Theme: COLOUR LITE

20.03.2021

Is it because I’m white?

In Ghana I’m considered white.

And therefore posh.

And rich.

Which is interesting.

And I’m offended.

Because I am anything but.

In my eyes.

I remember watching a YouTube video where Ghanaian guys were asked who they’d prefer, dark or light skinned girls.

They preferred dark skinned.

Explanation?

Light skinned girls cost money.

They are expensive.

And demanding.

Which is so not me.

(Mind you, the selection of guys they asked was a bit lame)

But it’s a gist?

So I can play it two ways.

I can run around assuring people that I’m a normal gal.

Or I can totally milk it and see what happens.

Either way, my plan to blend in is totally not working.

I had a dream last night.

I was at market.

Back in the neighbourhood I grew up in.

There were mountains of vintage clothing in the street

I found some amazing pieces including shoes which is rare.

So exciting.

I left them in a pile and when I turned around someone had taken them somewhere else without trace.

I went mental.

Lol, I’m starting to feel slightly claustrophobic.

In a pleasant way.

I’m at the house mostly.

With my sister-in-law and her friend who is here from Cameroon to do courses on beauty and make up.

What gets to me is the erratic WiFi.

I’m electronically challenged.

Nothing is loading properly on my phone.

I can’t access the UK TalkTalk Website to cancel my subscription and I can’t call them as to not rack up massive roaming charges.

Chatting on Tinder is frustrating and with hours delay to reply.

We bought a SIM card the other day but my spare phone needs to be unlocked first.

I’m starting to feel slightly trapped.

I need to see more and explore.

It’s the weekend.

Would be cool to have a date.

Someone with a car.

My sis is great.

She looks after me well.

I got my own room and bathroom.

And the food she cooks is delicious.

But there are also a lot of restrictions.

Things I presume straight forward, are not.

And vice versa.

And certain things only work like this and never like that.

Rules of conduct.

It’s just the way things are.

And when I ask: Why don’t you change it?

She says: impossible.

And it could be so.

Change is notorious like that.

And what do I know, right?

It reminded me of when I met I first moved to the UK.

I had to feel my way around and had to rely on what my then boyfriend told me how things are done.

I accepted it as the way.

Oh, this can’t be done.

Oh, that can’t be done.

Things will never change …

It took me years to realise that he was just making excuses not to make changes.

He refused to be open-minded and consider other points of view.

Everyone is entitled to an opinion.

It’s the structure of beliefs we create, making it our reality, to roam in.

Or actually, we are building filters through which we perceive everything around us.

This has nothing to do with upbringing or culture.

It’s a mental attitude.

An intellectual choice.

We are open-minded in some ways but closed-minded in many others.

Can we call ourselves open-minded then?

Either you are open or closed.

Our beliefs are our prisons.

Or golden cages.

Even about open-mindedness.

Beliefs are very personal.

We group those together which have the same premise.

One big premise is fear.

Of uncertainty.

I want to stay away from this one.

But it’s hard.

It’s a spy.

And a thief.

But we leave the door wide open.

So no manner of insurance will compensate.

So we look towards so called ‘perpetrators’.

But what comes first?

The perpetrator or the belief in perpetration?

My big natural hair is called Nappy Hair here.

Hilarious.

Sounds like an insult but is apparently really cool.

Sis might just say that to be polite.

Lol.

Hair, like everywhere else in the world, is a big thing here.

African hair is a lot off work.

So the thing is to have corn rows and wear wigs.

Easy.

In the heat?

Probably not hotter than my nappy hair fro come to think of it.

I watched Miss Fleur braid my sis’ hair yesterday.

So cool.

She wants to get her hands on mine but I’m reluctant.

I think my head is too small for cornrows.

In symetry to my African butt.

Having a beautician in the house is dangerous.

Full hair and make up will be required next week when we go out.

We’re heading out to a club.

I thought one of the uncles was taking us out to dinner last night, but it didn’t happen.

Shame.

I’m aching to go out.

I have a feeling little sis didn’t want to take him up on his offer as not to inconvenience him.

She does that.

Working double hard as not to inconvenience.

I see my independent self there.

She’s not too comfortable accepting help.

I had to establish some rules while enjoying her 24/7 hospitality:

I’m not interfering with her cooking but I will do the dishes.

No arguments.

I will also clean my own room AND wash my own clothes!

Apparently guests don’t do that.

Even sisters.

Apparently they would just expect to be served upon.

How can there be feminism when there is no sisterhood support?

Are women like that?

I heard.

Is it cultural?

According to her, African mothers are a nightmare.

Apparently no woman is good enough for their sons.

And daughter-in-laws suffer.

Apparently.

Showing over-respect to elders seems still very much a thing.

For children, African parents still have a strong hold on them.

No matter how far away they live.

Keeping them in check.

Luckily for my sister-in-law, my stepmom, is a beautiful soul.

A kind one.

But it will be interesting how I will behave in the house of my ‘parents’.

Luckily, I was never really a child in their lives so there are no past references to slip into.

No past patterns.

I will be an adult in their house.

Younger but an equal.

If I establish that.

Polite boundaries.

It’s interesting how my sis references my dad’s behaviour in mine.

It seems that I am close in character to him.

I never recognised that because I don’t know him at all.

I only know him through my mum’s filters.

Which I recognised in my uncle’s filters when I last spoke to him.

About my visit to Ghana.

I will try to be open minded.

Are there expectations?

Maybe more than I care to admit.

I want to recognise myself in him.

Ha, but only the things I think are cool.

Obviously.

What about not so cool things?

Either way I guess I am expecting some sort of closed loop.

Some sort of epiphany.

Maybe a wholeness.

My mum’s brother was determined to tell me that by seeking out my dad, I will not find what I’m looking for.

I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for so it doesn’t matter if I’m not finding that.

Spending time is what I want.

Finding out.

Another angle.

A clue.

In the paper chase that is my life.

A puzzling puzzle piece.

God, compared to my family I am so pale. I look drained of colour.

Lol.

Sun bathing feels somewhat stupid.

Touristy.

And the beaches are closed due to the plague.

Because on weekends that’s where everyone hangs out.

I’m baffled that butt enhancement surgery is flourishing in Africa.

Of all places.

This is where the big booty was invented.

Wtf.

Apparently it’s never big enough.

Refreshing for someone whose butt was always considered large for Eurpean standards.

That changed in the last few years.

I watched a couple of episodes of African soaps.

All the women are big.

Stretch marks.

Massive dimples.

Huge thighs.

Reflecting the general perception of beauty.

African men love it.

Coming from Europe where being skinny was always my battle, it’s reassuring.

I am yet to find out where I fit in here.

We establish ourselves in how others perceive us.

Human nature.

Trying to fit in somewhere.

Boxing ourselves.

I am stared at here.

It’s slightly uncomfortable.

I feel exactly the same as back in my childhood being the only coloured girl in a white environment.

Sticking out.

I physically feel the perception of my onlookers.

Not sure what kind of picture their perception is generating.

I am different in what way?

Light skin means a plethora of things.

I am unaware of.

It’s a language I have not yet learnt.

But then I like to be different.

Defying perception.

Showing that there is another angle to everything.

Something unexpected.

I play.

Not fitting in.

The playing field has changed.

Everyone is playing and I’m yet to recognise the rules.

By watching.

The game.

And then bend the rules.

We’re out.

Driving through Accra streets.

There is always red earth.

And potholes to avoid.

Just do how the taxis do.

They know them intimately.

We head to Labadi Beach Hotel to meet a cousin_uncle to take a gift for sis’ mother who lives in Germany.

Scattered family.

Like mine.

You still care deeply.

But independently.

Give each other space.

Everyone soldiers for themselves.

Connected in spirit.

We ride.

Hibiscus Street

Cocoa Street

Coffee Street

Fertiliser Rd

The brief was agriculture, right?

The hotel is nicely luxurious.

The uncle handsome.

And late for his flight.

We hang out by the pool with Mojitos and Pina Coladas.

The girls are made up to the hilt.

Moments like these are snapchattable.

Ghana heat apparently is the worse.

Especially in a wig.

We chill.

Everyone is polite.

The crowd mixed.

Comfortable.

And free WiFi perfection.

I should come here and work.

Take a taxi every day.

Drink cocktails.

That would be so cool.

We head over to another beach bar.

The Sandbox.

Could be Ibiza.

With a rugged shoreline like Hastings.

Lots of rocks.

There is a girl who has lots of pictures taken by her boyfriend all around the whole place.

She has nappy hair like me.

It’s a wig.

I can’t help but feeling smug.

Must’ve cost a fortune.