tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63632208789222924562024-02-19T00:32:03.954-08:00phasesNgwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-31155803635300339722023-04-13T19:11:00.000-07:002023-04-13T19:11:36.523-07:00BAD LUCK<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Njoya always knew his life would end in such a tragic
manner. He wasn’t sure how he knew – he just expected it to be that way. He
sometimes wondered if there was invisible cloak of bad luck shrouded over him,
following wherever he went. As he stared dizzily at the angry mob surrounding
him, he began to make peace with his impending fate. One of the men in the crowd with
large veins coursing across his forehead and neck produced a hammer, grabbed
Njoya’s right foot and crushed his toes in one quick swat. Njoya let out a blood-curdling scream and tried to tuck his other limbs under his body. The angry mob
cheered and jeered. As the pain intensified, Njoya closed his eyes and let his
mind wander away from his current predicament. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>He was eleven years old again and sitting at his
mother’s side at her small shed in the market. Every Thursday, she and many
other business women like herself would hop on the back of a lorry to go to the
“bush” market where she bought traditional African spices in bulk. She had also
begun growing and drying some common green vegetables as well as drying fish because
these items were in high demand by “bush fallers”. They were by no means rich
but she made enough to keep her only son in school. After school, he would join
her at the market shed where his mother always had a warm meal waiting. When he was done eating,
his first task was to complete any homework he had, before carrying a small tray
of goods from the store and hawking them around the market. After his mother
died, his luck in life seemed to have turned for the worse. It was tuberculosis,
they said. His mother had taken ill as he was preparing to write his GCE Advanced
level. While his friends were attending study group and revision sessions, he
was at his mother’s side hopelessly watching her shrink to skin and bones.
TU-BER-CU-LO-SIS. Such a funny word for a disease so terrible. He sighed and
let his eyes open against his will.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The mob was bigger every time he re-opened
his eyes. How did this type of news travel so fast? A large woman who was new
to the crowd since the last time he'd looked noticed his open eyes. She
walked up to him, shouted something about “Les Bamendas” and hung an old large tyre
around his neck. He stared closely at her features – she wore her hair short
and had a couple of curly hairs sprouting out of her chin. She wore trousers
almost too small for her wide hips. She said something again with her raspy voice
and he wondered if she was a mother. What kind of woman would let something
like this happen to him? She opened up a bottle of kerosene and dumped the
contents over his head. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Njoya did not see where the lighted matchstick came
from. He leapt up quickly and begged for mercy as he felt his skin begin to
blister from the flames. In his panic, he began running away as quickly as he
could but then realized this was only helping to fan the flames. He dropped to
the ground in desperation as the smoke made it harder and harder to breathe or
see. He felt his mind blacking out again and he welcomed it this time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>When it became clear to his mother Aisha that she wasn’t
going to survive her disease, she sat Njoya down for conversation whenever she
could muster enough strength to do so. While he felt these conversations were
necessary, he dreaded them because they seemed to be an acknowledgement
of his mother’s impending death. He did not like that feeling. He stared at his
mother as she fell in and out of sleep. Even on her deathbed she was a beautiful
and graceful woman. He wondered why she never left this village. Why she never
married. He had asked about his father once and his mother’s response burned a
hole in his heart. Njoya was the product of a brief affair with a married man.
When Aisha told him about the pregnancy, he asked her to get an abortion and to
go to confession for having slept with a married man. She never spoke to him again
and his family never found out. Njoya fantasized about confronting his father
often, but he knew his mother would be disappointed in him if he did. He continued
to nurse resentment against the man even after his mother passed.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 107%;"><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">His mother’s only living relative, her older brother
Musa came to the village after many years for her funeral. He was a successful </span>business man<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> who imported and sold cars. He was called Uncle Dollar because all
he did was talk about America. The American markets. American cars. American government.
He had never made it past the American embassy but to hear him talk of America
one would think he was from there. Prior to her death, Aisha had asked him if
he would take Njoya with him to the city to complete his studies. She was worried
about the worsening Ambazonia crisis. Njoya did not trust Uncle Dollar. He talked
too much and he never gave without expecting something in return. His wife treated
his family like they were lepers. Njoya wished he had other options. </span></i><o:p style="font-size: 12pt;"></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Njoya came to on a narrow, squeaky gurney. He was in a
hospital room and noticed he was handcuffed to the side rail. He tried to reposition
himself and immediately regretted it. One of his feet felt like mush and his entire
skin stung like it was on fire. Ah yes, fire, as he remembered the flames, he
saw the last time his eyes were open. The policeman who was seated in a corner of
the room rushed quickly to his bedside asking him not to try anything stupid.
He apologized and promised he wouldn’t. Later that evening he provided his
official statement to the policeman. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Njoya had moved to the city with Uncle Dollar who instead
of enrolling him in school felt he would be better served if the boy learned a
skilled trade. Njoya had been walking home from the garage where he had been a
mechanic’s apprentice for the past 3 months. He heard someone scream “Au voleur!”
just as he turned around to see a young man running towards him. Before he
could figure out what was going on, the young man dropped the stolen goods at
his feet and disappeared. As he stood frozen trying to figure out what was
happening, a crowd gathered and quickly identified him as said thief. He had
started to protest and explain his innocence, but his cries fell on deaf ears. His
pleas were drowned out by the angry mob. It did not take long for him to resign
himself to his fate. Afterall, this was the kind of luck he had.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Njoya was eventually released from police custody when
a witness corroborated his story. He boarded a bus heading for the village that
same night without telling Uncle Dollar he was leaving. He did not know what he
was going back to. He wondered what his bad luck would bring him this time. He looked
down at the scars on his arms that reminded him of his near-death ordeal. Perhaps
he wasn’t entirely unlucky. He had gotten a second chance at life, and he was
going to make the best of it. He closed his eyes and welcomed the escape of
sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-20823713905498988982017-12-14T09:59:00.000-08:002017-12-14T21:22:03.361-08:00Spinster diaries <span style="font-family: sans-serif;">Jahine held her breath and felt the individual beads of sweat suddenly escaping from the pores in her back. She chuckled under her breath as the medical assistant squinted at the clipboard. That was her cue - she was up next. But she wanted to give the MA a chance to butcher her name and butcher she did.</span><br />
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513143085808" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
"JAH-HI-NEH NNNN-FON" she said with that lilting pitch to her voice which conveyed she wasn't sure about the pronunciation.</div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513143280462" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
"Jay is fine, yes that's me" Jahine said with a smile as she rose to her feet.</div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513143325841" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
"Did I say it right?"</div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513143342091" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
"It's pronounced Jane Nfon. My parents wanted a timeless name for me but with a special touch" she said as she again flashed a smile that masked her anxiety.</div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513143461898" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
"Ah I see. My name's Britnay, with one t and an a instead of an e and nobody ever spells it right so I can understand that" she says as she walks Jahine back.<br />
<br /></div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513143614507" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
In the hallway they stopped by one of those big scales with the sliding parts and the MA gestured for her to step on. She took off her coat, set her purse down and wondered why a practice this fancy didn't just purchase a high tech electronic bathroom scale instead of this loud device that looked like it was made for weighing cows. Eh who knew? Probably something or other about this one being more accurate [snort].</div>
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As she stepped on, she insinctively looked down to find a screen with digital numbers - oh wait yeah she couldn't because medieval scale. Britnay announces "130 pounds". Jahine is pleased - she had been the same weight since junior year of college. She worked hard for her svelte figure - 1 hour of cardio and 20 minutes of weights every other day. Eating fruits and vegetables every day, avoiding sugary drinks and fastfood, cooking her own meals and making a point of eating only half of every sweet treat when she did allow herself to indulge. So yes, she was proud of her work. Her blood pressure and heart rate were the picture of good health. She felt like a student eager to show off her thoroughly completed homework to the principal as they walked to the doctor's office. </div>
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<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513144298020" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
Dr. Cain was, if the Internet was to be believed, the best reproductive endocrinologist there was in that part of town. She'd happened upon him just a month ago when she'd seriously begun contemplating donor sperm IVF.</div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513144466288" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
It was the night before her 35th birthday and she found herself deep in thought as she sipped on a mixed red wine that had been in her kitchen for way too long. Nights like these were not uncommon for her since she turned 30 - they were usually during milestone events such as a birthday but more often than not would occur out of the blue or after scrolling through her various social media.</div>
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<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513144782526" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
She considered herself to be accomplished and fortunate in many ways - her parents, being both educators had been very supportive of her pursuits and with her smarts, school had been a breeeze. The connections she'd made while in law school and her vibrant personality earned her a job at the top law firm in town even before she graduated. She had started her own NGO which was rewarding work outside of work. She was satisfied with where things stood thus far.</div>
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<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513145106877" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
All along the way, she'd had people say "Don't forget other aspects of life o, it is not always about book". She knew those comments came from a good place but they rubbed her wrong - did they expect her coax men to fancy/date/marry her? She had continued to date during college and law school. She'd met almost equal numbers of Fboys and "husband material" guys. But there was always something - they were too young/old, not ambitious enough, too far away, not progressive enough in their thinking. Or sometimes they were just right, but had eyes for someone else. She'd had her fair share of heartbreak even as she had herself broken hearts.</div>
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<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513145471967" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
On her 27th birthday, a guy she'd been seeing for just over 6 months proposed to her - he had a very imposing nature and had seemed more interested in the idea of her (lawyer wife for a doctor) than in her as a person. On their first date he'd thrown a mini fit when she expressed her non-desire to take on a man's last name if she ever did marry. He'd spent more than half the time since then trying to guilt and force her into changing her mind. She'd said yes to his proposal because all of their friends and family were present. As soon as they got to his car she took the ring off and handed it back to him. He never spoke to her after that.</div>
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<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513145750766" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
Friends and family were always looking to hook her up with someone "because a fine geh like you should not be going to waste". Initially she'd said no to all their attempts but when she did finally cave, she had little to no chemistry with the guys they chose - her people didn't know her taste in men it seemed. So she shut that down too.<br />
<br /></div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513145678322" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
On that day, the eve of her 35th birthday, she had been scrolling through Facebook. Another engagement. A trip to the motherland for a traditional wedding. A church wedding - ah, what pretty colors. A baby bump - wow, 3rd child! She clicked "like" for most of the pics; "love" for the ones that were particularly cute. As she set her phone down, she stared into her wine glass. She felt that overwhelming sense of fear + mild envy + anxiety + self-doubt with which she was all too familiar. She hated that feeling. She thought about her own accolades and all the things that made her feel good about herself. They all some how seemed small and irrelevant on nights like this. So when a co-worker shared her own IVF story with her, it was no surprise she'd considered it strongly enough to make this appointment.</div>
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<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513146250449" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
"Jahine!", bellowed Dr Cain as he knocked and opened the door. "Hi, Dr Cain nice to meet you".</div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513146761960" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
"Nice to meet you as well", he smiled and they shook hands. He was a middle-aged white male with a handsome face but quite some girth on him. She briefly wondered if and how he could sincerely counsel his patients on weight loss. He probably used the tired line "do as I say not as I do". She was careful not to let her eyes linger on his rotund belly lest he catch her judgemental look.</div>
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<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513147084709" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
They talked about her woman parts and history. Yes she had regular monthly periods.<br />
No she had no issues with cramping or painful sex.<br />
No she wasn't on birth control.<br />
Yes she had a regular gynecologist and a recent normal pap smear.<br />
Yes she had been to the sperm bank's website and already chosen a potential donor, all was set.<br />
<br /></div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513147235481" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
He asked about her social history - he was impressed at her career success given her relatively young age. She did that thing where she downplayed her achievements but was quick to catch herself.<br />
No she wasn't in a relationship right now. She sighed a sigh of relief when he didn't pursue this further.<br />
Yes she was aware of the financial commitment and that won't be a problem.<br />
<br /></div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513147413590" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
He suddenly jumped to his feet and clapped his hands gleefully: "Let's get you started then! I'll step out so you can get undressed for an exam and an ultrasound and we'll come up with the plan".<br />
<br /></div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513147568717" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
The rest of the visit was uneventful - she had normal anatomy. Starting with her next cycle, she would take medications to help her produce many follicles which would subsequently be harvested, fertilized with the thawed sperm and any healthy blastocysts obtained would be placed in her uterus.<br />
<br />
She picked up the prenatal vitamins and other medications he had prescribed for her and drove home. She was never too fond of the female pelvic exam - the sticky and cold gel from the ultrasound probe somehow made it to every nook and cranny. She took a shower and poured herself a glass of wine. She remembered having read something about fetal alcohol syndrome on the elevator and promptly emptied her glass down the sink. She opted for green tea instead.</div>
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<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513147903245" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
As she settled in front of her computer she revisited the sperm bank page. She looked over her potential donor. He was a very handsome black man - white teeth, impressive jawline, tall, healthy, educated, no family history of anything scary. She imagined what their composite baby would look like. She wanted a girl - with pearly whites and a smile like his, maybe his height and her figure when she grew up. Her full lips and afro, his confident nose. She would be an adorable little girl who would grow up to be her best friend and confidant.<br />
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<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513148241638" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
She thought about how her own life would change. Would this make her more or less eligible? Would it change her career path and potential? Would it make her ripe fodder for gossip? The same people who'd diligently reminded her of her ticking clock would surely be the ones to snicker behind her back for using frozen sperm from a man she didn't even know.<br />
It be your own people, she swore.<br />
<br /></div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513148241638" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
She had never felt any particular urgency to have children . In her mind, having children was akin to randomly meeting Barack Obama or Oprah in Chicago. It would be cool if it happened but she never actively went out of her way to make it happen. It would also come in handy at one of those work functions where they asked you to introduce and say one fun fact about yourself.<br />
<br /></div>
<div id="yMail_cursorElementTracker_1513148241638" style="font-family: sans-serif; overflow-wrap: break-word;">
She'd mulled over the various reasons people had given for wanting children:<br />
Because the Bible said so (what about those who were not Christian? Also, was the "go forth and multiply" commandment still applicable nearly 8 billion humans later?)<br />
Because it gives you the opportunity to nurture and care for another human being (sounded cute. Made them sound like real nice selfless beings. Did they feel similar when they drove past the homeless man on the corner?)<br />
Because you can have a companion/caretaker when you get old (lol, they'd certainly never heard of kids turning out wrong. Also, maybe a bit selfish? Did the kid have a say in this?)<br />
Because don't you want to pass on your genes?? (Err yeah she was dope but certainly the earth won't stop spinning on its axis if her genes were lost from the pool)</div>
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She pondered on the people who for one reason or another were incapable of having children. Were they doomed? Were their lives by definition empty and without meaning?<br />
<br />
She abruptly stood up. She rummaged through her purse for the medictions from Dr. Cain. She walked to the bathroom, uncapped the bottles and flushed the pills down the toilet. She wasn't ready for this and probably never would be.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
San Antonio, TX</div>
Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-79855422799967253592015-07-17T18:25:00.000-07:002015-07-17T18:25:46.554-07:00RULES FOR GOOD AFRICAN GIRLS<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear African girls, I come to you this morning with a heavy
heart. It saddens me to repeatedly see you go about your business of
abusing our culture on an everyday basis like no man’s business. We come from a
land of greatness; rich in natural resources, beautiful child brides, skillful
female circumcision experts and a sense of community that has thankfully not
been invaded by the perversion of the Western world. So when I sit down to put
these rules together for you, it is to help us all continue to sustain our
beautiful culture. Let’s touch on these topics.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Imagine my shock the other day when I found out Ngeri’s
daughter does not know how to cook fufu! The girl is almost done with high
school and she walks around unashamedly with that kind of flaw?? How will she
ever keep a man if she can’t feed him? Talk less of having a family!! I mean
how can a woman be a woman if she can’t perform her basic domestic duties?? For
shame. But you know what? I blame her mother. I have always said you must get
these girls in the kitchen as soon as they learn how to hold a fufu stick
steadily. But no, Ngeri would not listen and just brushed off my concerns. Now
look what has happened to her daughter. It is sad really, girls. Do not let
this be your story. Go in that kitchen and throw it down like every good
African girl would. Make your mother proud, attract a man, keep him well fed
and thank me later.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Another issue of concern for me dear girls is your manner of
dressing. I see many of you good girls trying to copy that American fashion of
walking around showing your valuable assets. Don’t you understand that by
flashing off all your secrets, you leave nothing to the imagination? You have
to stay covered so that when men go to imagine you, they can have the pleasure
of un-covering you themselves. You must not take away from your future husband
the excitement that is akin to unwrapping a favorite piece of candy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember that a farmer will never buy a
cow if he can get the milk for free. You know, despite all the bad things the
white man has brought to our land, he has also brought some good. Think about
how our female ancestors walked around naked for centuries, the whole time
devaluing themselves until the Europeans came to their rescue. I feel sorry for
some of those primitive tribes that insist on walking around naked or with
their scanty raffia leaves. Thank God for progress my dear girls. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The other day, my dear friend Susan introduced me to this
thing called Facebook. Dear girls, I have seen the gateway to hell! Susan was
showing me pictures of her daughter who lives out in Florida and one of them
caught my eye. She was standing with some boy and guess what? He had his hand
around her waist!! This boy is not her husband and has made no declarations of
any such intent, yet there he was, carelessly holding her around the waist!
Girls, let me break this down for you. You know all your value is topically
distributed and as such can be easily rubbed off. 40% is on your buttocks, 30% around your waist, 30% around your
thighs and the rest of your body parts make up the remainder. So this dull girl was standing there, letting that man hold her waist and just like that - GBAM - she depreciated by 30%. The Good Book teaches us that our bodies are
temples and it is our duty to keep them sacred and pure. You see, the sanctity
of this temple is so fragile that something as seemingly trivial as a man’s arm
around your waist can cause it to be lost. You must be careful girls, lest all
your mornings of bible study, meditation and prayer go to waste because of a
boy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
I learned about something that shook me to the core just two
days ago and I am still hoping some one will come wake me out of this dream. I
hear there are schools in America where children are taught about sex and on
top of that, the students receive free condoms? It is no wonder that country
continues to descend into the abyss. Why would a topic as sacred as this one be
fodder for classroom discussion? And why, oh why, would people give young girls
condoms? Don’t you see what that will cause? More and more of our young women
would no longer be afraid of diseases and pregnancy and would have no problem
spreading themselves around like cheap ashawos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Girls, I am afraid you are being led down a dangerous path but you must
be strong. These discussions are a no-go zone. As for the
condoms, run far far away from the devil and do not give him that opening.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now if you do these things and continue to succeed as an
upright and decent African girl, you will catch the eye of one of our African
sons and they will honor you by making you their wife. This reflects well on your family and superb upbringing so don’t let your family down dear
girl. But I want you to understand that marriage is not a bed of roses. You see,
men are wild beings and need gentle and patient women like yourself to hold them down. Their egos are easily bruised so be careful not
to push him to the wall or belittle him in his own house. Be sure to support
his every endeavor and keep him satisfied gastric and otherwise, lest he be
forced to succumb to outside temptations. Above all, do not buy into that
western idea of divorce; we know not such things in our culture. A good wife is
known for her patience and endurance and there never was a better time for this
to be put to use than when things are going rough between you and your husband.
So, for the sake of peace, family unity and to avoid disgracing yourself and
your family, stay with him and help him navigate the treacherous path of
fidelity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Beri’s son heard me discussing these rules with his mother and
he came up to me to ask about the rules for boys. I laughed hysterically; he is
only 7 years old – aren’t they cute at that age? He doesn’t yet understand that
there are no such rules for them. It is okay though; when he comes of age he
will realize that his <a href="http://elnathanjohn.blogspot.com/2015/03/my-penis-makes-everything-ok.html">penis makes everything ok</a>. Silly boy haha.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-26451358455296288122015-06-26T20:19:00.001-07:002015-06-27T16:26:55.675-07:00Marc Vivien FoeJune 26 2003. I was a student at Joseph Merrick Baptist College, Ndu and had just conquered my Ordinary Level (O' Level) GCE examinations. I felt great; the long days and nights of endless studying for this big-deal exam were over. I would no longer have to soak my feet in ice cold water or squirt orange peels into my eyes all in attempt to stay awake and study study study.<br />
<div>
Also exciting, the Indomitable Lions were playing a Confederations cup game against Colombia that evening. It didn't matter that the game was inconsequential; a game is always big business for us so this was the perfect way to round out my stressful month.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-VGdegEXb0wF1KDtT4vupBrkND1c5Z-ZFPzV1n4cC1QtzGjJ3l4hxQ2Qi3vV7o6Mwv2Yv9crpLGWylZ3rp7BIykXUX5_0aeKiZPF3Cmq0CIrksa0JkNc-uOjmQ5nBQxN_jnryMKViCH4/s1600/team+lions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-VGdegEXb0wF1KDtT4vupBrkND1c5Z-ZFPzV1n4cC1QtzGjJ3l4hxQ2Qi3vV7o6Mwv2Yv9crpLGWylZ3rp7BIykXUX5_0aeKiZPF3Cmq0CIrksa0JkNc-uOjmQ5nBQxN_jnryMKViCH4/s320/team+lions.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now for every Cameroonian, soccer is a religion. I mean, we would wife up soccer and take her home and have babies with her if we could. Every Cameroonian child rolls out of the womb with a little soccer ball tucked under their armpit I tell ya. So everyone was tuned in for the game as usual.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc3JxD_eAXzuF-HKuCHcB1TkVFdCetvoQyoIUJzKsaKS35QK2A8k-3Yn00WyYdaZZluJk_iBgqcWEDBN0Dr1dbtf3SrOONgpHVfMyD8lEPaOqiW02Ci-hqum40Vk7-d3g9igITaGIY_R8/s1600/little+boy+soccer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc3JxD_eAXzuF-HKuCHcB1TkVFdCetvoQyoIUJzKsaKS35QK2A8k-3Yn00WyYdaZZluJk_iBgqcWEDBN0Dr1dbtf3SrOONgpHVfMyD8lEPaOqiW02Ci-hqum40Vk7-d3g9igITaGIY_R8/s1600/little+boy+soccer.jpg" /></a></div>
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Occasionally at my boarding school, the administration would have mercy on us and pull out a TV so we could catch a game or a movie here and there. That night was tricky though because the majority of staff and students were already on summer break and so bringing out the TV was not really a priority. Luckily, my uncle was principal of the school and lived on campus so I invited myself to his home and chose a nice spot right in front of the chimney (Ndu is a hella cold place, let me tell you).</div>
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The truth is I do not remember much of that game. Don't get me wrong; it was an exciting and thrilling game (I mean, every soccer match with the Lions is). But every memory was quickly wiped out by what happened in the 2nd half to player #17, Marc Vivien Foe.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0skPbGf-upArEkFv0rsZtw9SF7t44PjqGa0SyzJtYNg2bWoEeW2tuRbXYBA8IigiQDM0KCdj52iYP-Mnx5NKlI1wyQ7G0ywHF1LoK6aLJjQR8cqEhlMr_Yy6CG6_qfGWwgmd-JZNtDQ/s1600/marc-vivien-foe+alone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0skPbGf-upArEkFv0rsZtw9SF7t44PjqGa0SyzJtYNg2bWoEeW2tuRbXYBA8IigiQDM0KCdj52iYP-Mnx5NKlI1wyQ7G0ywHF1LoK6aLJjQR8cqEhlMr_Yy6CG6_qfGWwgmd-JZNtDQ/s320/marc-vivien-foe+alone.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now for my soccer-hating readers, here's how you watch a game: you look at the ball, you follow that muthaluvin' ball and nothing but the damn ball. You look at players' skill in passing that ball from one person to another, you look at their ability to steal that ball from their opponents and you look at their ability to get that ball in the netted box. Basically, if it's not the ball, touching the ball or pursuing the ball, you pay it no mind.</div>
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So when MVF dropped on the periphery of the field, few people were paying attention. I did notice, however, because at the time he was my favorite player on the team. His soccer was good but what I had always admired about him was his demeanor on the pitch. He played his heart out every single time and no matter how hard pressed he was, he always had this air of calm about him.</div>
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<div>
What made his fall curious was the fact that no one had pushed him. In fact, no players were close enough to have even tactfully tripped him as he walked by. Before long, the cameras panned in on him and every Cameroonian's voice got caught in their throat as we slowly became aware of the fact that his chest was not heaving up and down like it should. But we all thought "Oh it's just another fall, he's probably a little dehydrated. Someone give him a gatorade and send him along on his merry way". But he was not even stirring and writhing on the ground as he normally should if that was the case. </div>
<div>
When the paramedics ran onto the pitch and began to slap his cheeks, the knots in my stomach turned to wrought iron chains. I knew something was terribly wrong. Every one knew something was dreadfully wrong. The camera man knew something was wrong and found himself unable to pan out as well. </div>
<div>
A few minutes later, as the whole world watched Marc's pupils roll to the back of his head, we silently wished the camera tech would've have zoomed out and spared us the heartache.</div>
<div>
The knots in my stomach quickly turned to a vast ache and to panic as his body flopped around listlessly on the stretcher as it was rushed off the pitch. I didn't know what was going on but I knew I could not watch the rest of the game.</div>
<div>
By the end of the match, speculation was that MVF never awoke from his fall. When final confirmation did come in, the whole country was plunged into the deep and dark silence of shocking grief. The nation had just watched one of its favorite sons die while doing something we all lived for.</div>
<div>
The sadness was palpable everywhere you went. It was all we could talk about for weeks on end.</div>
<div>
I remember the state funeral. Broadcast on live TV. I awoke very early that day and completed all my chores because it wasn't something I wanted to miss. Seeing his young wife being ushered in and his children (6 years, 3 years and 2 months) sitting through the ceremony with little to no idea of what the heck was going on was just as painful as watching MVF fall. Those were very dark times indeed.</div>
<div>
It has been 12 years to the day but I can feel everything I felt on that day even as I write this. Continue to rest in peace, Marc Vivien Foe and I hope the team and country continue to carry on your legacy of hardwork, dedication and outstanding character.</div>
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Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-15532420343444496642015-05-26T18:45:00.001-07:002015-05-26T20:37:15.272-07:00Passport to Hope<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
It must have been
sometime past midnight when Fanwi heard him approaching their mud-thatch hut.
She knew it was him because she heard the familiar “Thump-Shhh-Thump-Shhh” sounds
his feet made as he walked; the thump from his over-compensating right leg and
the shhh from his limp left leg as he dragged the foot along. Word around the
village was that when he was a child, Pa Nkem had stolen mangoes from Ma Ngwe’s
compound and as he descended the tree to run away with his loot, had stepped on
the talisman she had made specifically for the children who stole her mangoes
before she ever got to them. That night, he awoke with sharp, shooting pains in
his left leg and even his mother’s special herb brew did not relieve the pain.
He was in agony for three days until the village elders went to plead with Ma
Ngwe to reverse her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">juju</i>. She agreed,
after the children promised to leave her tree alone. The next day, Nkem’s pain
was gone but when he stood up to walk, his left leg was shriveled up and limp.
He could barely lift it off the floor and walked with great effort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fanwi
quickly wrapped her loincloth tightly across her chest and tucked the excess
material between her legs. She curled her legs up under her as she lay facing
the wall and splayed her arms to mimic the reckless abandon of a deep sleep.
She tried not to gasp when Pa Nkem opened the bamboo door and the cold dry
harmattan winds rushed in. Almost instantly, the pungent cloud of palm wine that
always hovered over Pa Nkem moved to envelop Fanwi as if to assure her that yes
indeed, her husband was home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
He thump-shhhed his way towards
their bed and tapped her on the back “Fanwi! Fanwi!” She stirred ever so
slightly, murmured a tired “Hmm?” but showed no signs of getting up. He reached
over her shoulder to find the knot where she tied her loincloth across her
chest but she slowly rolled over, like a sleeping person would, and came to
rest on her belly. He moved to the foot of the bed and tried tugging at the
ends of her cloth she had tucked between her legs. Fanwi again did her slow and
deliberate sleep-like roll back to her left side, crossed one leg over the
other, then snorted and exhaled loudly for good measure. Pa Nkem heaved a heavy
sigh, resignedly threw himself onto the other side of the bed and within five
minutes was snoring like a bull. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Fanwi sighed a deep sigh relief,
thankful to have dodged another one of his advances. It wasn’t that she did not
like being intimate; she did. Just not with Pa Nkem. He smelled like stale palm
wine and a thin red film of Kola nut juice always lined his teeth. When he
attempted to kiss her, he slobbered all over her face and he never made any
attempts to actually please her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
She thought back
to the day when Pa Nkem and his entourage had shown up at her uncle’s hut with a
50-gallon container of palm oil, several bags of dried corn and beans, 5
plantain bunches, 3 chickens and a live goat. She knew what those gifts meant;
someone from Pa Nkem’s family had come to “pluck a flower” as her people said.
Being the only girl in that household, she knew they were there for her. She
was excited; it was a big honor to have a man come to ask for her hand in
marriage. She hoped it was Pa Nkem’s nephew, Jato. She had seen him around the
market square and often swished her hips a little harder when walking past him.
He would smile back at her, as if in appreciation for the gesture so she was
hoping he had come to show quantitative gratitude and claim what was his. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Her uncle’s wife had called her
into the small kitchen behind the main hut and sat her down. She did not like
the long, drawn look of her face. Since her parents died a few years ago, her
uncle had grudgingly taken her into his care but his wife had been nothing
short of a second mother to her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
“Fanwi”, Aunty Bih said, reaching out
to hold her hand, “I have begged your uncle for the past three days to leave
you alone but he has been adamant. I want you to know that I did everything I
could to dissuade him. But he insists you are a woman now, and he can no longer
afford to feed one additional mouth. Our friend Nkem has been kind to us and
now that he needs a wife, your uncle says we cannot turn our backs on him”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Fanwi’s mouth dropped open; she
could not believe her aunt was saying those words to her. She quickly pulled
her hand out of her aunt’s, like it had suddenly sprouted thorns and spat
“WHAT?!” She had run out of the kitchen in tears straight to her friend
Nangah’s place, where she remained for one week. After much pleading, cajoling and
a few mocking chants from every one in the village, Fanwi eventually decided to
accept her fate and move in with her husband. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
She tasted the
bile in her mouth as she now thought of that word – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">husband</i>. It had been two months and it still did not sit well with
her. She hissed and looked over at the sleeping pile on the other side of the
bed. Beads of sweat trickled down his face and his belly galloped and gurgled
with every snore. This was certainly not the husband for her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
She quietly flipped first one leg,
then the other over the edge of the bed, careful to keep it from squeaking as
it so often did with any movement. She moved swiftly to grab the small bag she
had packed the night before from under the bed. As she got dressed, she heard
three very faint raps on her side of the hut – Jato’s signal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
She looked over once again at Pa
Nkem passed out on the bed and for a split second she felt sorry for him. She thought,
“Maybe if I stay long enough, I can learn to love him. Maybe if he freshens his
mouth with those lemon-grass leaves I set out for him…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">RAP RAP RAP!” </i>Her thoughts were interrupted by Jato’s signal again,
this time louder and even more urgent. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The noise caused Pa Nkem to stir in
his sleep and as he did, his loincloth came undone to reveal his ashen
genitalia. Fanwi was immediately taken back to the three times he had forced
himself on her. She had cried and begged him to be patient with her but he was
intent on having his way. She remembered how he laughed like a hyena afterwards
and called her a good wife. She thought about his crooked fingernails
scratching her back in his pitiful attempt at romance and the anger began to
rise from that dark place in her stomach. She had a mind to slice off his
“precious parts” and let him bleed to death as she made her escape. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
But the loud whisper of her name
from just outside the hut reminded her of the opportunity she now had to escape
this hellhole. She dabbed at the tears that had begun to well up in her eyes, cracked
the door open and quietly slid out and around back. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
There he was,
waiting with his own little bag and a kerosene lamp needed to guide their trek
in those wee hours of the morning. They would walk 10 kilometers to a nearby
village where motorcycle taxis came by once a week. They would journey 50 kilometers
on the bike over muddy roads carved into hillsides to a small town where they
would catch a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">clando</i>, the overloaded
minibuses that would take them to the heart of the big city. Jato had a distant
relative there who was willing to take them in until they got to their feet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He smiled at her as he took her
hand and ushered her onto the path in front of him. She was unsure of what lay
beyond the green hills sprawled out in front of them, but was certain and
hopeful that it would be better than what she was leaving behind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-0zREi3_YI_p-mhoO7PQl2j1h41vrfxzmSgCZ8VgSsORNtvS4TC2BPFJnoV4Rgxm1LXMclVppe_UvR7FaVrYCu9gGxxmU5lNb21uJCkND57HPSxYR_mkicGxB1u3nrDm2yG82x5KAmY/s1600/For+blog+-+hiking+into+sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX-0zREi3_YI_p-mhoO7PQl2j1h41vrfxzmSgCZ8VgSsORNtvS4TC2BPFJnoV4Rgxm1LXMclVppe_UvR7FaVrYCu9gGxxmU5lNb21uJCkND57HPSxYR_mkicGxB1u3nrDm2yG82x5KAmY/s320/For+blog+-+hiking+into+sunrise.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i>Bonglack, M. Cincinnati, OH January 2015</i></div>
Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-19415203218881075292014-08-03T05:53:00.002-07:002014-08-03T05:53:28.151-07:00New beginningsJust another Sunday morning and I'm up early - earlier than I need to be as usual. Not that I'm an insomniac or anything but my body has just learned to survive on so little sleep without crashing. At least not yet.<br />
<br />
It's nice to be up early because that means I have time to be with just my thoughts. Normally that's a scary thing for most people :) but I like my thoughts and I seldom have time to be with just them.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking: Wow! Has it really been 3 years?? 3 years since my dad took his last breath?? 3 years since my family was walking around in that haze that accompanies the loss of someone so dear?? Sometimes it feels a lot more than 3 and more often than not it feels less than 3. Like my dad was just here; advising, coaching, coaxing, setting us straight, loving, laughing...living. And a breath gets caught in my chest as I marvel at the brevity of life and the suddenness of change.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking: Yay. Medical school. And then Shoot. Medical school. The very one that seemed so far away at some point is now staring me straight in the eye. I wonder if I my drive is sufficient to get me through. I grimly anticipate the long days and nights of intense studying and sprawling concept maps. I get sweaty palms when I look at a USMLE step 1 question and have no idea what the hell it's talking about. I wonder if I'll make all the right connections with faculty and have access to all the research labs I want. I wonder if I'll make new friends ( lol, yes. It's like middle school all over again). I wonder if we'll all bond like everyone who's gone ahead of me has sworn.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking: Dang that tiny Honda made it safe and sound over 700 plus miles?? Plus all my ground cargo that I chose to haul?? And even though my driving leg felt numb as ice it still worked when I tried walking on it?? I'll drive this car forever. I'll drive it to the ground. Then when my first child turns 18 guess what the big present will be :)<br />
<br />
I'm thinking: Will my family be alright? Will I be alright being physically removed from them like so? How would things be different if my dad was here? Is there an African store nearby? No no I mean is there an African store nearby that sells calabar chalk??? Important! :) (Don't nobody come preaching to the choir 'bout how it's unhealthy and all that now).<br />
<br />
But I'm sitting here watching the sun rays bathe my unfurnished new abode and something deep within me just knows I'll be aight :) Maybe I'll rename this blog Glorifications and Frustrations of an M1 so I can make y'all part of my pleasure and pain. We shall see.Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-27917455481740289192014-01-23T14:32:00.000-08:002014-01-23T14:32:00.106-08:00Something like poetry<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The idea of this
poem came to me over the course of several years. As a maturing young woman
who’d been thrust into the American society, it came slowly to me (mostly via
the internet) that the black woman was not viewed as beautiful by a good number
of people. Having grown up on an almost entirely black continent, I was
initially quite surprised. Over time and after reading way too many comments
than I should have under certain Yahoo! articles, I came away more baffled than
surprised. I had always seen beauty in myself and the women around me, so how
come it there were so many people out there who did not? And then it hit me
that there are many black girls growing up in parts of the world where this
message is all they’ve heard for as long as their young minds can remember. So
I decided to put in words the beauty I see in myself and in other black women,
to serve as a reminder for women/girls whose societies have labeled them undesirable
and ugly. My message? Dear brown-skinned girl, you are so damn beautiful even
if they don’t see it. (I don't like being too preachy so this one was a little bit of a reach for me but oh well)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So you braved the odds and came to the world a
month early<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And loved to roam the outdoors when you mastered
using those little feet<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But long before you knew it school days were here<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Where you were told by fellow mates you weren’t
all that<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They said your hair was too nappy and puffy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That it did not ebb and flow and cascade like
theirs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But how could they not see the beauty in its
versatility<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And the tiny ringlets that were a delight to play
with?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They said your facial features were not what they
liked<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Your nose too wide and the lips too thick <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But how could they not see how perfectly the nose
framed your face<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And the luscious kisses that your generous lips
provided?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They said your body was too full, too non-svelte<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Your bosom too voluptuous and your hips too wide<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But how could they not see that these same things<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Were the very essence of your womanhood in which
you took pride?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They said your skin was too dark<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Not white and pale like they would rather have<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But how could they not see the beauty in your
chocolate <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And caramel skin so fervently maintained by daily
moisturizer?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They took not the time to know you<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just went with the assumption that you were
air-headed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But they didn’t even know about your extensive
readership<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Nor did they care to hear about your academic
achievements and goals <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They said you were cold and non-deserving<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Since the talk was that you had room only to be
angry and wild<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yet they failed to see how big your heart was<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And the open arms you held out to everyone who
was in need<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And so whilst the world has drawn up its own
picture <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of what you should and should not be<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hang tight to the core precepts of your being<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lest you become what they wish you were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>Mildrede Bonglack<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Minnesota,
January 2014</span></i><span style="font-family: "Century Schoolbook","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-43074052002189522052013-11-28T07:51:00.000-08:002013-11-28T07:51:08.149-08:00Back at it! Blogging, that is.Hello blog!<br />
Well it's been a minute has it not. And by minute I mean nearly 2 years!<br />
You see, I've been busy. Wait wait wait. Now before you go rolling your eyes on me, I should have you know that I now have something to show for it!<br />
What is it you may ask? Well I'll tell ya. It's an acceptance letter. Medical school acceptance letter yo! Ha ha yes indeed!<br />
You see, I've been a pre-med for the last 5 years and boy has the struggle been real! One day you're on cloud 9, thinking how the admissions committees got nothing on you and the next day you're like oh crap I will never get in any where. But yesterday brought that whole drama to an end for me. (And handed me a whole new different kind of drama but that's talk for another day lol).<br />
I'll tell you how it happened. So yesterday morning I had a neuroscience exam on the worst taught (in my opinion at least) topics: basal ganglia, cerebellar function, upper and lower motor circuits, yeah that stuff. I felt uneducated walking into the exam and even while taking it I'd pause every 2 questions, gaze off into the distance and shake my head. Then I tolled through it and knew I had to get my ass out of there so I did.<br />
I put the (I presume bombed) exam behind me and head out to the library to tie up loose ends with homework and papers seeing as this is the best time to do it cos nothing's getting done over Thanksgiving break yo.<br />
Log in to email. See that UCincinatti has updated my status on their secondary page. Oh. Is that right. Heh. So I drop the mouse, cross my arms and start thinking about if I want to check that. Then it occurs to me that it wouldn't be a reject! They're surely not cruel enough to send me a reject the day before Thanksgiving right?! My whoa-this-must-be-correct-analysis gusto pumped me up enough to log in to that page.<br />
I had to scan the page like 5 times before my nerves calmed down enough to see the "Congratulations you have been accepted! Choose Confirm or Deny". And I'm like "Or deny? For why in the hell?!" Lol. Now on the inside, my little African spirit was dancing and catapaulting through the air. But on the outside? I did a little victory fist pump and whispered a resounding Yes! And danced a little because I was (unfortunately) at the library. In retrospect, I should've whipped myself out of that chair and danced a little makossa yo. But it's all good. I surely shall in a little bit here.<br />
Happy Thanksgiving folks!Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-14230726104853024542013-11-05T07:52:00.001-08:002013-11-05T07:52:51.085-08:00The Barriers at Mbingo Baptist Hospital: Got Milk?<a href="http://thebarriersincameroon.blogspot.com/2013/10/got-milk.html?spref=bl">The Barriers at Mbingo Baptist Hospital: Got Milk?</a>: Breastfeeding is important in Cameroon. There is often no access to clean water for mothers to make formula and the formula is prohibitive...Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6363220878922292456.post-9824926259843644782009-10-05T22:56:00.001-07:002009-10-05T22:58:00.645-07:00whaddya know?well,i'm a writer but never really get to write what comes to my mind....a lot does<br />so here we go!<br />it should be fun!Ngwenzackhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16112597298308828760noreply@blogger.com1