00. We walked up the stairs, where Old Mother Hubbard was waiting to check our names off the list and brand us with a green Sharpie: 'B'. 'B' for Bound, as announced to us by a single printed sheet at the door. I didn't make the connection at the time, too busy asking: why is this sweet little old lady sitting here, collecting money and guest names at this time of night? Has she no cats? Is she not tired? CB and I immediately decided that we were in the presence of freaks. And if we had not decided then, we would certainly have reached that same conclusion when, mere moments later, we noticed "Bob Barker" in Gothic-era clothing (complete with ruffled shirt, top hat and black-and-red cape) sitting at the bar.

Topless shadow dancers were projected onto the far wall, writhing and popping to beats that wasn't present in this club, which was playing electronica. As we sipped on our Absolut and cranberries, CB and I watched them absent-mindedly, keeping one eye on the people who were trickling through the doorway. The middle-aged man with the greasy comb-over whose eyes encased in fatty folds; the tall redhead with a tiny waist and big hair, dressed in a floor-length patent leather jacket, with a cylindrical patent leather backpack that contained a whip; the group who came in with 6 mysterious-looking metal suitcases; the obviously male cross-dresser in a school-marm's black dress and unconvincing wig; the bald stud in tight leather tank top and handcuffs clipped to his belt. No two looked the same. And despite their creative getups, they all looked eerily normal.

As they trooped in through the doorway, we sat closer and closer to the edge of our seats, prepared to make a quick getaway if necessary. CB and I kept making jokes about how we could shine the light from our cellphones on these vampire-esque creatures long enough to flee from what we were certain was going to be some kind of blood-fest.

But for some reason, we stayed. I went to the bar to get another drink: clearly, we were going to be here longer than I suspected. As I waited, Greasy Combover Guy walked up to me.

"Hi there."

I swear to God, if another unattractive - no, ugly - man comes up to me one more time, I'm going to kill myself. My self-esteem can only suffer so many blows.

I gave him a brief, withering glance and grunted. "Hm."

His stomach pushed behind a faded, black T-shirt. His black shoes were scruffy, old. Bless his heart: he was trying to fit in any which way.

"Waiting for somebody?"

Arrrrrgh!!! If he didn't look so grimy, I might have been tempted to slap him for being so presumptive. Is it because I'm black? Fair enough, the only other black person in there was this girl who was obviously working - but seriously, I was still in my work clothes!

I pointed at CB. He muttered something unintelligible and slinked off to the other end of the bar, behind the other black girl, who was working on "Bob" and a man with a long, curly ponytail and a whip.

I later found out that the guy's been coming to Bound for years and has a foot fetish. Ugh.

By this time, I had to pee. On my way to the bathroom, I discovered what all those metal suitcases were for. All along the walls of the back room, the felt-lined suitcases had been lined up and opened - they contained a vast assortment of tools and devices: scissors, steel rods, needle-like protrusions, wands, handcuffs, leather belts and other restraints, various-sized light bulbs, a crystal ball, whips, cotton balls, tissue, and an enormous black thing that was apparently supposed to fit into some kind of bodily crevice (which one could be large enough to take it, I don't know) - it had an electrical plug attached to it. Itching to get back and relay the news to CB, I rushed to the bathroom...and came face to face with a man in front of a urinal. Apparently, shutting the door at Bound is not allowed.

With freshly-emptied bladder and back in the safe haven of CB's presence, I told him about the suitcases. After a lengthy inspection, he came back to me and we decided we were definitely in for the long haul. This meant we needed to adopt persona that would enable us to fit in. CB decided he was Morpheus and put on his sunglasses. I looked up at my afro and down at my khakis and decided that I could only realistically be me. On the right day, that's enough to get me anywhere. At that moment, a short man wearing nothing but leather underpants walked past us, carrying a cocktail in one hand and one end of a chain in the other. The other end was attached to a leather collar, which in turn was attached to the neck of a very tall girl in a tiny plaid skirt.

After about an hour, during which I was pulled into a long and boring conversation with some guy just because I wanted to use his Glo-sticks, I was kinda over the whole experience. Yes, the short man had taken the leash off his bitch and put it on himself, then spent 15 minutes kneeling on the floor while she fed him his cocktail through a straw, but really, where was the action? So what if the tall lady in the pleather coat was now high on X and dancing madly on the floor all by herself? When were people going to start whipping each other and bleeding all around me? I had had it - I was going home. But first, I needed to pee.

I never quite made it to the bathroom. Apparently, while I was waiting for action to happen by the bar, I had forgotten that there was a back room. And there was a naked lady strapped to a wooden X in the back room, being shocked with electric wands by a man in a leather waistcoat. I pushed through the crowd to get a better view.

Her nipples were hidden from view by two tiny x's created from electrician's tape. I absently wondered how many yards of electrician's tape it would take to tuck my nipples out of sight. Ironically, this woman was the the only other person who had come in wearing street clothes. Based on the environment, I had suspected she might be the wackiest one, since she hadn't felt the need to advertise her sexual preferences like the others. Still, I hadn't expected her to strip first. The man was stroking her with a thin light-blue wand; she was writhing sensuously. I, for one, was intrigued. Could it really feel that good? I was about to ask him to test on my arm, when he stopped and switched to a fuchsia wand. She jumped when this one touched her stomach. I recoiled; I'd wait and see what happened first.

She whispered to him; he tightened the leather straps around her wrists, picked up the blue wand again and, alternating them, stroked her body, nipples, thighs and vagina. First blue. Then fuchsia. Fuchsia, then blue. Her eyes were closed as she swayed back and forth; she looked dreamy. But I wasn't still wasn't convinced. After about five minutes, he switched out the blue wand for some other vibrating machine that he held in a fist and that had some sort of brush attached to it. That, he used to massage her clit, while his other hand delivered electric jolts through her skin with the fuchsia wand.

Other members of the audience were getting a little frisky at this point; CB came looking for me because last he heard, I was going to the bathroom. He settled in behind me; I leaned against him. The technician, as I dubbed him, switched to a purple wand. This one was different. The smoothness of its shaft was disrupted by bulbous shapes, through which one could see the electricity being generated. When he touched it to her skin, numerous minute streaks of lighting jumped out and penetrated her; she tensed uncontrollably and sank with a movement akin to relief every time he drew the wand away. I was definitely no longer entranced; that shit looked painful as hell. Somewhere behind me, CB was getting an education on the pains and pleasures of this procedure from some bald guy in a red Chinese robe sewn in an ancient style and his wigged girlfriend, who wore a lace-front hat.

"You ready to go?" I asked.

"Yeah."

We said good night, and descended down the stairs, squeezing past an extremely narrow-waisted man in fishnet stockings and a damask girdle who was just coming in from a cigarette break. Once out on the sidewalk, it was harder to recall the world we had just emerged from. Somehow, it no longer seemed real.

I wanted to stand and discuss, but CB hustled me away from the door because he didn't want to run into anybody he knew right then. So we went to the late-night pizza spot that blares Congolese music loudly all night, every night, and shared a cheese slice. Then we went home, where he built me a makeshift curtain shield so I could pretend I was a shadow dancer with small, pointy boobs and muscular thighs.


























* I'm not blogging. I'm just tryna tell you a story ;-).

The Death of Kulutempa

In bold kimono, face washed clean with perfumed soap and cold, clear water, I sat atop my folded legs. My knees were bound together by red cloth, tight, so nothing could rip them apart but the hands of man, not even the rigorous shaking of Death. Outside, the air was still and quiet, the night poised with cocked head, waiting to hear a whispered secret. The light of the moon flashed like mystery on the blade of my kaiken, where it lay, flat, on my lap.

My eyes were closed. I was in deep contemplation, recalling the details of my life and preparing myself for the final chapter. The one I would write solely by my own hand, in sanguine, ruddy ink. I was calm, ready. There was nothing more to decide, and certainly nothing to grieve. I had waited until I was empty. Now, all that remained was for my heart to decide when the time was right. Breathe in...breathe out...breathe in...breathe out... I permitted myself to think of nothing else.

With my right hand, I lifted the blade; with my left, I traced the cold, sharp steel with the tips of my fingers, very lightly, and gently guided the tip to rest against my throat...

No. No. How about:

The weather man was right! Hell yeah! It's so sunny, babes, and it says the temperature's 75 degrees. Let's go sit in the park. You know, the one with the fountains and glorious magnolia trees?...Yeah, the one with the impressive statue of Dante in the southeast corner, with the piss and the used condoms. Remember that Magnum we saw last month? Gag! I don't know what's wrong with these fucking people...who the hell wants to fuck with a nose full of piss??...Homeless people do NOT fuck here!...Well...yeah, I guess there's nowhere else for them to go really, huh? Ok, well, let's go - but we'll stay by that pool, with the birds. Where that guy was sunbathing in the nude...assuming he hasn't decided to camp there for the summer...You wanna go? Yay! OK, I'm gonna go get ready. I'm coming! Lemme just put my shoes on. Shit, I gotta find my book; I'll meet you in the car. I'll be right there, negro! Start the car, dang!

Yo, what the hell are you doing?? Asshole! People can't fucking drive in this city! Calm down, baby, it's OK. Where's a cop when you need one, eh? Put on your seatbelt. Yay, it's so sunny! Shit, I forgot my sunglasses. Please, please...you're the awesomest, most sweetest, greatest boyfriend in the world, and I love you...thank you! Ha ha! Just turn around; you know you love it. What the...?! Man, what is it about this curve?? People just fly around here like it's not a blind spot, and a tight one at that. Fuckers.

OK, I'll be right back...see? That didn't take long. Yo, turn that up, that's my shit! We in the bed like ...do the dance, do the dance...ha ha ha ha!! That's sooo not it...no, it's not...yeah, I do...OK, show me then, you know so much...look at this fool, look how fast he's driving...baby, watch out, watch out...JesusjesusJESUS!...

OK that was retarded, I know.
Doesn't really need to be that dramatic. Kulutempa is, after all, a virtual creation. So...

We'll try this.

The Death of Kulutempa

[Delete].




It's been an awesome ride.

It Was Gross, But I Couldn't Look Away

I saw a homeless man's penis yesterday. Not because he had an exhibitionist streak - he is an old, black man who I often see perambulating the sidewalks in front of the restaurant where I "moonlight", and I doubt he would want the patrons he accosts to know him that intimately. And it wasn't quite an accident either. Ironically, he was getting robbed.

Now I know some of you are wondering who the hell tries to rob a homeless man, and so aggressively. Well, I'll tell you: a strapping black male in his late twenties, wearing a black cutoff T-shirt, shorts and Jordans. Obviously not homeless.

It was weird. There I was, walking back from seating yet another faceless couple with a fake and luminescent smile on my face, when I noticed our general manager streaking out of the restaurant in a panic. Right there on the corner, in front of the valet and in plain view of every last panoramic window we have, two black men seemed to be wrestling against a shiny black Cadillac. The younger was holding on to the old man's pants; the old man had a fistful of the former's T-shirt. They tussled for a brief eternity (oxymoron, I know), dragging each other this way and that while the valet looked on, befuddled. The sidewalk was amazingly clear the whole time, which is odd for a weekday evening in downtown DC. Not an onlooker was present...except all the people who pay for a fine dining experience, and were instead forced to behold this spectacle as they ate.

Before long, we noticed something curious. The old man's pants were sagging a bit too low; there was a little too much skin showing too. No underwear. I, for one, was transfixed. Could this be actually happening? Lord knows I didn't come to work expecting to see random men being stripped against their will, but if fate had a different plan for me, who was I to fight it?

The old man was surprisingly strong. We could see the rippling muscles of the young ox as he struggled to rip the man's wallet through his trouser pockets. With one hand, the old man was holding on to the boy's T-shirt; with the other, losing the battle to keep his privacy - and meager dignity - intact. It was awful, like watching a train run over a small child. So why was I laughing so uncontrollably?

I couldn't hold it together. Customers were lined up in front of me, presumably waiting for me to seat them but also captivated by the bizarre scene behind them. Idle servers rushed to shut the blinds, so they wouldn't have to spend the next few minutes cleaning vomit off the floor. Just in time: Young Guy succeeded in denuding Old Boy from the waist down within thirty seconds.

It was terrible. Ankles imprisoned by his waistband, the man was having trouble keeping his balance. He tipped backwards, rubbing his bare ass all over the black Cadillac, no doubt the property of one of our patrons. I hope s/he didn't notice. He tried to bend over to pick up his pants and hide his shame; at that moment, the younger man tried to bolt. Old Dude wasn't about to let him get away with this. He abandoned that task in order to get a firmer grip on the guy. They both fell on the car, jerking each other back and forth, smearing sweat and oil all over the body, the old man's flaccid penis flailing in the chilly night air.

Behind the host stand, I was agape and wide-eyed, my hand covering my mouth, choking on shock-induced laughter. Servers and patrons alike stood around, trading jokes and passing commentary on the spectacle. Our general manager swept back into the restaurant - he had gone round the corner to call the police; there is always at least one police car present in that area all day and all night. Seeing the flashing lights, the young man gave one last heave, ripped himself out of the old man's grip, and fled down the street. Someone - a bystander - followed in hot pursuit, while the old man finally re-dressed himself and tried to get his bearings.

The shame and pain in his bewildered eyes could be read from yards away. I felt bad for him. At the same time, I couldn't wait to spread his gist. The other servers who couldn't leave their stations to come and watch the happenings approached me to be updated. One by one, they came with expectant eyes and left shaking their heads in pity. Except one. My best mate MF. His reaction was priceless, to me.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Some guy tried to rob a homeless guy and ripped his pants off. His entire ass and penis were on display."

A slow smile spread across his face as he processed the information, and it transformed into a laugh filled with a wicked delight as he said, "That's. Awesome." He started to turn away, still laughing silently, then turned back to me and said, "What are the odds? You wake up in the morning, and it never crosses your mind is that this will happen to you at some point today. And yet." As he walked away, his wicked grin had transplanted itself on my face as we both laughed inwardly, not at the poor man's misfortune, but at this latest dose of surreality that the universe had served us on a slow Monday night at work.

The bystander caught the would-be thief, by the way. By then, four cop cars, a pig on a bike and a police van had shown up at the scene, every last one flashing their lights. All that was missing was the Segway patrol. Ten policemen all tried to get in on the action, each one no doubt secretly hoping to be The One That Arrested The Black Guy. Three stood getting the old man's statement. The rest taunted the young one as he was hustled from street to cop car to street to police van and off to jail. When the old man was finished telling his story, he was dismissed and he hobbled off to nowhere, still homeless, and immediately forgotten. The cops stuck around to have a party, complete with disco lights, their fat stomachs protruding off their gun belts. For thirty minutes, they stayed in front of the restaurant, discussing what, I don't know, while crime continued in the rest of DC, undetected by their fat, uninterested asses.

I got back to work, mentally composing this post for the rest of the night. No doubt I'll see the old man again tonight, but I won't ask him how he's doing or whether his assailant was given due treatment. I will look away, like I always do when I don't want him to ask me for money. But, unlike all those other times, now I will look away because every time I see him, I still won't see his face - I will see his limp penis and taut black ass flash in my mind as clearly as if he were on a stripper stage in front of me, and not standing on the sidewalk, holding a paper cup from McDonald's, asking me to spare some change, trying not to re-live his five minutes of shame. And I will never stop asking myself: Who the hell tries to rob a homeless guy?

Newspaper Man Update: **DEADLINE EXTENSION**

Newspaper Man has come to a conclusion: there is no point rushing good ideas. For those of you scrambling to produce something decent from what you already have; for those of you who would submit something but for the fact that the deadline is April 15: THE DEADLINE HAS BEEN EXTENDED TO APRIL 30.

Please send your finished product to newspaperman2008@gmail.com.

Click here to refresh your memory about what we're looking for.

Many thanks to those of you who have already submitted your pieces. You're ahead of the curve anyway, so don't hate us for doing this!

Nigeria Comedy 4

Crying funny...
Plus, I had to note that they shot this in Ghana, which would explain why the stage looked so well-done. When are we going to be able to achieve this in Nig??

I Ain't No Chef, But...

Green Curry Recipe
Warning: You better know how to cook before you start to follow this recipe, because I do not use measurements - my only guide is my tongue, aided by the eyes. You'll need to be able to gauge and guess-timate and tweak as necessary, based on your own experience with cooking, to get this tasting the way you want it. If you need more stringent guidelines, stop reading right now cuz I won't be able to help you. Sorry.

Ingredients:
1 can of coconut milk (unsweetened)
1 small tin of green curry paste (in your local grocery's "ethnic food" section)
Meat of choice, cut into bite-sized pieces (I like chicken and I like salmon)
Long, green chillies, sliced (according to your level of tolerance - I use 3)
3 - 4 scallions, finely sliced
Garlic, minced
Thumb-sized piece of fresh ginger root, well-minced
1/4 onion, finely sliced
ground pepper OR minced habanero peppers (as much as you can handle)
salt + 2 Maggi cubes (not those enormous ones that come from Mexico, but the perfectly-sized ones we get in Nig - for those with no frame of reference, I apologize - again.)

Need: Pan + Wok (frying pan will work just as well, I guess)

Prep:
1. If you're using chicken (or beef), stir-fry the meat with the garlic, ginger, onions and pepper first (and in a separate wok). Use just a splash of vegetable oil; you don't want this to be greasy. Add salt & 1 Maggi cube. Use medium-high heat and stir-fry until the chicken is just cooked, i.e. still a little pink in the middle. You'll have created some stock - it's cool. Let it be.

1b. If you're using fish, marinate the fish with a little bit of olive oil, the garlic, ginger, pepper, salt and some onion powder (or chop the 1/4 onion instead - whatever) for 15 - 30 minutes.

2. Pour the coconut milk into the pan and bring to boil; once it's boiled, turn heat down and let it simmer. DO NOT COVER THE PAN. Add the meat/fish (with stock), scallions, chillies and HALF the tin of green curry paste. You can use less or more; it's really going to depend on how you want it to taste. Play with the amount. Experiment. Live a little.

3. Let it simmer, leaving the flavors to cling and entwine, one to the other, like lovers under satin sheets. Taste it, you might need salt/the other Maggi cube.

All told, this shouldn't take more than 20 - 30 minutes, from setting up the cutting board to yummy-yummy-in-my-tummy. So simple, so delic. I like it with jasmine or basmati; their sweetness complements the heat from the chillies nicely. Lemme know if you like it!

(Fried rice recipe another day.)

Janet Jackson - Again (1993)

I blame Janet Jackson and this video for my inability to find satisfaction in love. Being that this was my introduction to the "art" of lovemaking, in my mind, if love does not look like this, I don't want it! Until the day I die, all I want to know is that the colors of love are white and light-blue denim; and the texture of love is cotton. Perhaps, subconsciously, this video is the reason I wear waist beads...

Go Ahead. Try It.

Last weekend, my brother came a-visiting with his wife and daughter. They stayed at my sister's posh two-bedroom flat, cuz I'm a loser and I live in a basement (albeit a cute and well-established basement). Seriously, though, it made more sense cuz I'm the baby of the house - which is a new experience arising from the family's recent disownment by my younger sister, the actual youngest member of the fam - and the baby of this family isn't expected to do shit. I'm loving my new position; it rocks! Anyway, like all good displaced Nigerians, my sister and I put my sister-in-law to work in the kitchen, as we do whenever she visits. "Make afang!" we demanded. "Make okro!" And she threw down, as always, much to our drooling delight. But she decided to first make a quick stew, which isn't the most exciting thing we could have smelled cooking, since we make that for ourselves all the time. Unfortunately, I had to leave before she even started making the stuff I cared about, since I had to work that night. I bade them a reluctant adieu, told them I'd be back the next day for my share of the grub, and they better make sure I had a nice-sized Tupperware container full of The Goodness.

The next day, I arrived following a brisk 30-minute walk from my house, hungry and ready to nosh on some eba, only to find the afang being thawed on the counter. What moron would freeze the shit overnight, knowing I was coming back to get mine?? The damn stew was nice and warm on the stove though, with a warm pot of freshly-cooked rice to go with it, and I was hungry as hell, so I got a bowl and went to work, my sister-in-law hovering smilingly over me. (What is it about women who cook - they always watch you sample their food with tender eyes.) So she's right there, watching, and I figure I should make some small talk, so I don't appear to be what I am: someone who is currently more interested in the food than the person who cooked it. This was her vacation after all; and we put her to work - it would have been awkward.

Food being the only thing on my mind at the time, the first thing I noticed was that the rice was extremely fluffy and round, almost like native rice. But it smelled sweet, and that threw me off, because I don't know any rices that smell so sweet, but look so round. So I'm genuinely curious and I ask the obvious question: "What kind of rice is this?" She has a blank look on her face, like "...err, white rice...?" I scramble to elaborate a little, to help jog her memory, or whatever. "Is it jasmine? It smells like jasmine."

Crickets.

I decided to just face my front and dish the rice, when she said, "Well, I don't know o. They [being my sister, who has long been written off as an oyinbo in family lore] said it's Indian rice. You know we, we don't know anything other than long grain."

"Oh ok, so it's basmati." I busied my mouth controlling the excessive salivation that was occurring at the time, and put the rest of the conversation on hold. My brain was still working though, because I noted that the basmati had been cooked until its distinctive slender form was so grossly bloated that it now resembled Uncle Ben's, which reinforced what I already know to be true: Nigerians only know how to cook one kind of rice.

At least, they were willing to eat it. I can only imagine with what dread they come to visit my sister and I, knowing that our refrigerators will be full of foods they haven't even read about; knowing also that one or both of us will be more than eager to make them try some. My sister is more guilty of this than I; I still crave ethnic flavors that more closely resemble standard Nigerian cuisine than that crap my sister eats. On more than one occasion, I've stumbled into her kitchen hungry, and left angry - who has nothing but rice milk and...and...olive dip in their fridge?! Even when the food is something I recognize, like raspberry jam, it's always the wrong kind. You know, the ones that were preserved and bottled on a random converted cottage somewhere in Maine, with hand-written calligraphy and a bow on the label, and huge globs of fruit that won't be spread evenly on the toast (which I've had to fashion out of a rock-hard baguette that doesn't even fit in the toaster properly and invariably pops out scorched).

But I digress. My point is: Nigerians are typically loathe to try foods they don't recognize, and quick to dismiss the food with screwed-up faces, no matter the taste, if it doesn't have a flavor they recognize either. Why??

What is it about us that stops us from trying something new with relish and excitement? What hinders us from exploring the varying tastes and textures of foods foreign to our palate, using spices that aren't thyme and curry to change the way our food tastes, making sauces without tomatoes and/or meat? (Eggplant, anyone?) It doesn't matter how long we've been overseas; the majority of us just refuse to venture further away from our standard 3 or 4 dishes than the occassional chicken salad sandwich!

I'm not the world's greatest food connoisseur; indeed, I may not always have food at my house (to which many of my visitors can attest). But when I do cook, you can always be rest assured to find in my fridge some kind of salad, maybe a casserole, tons of fruit and veggies and one or two sauces to eat over rice. I love rice - I make no apologies for being able to eat rice all day, every day. Jasmine, basmati, brown, wild, dirty - love 'em all! I started switching up my cuisine one day last year, when I got sick and tired of Nigerian stew. "There has to be more!!" I screamed in my kitchen one evening, as I nuked the last bowl of chicken stew and rice that I was going to eat for months. And I was pleased to discover: there is! So now I make curries of all kinds, green being my favorite and the most popular with CB; this spicy goat+spinach blend that he also can't get enough of; and stir-fry galore. But my new predilection for culinary exploration doesn't go down well with some of my Naija folk.

Last year, I offered to help a friend make fried rice for a beach party, so she could focus on other things. I forgot to mention that I cannot stand Nigerian-style fried rice, and have my own style, which consists of red and green bell peppers, onions, garlic, ginger, chicken strips and MAYBE some carrots stir-fried with delicious jasmine rice. You won't find peas, liver or curry in my fried rice, no sir! And it's different, but it's still fried rice and it's still delicious. I made two trays of the stuff, lugged them over to the party site...and there they sat, steaming, as the jollof rice disappeared. The more adventurous menfolk who ate my rice said, "What is this? This isn't fried rice. Who made it?" I was called forth to give the back-story, after which they said, "Ahh! I for say: it's nice, but it ain't fried rice!" They did spirit the trays home, which I was pleasantly surprised to discover when I couldn't find them at the end of the day, but I was still frustrated. Y'all can eat Naija fried rice every day of the week if you want to (and probably do) - how often does anyone get to eat this fried rice? Expand your palate horizons, people!

I nearly got into a fight with someone over green curry last month. I used the promise of yam and corned beef stew to bribe her over to my crib; CB was visiting too and he expressly requested chicken green curry. So I frantically made both at the same time, which is no easy feat in my tiny phone booth of a "kitchen". My friend was really hungry and the green curry was ready first, so I asked her if she wouldn't just try a little to hold belle until the red stew was done. She said no, which would have been fine in and of itself if she had ever tasted green curry before and just decided she didn't like it. But no: she refused because I said the word "green" in describing the curry.

"Abeg o, me ah no sabi any green curry! See as you describe the food sef - how you go talk say the thing green then you wan make ah chop am??"

I was too stunned to point out that half of the soups we cook in Nigeria are also green-colored. Instead, I tried to convince her that it was not only NOT green per se, but it was perfectly safe to eat...and goddamn it, it was delicious! (Yes, I have no problem tooting my own horn in the kitchen - I throws down!) She adamantly refused to even look at my curry. So then it turned to war.

"Look at it, dammit! It's not even green!"

"No!"

"This babe, look am na! You no dey hear the smell? No be you say e be like say the thing go sweet as e dey smell so, so whosai you dey sef?"

"Ah don tell you say ah no wan chop de ting. Na by force?? You know I don't like trying anything new - I know what I know and I stick to it! So stop trying to force me, cuz I'm not gonna to eat it!"

Therein lay the problem! But she had unleashed the foneh, so I knew she was serious. And I could feel myself growing really angry, so I figured it'd be best to just leave it so the visit wouldn't leave us both with a bitter taste in our mouths. If I had a more volatile temper, I would have force-fed her a spoonful of the curry, just to satisfy my own sensibilities. But I didn't. I suffered instead, asking myself the one question she wouldn't answer and I certainly couldn't: why??

Are we scared? Are Nigerians naturally fearful people? Fela would have us believe that we "fear too much", both the things we can see and the things we can't. His contention cannot be disputed to this day. But food, too? Seriously??

Maybe the problem is that we are too narrow-minded, stunted in our vision and lacking in personal growth. Makes sense when one is talking about the lack of continuity in state and federal development projects, or vocational options (does everyone have to be a doctor, lawyer, banker, or engineer?). Makes sense when you think about how people would rather blame deviant social behavior on the Devil rather than explore their own psychoses. But food, too?? Really??

I still can't explain it, and it drives me mad. Am I really one to talk, especially if I still can't bring myself to drink rice milk? Maybe not. But I'm still the only Nigerian I know (besides my sister) who relishes sashimi of any kind (yes, fish and beef), and I'm not loathe to eat the odd exotic (read: stinky) cheese spread as all gathered fart ourselves into fetid oblivion. Y'all would do well to get on board - how can you spend a lifetime eating nothing but stew and egusi, rice and poundo?? When I think of all the spices Indians have learned to cook with - cloves and nutmeg and turmeric and licorice powder - and how fragrant their dishes smell, not to talk of how they make the tastebuds dance with excitement on the tongue - when I think of this and compare it to our blind dumping of salt, curry and thyme in EVERYTHING, I want to weep for our blandness and inability to explore.

So I implore you: the next time someone comes up to you with something you've never seen before, maybe have barely heard about, go ahead - try it. You just might like it. And if you don't, you'll at least be able to say why. Think of it this way: whole generations have probably been raised on it, and it didn't kill them, so why would it kill you?

You pluck termites from the sky and eat them, for God's sake!

Newspaper Man updates: HELP HAS ARRIVED!

OK, I know some of you have been struggling with the concept of this project and so I've written up a little something that will hopefully clear up the confusion and leave room for your creative juices to flow! What do y'all think: helpful? not helpful?

Newspaper Man options:

There are two broad ways to tackle this subject: explore the media as a controlling force OR explore an individual’s/society’s manner of dealing with what it observes in the media

journalism bias

o telling only one side of the story

o manipulating the story to get people to believe *something*, whether truthful or accurate or not

o avoiding telling certain stories in place of others that will sell more papers/attract more viewers

§ why would a media outlet do that?

human shortcoming/wiles

o exaggerating stories as they are retold – word-of-mouth errors

o distorting the truth

§ for personal gain

§ to establish control over a segment or all of society

§ for no damn reason (is there really such a thing, though?)

o dismissing fact for fanciful notions

§ because it’s more dramatic/entertaining

§ [insert other reason here]

Within these two streams, there are numerous ways to tackle the issues listed – and unlisted – creatively. This is where your creative license comes in – so feel free to exercise your intellectual freedom here! Be witty, be cynical, be funny, be desolate – be anything you want to be, and do a great job of it!

In other news: the mid-March "deadline" is upon us! Don't forget to send your brief synopses to newspaperman2008@gmail.com ASAP! The sooner the better - it'll help you sort out your own thoughts before you start writing as well, and give us more "meat" when we start talking to publishers. Cheers!

Coke and Cheerleaders II

I became a staunch supporter of drugs and those who do them last Tuesday. The night job's been pretty good - tips plus decent salary has equaled rapid payments on my pudgy credit card bill. But you know, you can only earn so much doing shit like that and I, for one, was getting tired of seeing poverty in my financial forecast. How many more weeks of austerity can I truly, realistically, expect to handle, I'd ask myself, chin resting on my despair-filled fists. Credit card companies are brutally unfair - they deceive you with the colorful, fun-filled commercials. They send you correspondence with cheery language and smiley faces - they make you think they are your friend. And just when you start to get comfortable, just when you start to trust that they are on your side and that you can entrust your credit score to them, they fuck you. Hard. My interest rate went up 7 points within six months of having a balance on my bill, despite my constant payments (above the minimum), despite being a responsible customer for years. Fuming aside, it's all I've been able to think about since the year started: making enough of a dent in the damn thing so I can LIVE MY LIFE!!

I got my opportunity on Tuesday.

It was a slow night. D, the new Asian hostess we hired, was starting that day. She's a self-proclaimed lush and party girl. At 22, she's already addicted to weed, X, alcohol, and Xanex. She does a couple of lines of blow a month "for fun". She tends bar at a family establishment in MD and got this job at my restaurant "for fun" - she doesn't have to work. I pity her Korean parents. Anyway, it was her introduction to the bizarre world that I have come to know and love three nights a week. I felt sorry for her because it was a Tuesday - nothing ever happens on Tuesdays. We spent a couple of hours chatting - small talk - and yawning. Around 9:15, I said, "You know, you can go. I'm sure you've been trained enough for one night." She agreed, the manager agreed. I started splitting our meager tips - $30 each, silently cursing her for showing up at all and halving what could have equaled a major CC payment for me. Just before she put on her coat, we noticed two couples...well, we noticed one man amid two couples. He was wearing a tan suit and whirling like a dervish, or a tornado. Along the sidewalk, through the double doors, all the way up to the host stand, bald head glistening pale under the streetlights. Just before he slammed his groin against the stand, he stopped, with a flourish and grinned at us through his rimless glasses.

"Well, hello." He didn't so much speak the words as let them slide down his tongue and out of his mouth, like so much oily residue. D perked up instantly - she hadn't been this excited since the evening started. I instinctively recoiled. I guess it's true what they say: birds of a feather, it takes one to know one....

The other three in his party had caught up. Two ladies - one short blonde, one tall brunette - and another short man in a leather jacket. The brunette was laughing loudly about nothing and hung on to the man in the tan suit like he would escape in another whirl. They were chattering loudly - just in from their hockey game, sorry about being 30 minutes late for their dinner reservation. Tall man was especially impressed that D guessed their name right - wasn't hard, seeing as they were the last reservation for the night. But, like an intoxicated magician, with a flick of his wrist, he made a $100 bill appear from his pocket and placed it in D's subconsciously outstretched hand.

Having seen my fair share of drunken idiots with money to spend, I was intrigued but not particularly fazed by the appearance of Mr. Franklin at our "party". But D was bouncing off the walls. "He gave us A HUNDRED DOLLARS!" she whispered loudly in my ear as I hung their coats and baseball caps - memorabilia from the game. "I know - seat them, we'll congratulate ourselves later!" I said.

She sat them, I started searching for a way to break the $100. Mere annoyance turned to quiet rage, as I started calculating how much money I'd "lost" that night as a result of her presence. She bounded out the door later, as happy as Pooh's Tigger - I could barely even smile as I hugged her "good night" - my new best friend, as she told me she was. But she was gone at least, and there were at least 20 more coats. Any other wandering dollar bills would be mine and only mine.

Meanwhile, the restaurant was agog with excitement over those four diners. They were rambunctious, ordering bottles of wine and champagne that cost in the hundreds. Servers were falling over themselves, trying to decide who would be the lucky bastard that got their table. The winner wasn't disappointed - within the hour, they had spent over $2400 on alcohol and didn't eat a bite of food. My favorite servers paid intermittent visits to the host stand and we made bets about how much of a tip they were going to leave, and cracked jokes about how many eight-balls were resting in the console of their Escalade limo. The general manager stopped by as well to try and convince us to get them out of there before they started causing trouble - he didn't even think they could afford to pay. And he was right to worry - they never asked how much anything cost before they picked it off the menu, and they didn't really care what they were ordering. But every five minutes, like clockwork, they would stand up - one by one - and head for the bathrooms. Didn't take us long to figure out that they were snorting cocaine up their noses off the toilet seat covers and bathroom shelves.

I was intrigued. Very intrigued. To be perfectly honest, I could have gone home long before they did, but I was hoping, waiting, praying. Some good was definitely going to come out of this night for me, I just knew it. As they drank, I bade other customers a good night, collected their dollar bills and five-dollar bills with the same humility and gratitude I always display. But I was watching the eightball crew - they would come to me eventually, and I'd be ready.

My time came. Tan-Suit Man walked up to me - he didn't look any worse for wear from a distance. But when he tried to say hello and his jaw became misaligned, it was very obvious that we were in a situation. For my own amusement, I asked him how he enjoyed his dinner.

"I'wash...i'wash...." His mouth just would not, could not, form the words. He slapped himself twice, slaps that would have sent a grown mare galloping over a field, bruised the cheek of a small child, or set my ears ringing. He didn't feel a thing. "Was grea'." He smiled - or tried to. He looked eerily blissful - I would have envied him his euphoria, but I was busy.

"Can I help you with your coat?" Smiling sweetly.

He was staring directly into my eyes, like they were magnets and he was powerless in my gaze. I didn't blink. He tried to speak again, and the words were heavy on his tongue, thick and slurred like he was trying to talk through a mouthful of toffee.

"How d'you...how d'you feel 'bout y'parentsh?"

"I don't have any parents." I'm sometimes grateful that I can claim orphanhood - this was one of those times.

"Oh." He was still staring at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed him pulling out his money clip - a thick, gold band straining to hold together a bundle of hundred dollar bills. My eyes flashed.

Pay dirt.

We were still locked into each other's stares. His posse was scrambling to their feet at their table. There wasn't much time. I willed him to pay me. I willed him to pay me now.

"Am real...really shorry to hear that." He released one Benjamin from captivity and waved it in front of me. I only let it taste freedom briefly before I gently, but firmly, extricated it from his pasty fingers and placed it in my right pocket.

"Thank you." I smiled coyly. And stared through his glasses, persuading all the mammywater spirits that have laid claim to my heritage to shine through in that moment.

"I wan' you ta...ta think 'bout two things." His hands were still fumbling with that money clip. I maintained my gaze, fully convinced of its hypnotic power by this point. "I wan' you t'think 'bout your future..." At this, he yanked another $100 bill from the clip. "...and how you're underutilized."

I took the money and put it with its brother in my pocket. "Thank you."

We were still staring directly at each other. I don't know what he was thinking, but I myself was full of hidden encouragement: "You can do it! One more...just one more...." I was aiming for another hundred, a total of $400 on coat check, $300 of which I wouldn't have to share.

No such luck. The posse had finally made its crooked way over to the host stand, and the brunette found her way to his arm and held on tight. Guess she didn't want him to finish all his money on me - she still had to be paid for her services that night, and it wouldn't do to fall short cuz of this Negro hostess.

Still, I couldn't complain. I handed them their stuff, and waltzed all the way to the time clock, where I punched out on cloud nine - which wasn't easy, as weighted down as I was with more money than I'd seen in weeks. Free owo is not something to laugh at, but I laughed my ass off all the way home and through Wednesday night. Who said money can't buy you happiness?

Since then, earnings have seriously dried up at the host stand. I've been praying for the return of the Ghost Dusters, while at the same time feeling eternally grateful to them for paying Target, Inc. on my behalf - they have no idea what they did for me that night. I hope they didn't o.d. I sincerely hope they come back. But in the meantime, I replay the memories over and over, smiling and giggling uncontrollably - I had an unforgettable experience and I didn't even have to leave my comfort zone. How about that.

Coke and Cheerleaders

Last week was deliciously bizarre, and exceedingly profitable. I got off work after midnight, after having made a little over my usual $50 in tips - I'd already decided it was a pretty good night. My ride had informed me hours earlier that we were going to do something "interesting". I'd spend the last hour bracing myself, because he told me I had to be "ready". I couldn't care less why; it was all I could do to contain my excitement, knowing I wasn't going straight home from work for the first time in three months. Austerity can be painful; self-imposed austerity carries the added sting of mental anguish. I needed the relief.

He picked me up wearing a tie and slacks. I looked like a bum in my wrap sweater. Figures - the one day I decide I'm too disillusioned to "look the part", he decides to do something that requires me to look at least halfway decent. But he's sweet - he said I looked good anyway. I might have suspected his motives - where we were going, the more clothes you have on, the less susceptible you are to harassment. Presumably. We left.

Somewhere near the corner of 14 & U, there's a bar with a blue-white neon sign. The light gleamed off the head of our enormous black bouncer (is there any other kind?). He asked for our IDs, told us it was a $20 cover. He must have noticed me hesitate - that was 30% of the free money I'd made that night; did he realize how many coats I have to hang up then drape over various-sized shoulders for $20?? He must have, because he saw fit to make sure I knew what I was paying for:

"You know what's going on here tonight, right?"

I thought, well, it's a club - drinking and dancing, no? But clearly he knew something I didn't know, so I just shook my head. No.

He didn't speak. Just handed me a flyer with a naked white woman draped in jewelry that sort of, but didn't really, hide her privates. On the back, there was a list of Saturdays in February, followed by such descriptive names as Cheerleader Romp and Naughty Nurse Swing. My first instinct at any surprise is to laugh; that night was no exception. In the seeming distance, I heard the bouncer say "It's a swinger's party," echoing the thought ringing in my head. Still laughing and shaking my head, I looked up at CB; he seemed a little worried. Maybe he'd overstepped his boundaries. "Do you want to leave?" In response, I handed over my $20. We entered Gomorrah - Sodom was upstairs; we were going to tackle that later.

Tonight was Sexy Schoolgirl night. I saw a few "schoolgirls" downstairs, but mostly we were surrounded by unattractive people caught in that drunken euphoria that looks exceedingly silly to those who are sober. I asked for my usual shot of Cuervo; if I had to be there, I certainly didn't want to be annoyed. CB followed suit. The bartender said, "That'll be $23." I felt $11.50 burning down my throat and wondered, For what?? At that moment, I noticed an ape-ish looking man with a pot belly and gold teeth burning lust into my chest. The night wasn't shaping up to be much good; if we didn't leave this dungeon of social rejects, I was about to seriously regret taking CB up on this outing. He wasn't too pleased, either - for $23, we could have bought a couple of bottles of Cuervo and gotten wet before we left the house. We decided to go to Sodom, where earlier I had noticed a girl on a barstool with her ass in the air, humping a fat guy. It promised to be good people-watching.

We weren't disappointed. We settled into a corner by the mini-bar, leaned against the wall. The people up here seemed a little...friskier than the folks downstairs. Right beside us, an older Asian woman (not cute) was being manhandled by a little rat-faced man in glasses (even less cute). I was about to make a comment about how there's someone for everyone, when the little man dropped to the ground, and started fumbling at the hem of this woman's dress. Like a flash, his head disappeared under her skirt, and before long her face crumpled in that way that usually signals pain but sometimes means pleasure. While he explored, she used her hand to steady herself against whatever ecstasy he was giving her in there. She looked over at me a couple of times. I couldn't stop staring. Part of me was searching for shame in her eyes, but mostly I was distracted by the several thoughts racing through my head.

Was this actually happening?
What did that bartender put in my tequila?
Is that why it cost $11.50?
Where is my wallet? These people clearly have no scruples.

CB turned my head away - apparently, it's OK to give and receive head on a dance floor, but it is tres gauche to stare. We visually explored the rabbit hole we'd fallen into - it was CB's first time there as well, and I don't think he really knew what to expect either. The head section, as I christened it, was the official dance floor - mini-bar in the corner, so people didn't have to wander too far away from the action for their liquor. There was a stripper pole in the middle, of course, and female guests took turns shining it, solo or in pairs. Like five-year-old children at Christmas, their partners and escorts crowded around them, whooping and clapping. One Rasta-looking dude was literally jumping up and down, near tears, as his hot girlfriend (probably the only person in there that was worth watching) performed to "Feedback" with a pimply-faced potato sack bursting out of her Catholic school girl outfit.

Down the stairs to the left of the floor was the official bar, which stretched partway along a long wall. Sectional couches lined the rest of the walls - on these, people attempted to finish what they had started on the dance floor and stripper poles. Couples lay, sat and slouched in various positions on the couches, doing...stuff. I will say, though, that I was surprised to see very little actual nudity. DC is a conservative city, though - I suppose even our swingers are no exception.

CB and I decided to brave the bar one more time, tiptoeing our way through the jungle, trying not to arouse any of the wildlife. I got another shot of JC, he got a vodka cranberry: $16. Things were improving. We quietly made our way back to our spot against the wall, with me thanking Providence the whole time that I wore what I wore, because these people really were touching one another with reckless abandon, and I didn't want to have to be get kicked out for fighting anyone who dared to put their sleazy fingers on me. I was wearing a white sweater, which shone like a halogen lamp in the black light, but I was invisible in that place, thank the Universe.

By the time we got back to the wall, the second shot was working its way through my system - I was in that place where everything is warm and nice, where laughter sparks freely and you believe that only good things can happen to you from here on out. My self-imposed "jollity restrictions" have turned me into a lightweight - what six shots of JC used to do before, I only needed two to achieve this night. If I weren't already tipsy, I'd have been sad.

There was a woman on the pole now. I think she was going for the naughty librarian look - frumpy skirt suit with more than enough Spandex, curly bob, glasses, red spiky heels. She was having a good time - a crowd of six had gathered beneath her, cheering her on. She slid her back down the pole, biting her index finger playfully. They clapped. She raised herself up slowly, looking at them over the top of her thick frames. They whistled. She hung from the pole, shaking her hair as she signaled that she was about to do a spin. They whooped. She started to swing around the pole. I turned to steal a sip of CB's drink, when I heard GBA-GA-GRA-GBA-GA!! I whipped around just in time to see Naughty Librarian hit the floor, one spiked heel still on the stage. Some people were trying to help her up; another went across the room to pick up her glasses from where they flew and landed. I collapsed into convulsive laughter, so much so that I lost control of my legs and CB had to hold me up - a difficult feat, seeing as he was also weak from the laughter he could not control. There is now a permanent red smear on my sweater from the vodka cranberry I dribbled onto myself. I call it my badge, an honor I bestow upon myself having survived that night.

And what a night it was, particularly when one considers that we only got there about an hour before they closed. In less than forty-five minutes, I had seen ugly people having oral sex in public, other ugly people engaged in various humping rituals against walls and on couches, and a would-be stripper bust her head on tile. When I finally recovered from laughing, I was too weak to keep standing, so I moved over to sit on one of the speakers; CB followed. We'd both just gotten off work, he a few hours before me; it'd been a long day. Another woman in her late 30's or early 40's came up to us to chat - apparently, she was drawn by CB's outfit and wanted us to know how cute we looked. Liar - I know how I looked. Turns out, she's the co-host of the party - her partner, some bald Polish guy in a black muscle shirt who makes women's jewelry, was across the room. She's a lobbyist and he's in commercial real estate, and on the weekend, they host "alternative lifestyle" parties. Freaks.

While she was talking to us, the pimply potato sack had meandered over to sit beside CB and I on the speakers (he was in-between us). Before long, I felt her fingers traveling over my arm. He said she was rubbing her face on his shoulder and neck. It was time to go.

We thanked the lady freak for her hospitality and gave her fake email addresses for her guest list. And I thought I'd seen it all, but then I wasn't expecting what happened on Tuesday, this time on my home turf.

to be continued...