Promise me!

He lay on the mat, satisfaction on his face beamed brighter than the faulty light bulb that barely illuminated the room…

Alas’ it has happened. He thought to himself. Not as good as he had anticipated but it was worth it somehow.

“… Promise me.” He heard her whisper softly. For she laid next to him, her head gently placed on his bare sweaty chest. Obviously worn out. In pretense, he stroked her hair.

As if to dodge the conversation with her. Looking at the ceiling, he let his mind wonder away.

Reminding himself of the plenty times he had tried convincing her to give in. Close to a year he had waited. – the long wait is what he liked to call it. And today, she succumbed. He didn’t even have to talk so much. It was as if she knew she was losing him if he didn’t get to go in today.

Not as good as he had anticipated but it was worth it somehow.

“… Promise me.” Her voice echoed in again. This time it was firmer. She demanded response.

“Promise you? Promise you what?”

“That you won’t leave me.. ” She was desperate.

But he smirked.

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Me and my fragile ambition.

Let’s roll back into time when I was in primary school. Class 1 to be precise. Let’s assume it’s a Monday morning and everyone of us (class 1 pupils) are neatly dressed. White socks, neat uniforms, hair well kept and finger nails trimmed down. With the exception of this one boy, Fii. He would appear on a Monday morning at school looking like it was Friday recess time- that boy! Let’s save the subject of Fii for another piece. And let me not forget why I started this story in a class room setting…

Aha, remember when we were little and the teacher would pause on his lesson and ask each one of us.. “so when you grow up what will you be?” Yes. Well, it was one of those times and teacher had tasked us the previous week to find out what we would love to be when we grew up. That weekend I remember spending time asking my elder brother what I should be in future because at age 8, I wasn’t such an ambitious little girl. It was Monday and I still didn’t know what I wanted to be in future. So when teacher walked into the class that very Monday morning, I shivered just a little. He taught for awhile on something that I’m sure was in the syllabus and in the middle of his lesson, he paused. We all knew what would follow next and he didn’t disappoint. Pointing his rod to the boy on the first column on the first row, he asked, “What will you be when you grow up”. The boy stood up boldly, “A doctor” he said. Another said “a bank manager”,One said “lawyer”, some said nurses, and most girls said air hostess. Of course there were silly responses from boys like Fii claiming that they will be “armed robbers” and when they grew up. By the time teacher got to my seat, I had figured it out. I would be an air hostess too. After all, most of my female mates were going to be air hostesses. Plus it sounded fancy.

Funny thing is another teacher was going to ask me that same question some two years later and my response was going to be ‘a nurse’. As a little girl, I didn’t believe in make believe and I was conscious of reality for some reason. Maybe it was the setting in which I was brought up.

At some point in our lives we have a dream but as to whether or not we become those dreams, lies on us. While there may be plenty of restrictions in life, there’s nothing as beautiful and bold as a wild dreamer who totally believes in his dreams. So if you must dream, do dream as big as you can- and be bold enough to follow your dreams. There’s no limit to how great you think you can be.

Only Believe!!

Photo credit – inspired-photography – by – Ashraful Arefin

Hold up!

Hold up!

Does anyone else realize what’s wrong with our clothes these days? Oh!  What’s the word for it–‘dynamic’? 

It’s almost as if every century that rolls by,  rolls a bit of our clothes off us. Pretty interesting but quite true. 

 Dresses getting  shorter as the world grows older. It feels like the ulterior motive for  putting on clothes  is not quite clear,  perhaps  we need to be reminded. 
We’ve  lost the sense to cover up! 

 and with time we seem to have accepted that 

The more skin out,  the better 

Soon we won’t have a problem wearing ‘nothing’ on the streets. . 

 

Before we know it… Walking around naked will be normal again just like in Eden

Tragic! 
Photo credit:istock

First real date, first real guy. (hilarious)

First date.

Table set, flower vase beautifully aligned in center. A tray full of chicken wings and a bottle half empty with contents that seem like juice-orange juice , if I remember rightly. His face, all smiles. And mine?? Well, I was pretty shy. Head bowed, looking at nothing in particular. Just keeping my face away from sight. I remember not wanting to look too naive.

I didn’t want to show it was my first time on a real date, with a real guy.

“Jasmine ” he calls out.

Immediately, my heart halts – and suddenly I’m gasping for air to utter my words.

” Kwa–Kwame ” I stammer in response. Ashamed, I bow my head even lower.

” Are you that shy? You won’t even look me in the face?? ” he says in between laughs.

**busted**

” Is it that obvious? “I ask, now a little less tense.

He nods in approval.

Raising my head slightly, this is definitely not how I had things planned for a first real date, I remember saying to myself.

I take hold of my cutlery in an attempt to eat my chicken. The funniest thing happens next. So I’m slicing, I’m slicing and for close to a minute, I’m still slicing that same piece- amazed, I wonder inwardly why it’s taking me a great deal to slice a piece of chicken.

my cutlery knife must be blunt or something, I think. So I look down on the plate and it turns out I was using the blunt side of the knife all that while.

“Aba!! Am I this dumb?” I laugh out- but only heavens know how embarrassed I am in my mind’s eye.

He laughs too. Well , that’s good, I think, at least he finds me hilarious.
We talk for a while and we’re starting to click fine. Our conversation gets interesting and most importantly, I’m not fumbling with my words. I like how this is going I’m thinking to myself.

“Do you care for more ketchup? ” my date asks.

” Yes, sure. ” I say while nodding. He hands me the bottle of assorted tomato paste.

I squeeze the bottle a little too hard and its red contents spill out unto my beautiful yellow dress.

I dare not complain or overreact, I say to myself, ” keep calm, Jasmine, you’re doing fine, keep calm. ”

Lies. But they are comforting.

He offers me tissue to wipe the stains – like that would work.

I excuse myself to the ladies – I’m thinking a moist towel could reduce the stains.

And now I’m looking in the mirror stuck on the wall of the ladies room asking myself, “Was this even worth it?”

Photo credit :Getty images

Floating thoughts.

Floating thoughts.

Lately, I’ve fallen some what aback. It feels like I’ve gone astray, like I’ve lost my joy.

It feels like I’m void within and I can’t deny that my legs feel like they’re sinking deep in mire. I cry a lot lately. I think deep- maybe deeper than I’ve realised I could think. I’m feeling empty. I’m feeling broken. I need rest- not the normal kind anyway. I need a break from all the crap. I need some time to pause and just sit and reflect. Like real deep reflections on life. My life.

I need space, I need Christ. I need love.

Sometimes..

Sometimes I have those sober reflections on how different real life situations could have turned out if only I had said what I was thinking- if I had been deeply honest with people.

Sometimes I feel like I allow myself tolerate too much from others out of sheer respect. Just one of these days, I know, that someway somehow, my deepest thoughts will ignite and explode from within- the worse kind of death I’ve heard of so far. To have your emotions kill you.

Sometimes a couple of our problems (well, I don’t know about you but a couple of my problems) could have been so easily avoided if I had decided to say what I was thinking- if I had allowed my inner most person to speak up.

But I feared critics, I feared that I might stammer when asked to defend my inner me, I feared that I may look completely helpless, like a fool. And so I silenced that honest other ‘me’ and feigned a smile to cover my emotions.

Sometimes, just sometimes… I know the other me deserves to be heard. That girl has more wisdom than I estimated.😎

•close to perfect•

I didn’t wish for a fine tall gentleman with great hair and huge muscles, I only wanted something close to perfect.

I never wanted an all-so-romantic proposal with stars in the sky and a gentleman down on one knee or even a violin show- I didn’t wish for perfect, just something close to perfect
You know how other girls dream of a fancy wedding in the largest halls in town or even the whitest and longest gowns that dragged on the floor some thousand miles behind? Nope, I yearned for something simple, not too perfect, just close to perfect. 

I wanted a regular house and a nice car, nothing too fancy, nothing perfect. 

I didn’t even wish for the highest paying job, just a regular  one enough for my little imaginary family.

 I was willing to settle for a middle class, nothing expensive, nothing ‘celebrity stlye’ nothing perfect, just close to perfect.

Did I ask for soo much?

Why did life tuck me down that bad?

feeling nostalgic

Feeling nostalgic.

Every time I listen to one of those country music by the really old musicians, I miss my dad.

Growing up, that was all you’ll hear all weekend and so it was hard to hate country music. Even now, anytime I 

 listen to Kenny Rogers’ ‘gambler’ song, I get the feeling that it’s a Sunday and we’re washing clothes at the balcony and wierdly enough, I can almost see Dad jumping about to the tune of it. 

Anytime I smell apple hair cream, I miss the saloon.

Moment of truth– every one of us has that moment that sparks a nostalgic feeling in us. Like, this one friend of mine who misses her mom anytime  she empties a tray of diced carrots into boiling soup.  

 The bittersweet part of feeling nostalgic is that the feeling comes to you like a tease and pulls your legs. Because you know so well that those days are long lost ones which don’t seem to be to coming back any time soon.

But every now and then, if we create a good moment in our lives, it will imprint on our Hearts and Heads and some day…just some day, we’ll live with the want of re-living that moment all over again.

That’s the beauty of Nostalgia.
Photography: Steele Perkins

 

I’m just gonn’ title this one: ‘making things work’

I woke up this morning wanting to tell a story. To no one in particular, just anyone willing to listen.

Once, there lived this woman, no wait, I feel like the story will make more impact if it was about a man instead. A 25 year old man with a son and no wife (she died in labour).* I’m smiling already beacuase I know you’d love this*
He had no form of education whatsoever, well, except for the fact that his mother used to sell roasted ripe plantain in an elementary school when he was young and so the only thing he had that came close enough to education was when he helped mother sell her plantain to those brilliant English boys and girls. He was able to learn to say  *good morning, please and a few other useful basic English words.*
Growing up, the only occupation that didn’t demand a two year work experience and the ability to speak, write and understand English was hawking. It was the only thing he was well qualified to do and he so glady embraced a profession that could barely feed himself and his family too. Every morning, he’ll hawk his  face towels on one of the busiest streets–putting his own life at risk every minute of his life.  This young man goes to work and automatically, he places his fragile life in the hands of reckless drivers who think they know better, insolent motorists who speed from virtually every angle not to add, those drunk drivers who more often than not get away with murdering people of his kind. And everyday, he will walk miles that only God knows how far, treading the very path that he’d trod in previous days to compete with other hawkers who also struggled to maintain a market share.
Carrying his load, wiping sweat off his face with the edge of his already soaked up shirt–imagine the irony. Yet, he had dreams, big ones, not for himself anyway, for his little boy. One day, he too must ride in one of the big cars and build huge mansions too. Yes! One day the son of the hawker should  also wear nice cloth.
Least I forget (like I can even afford to forget), I appologise for the long pause and delays in posting on mypurpleyellow lately. God can bear me witness when I say my schedule is getting so tight that I wake up at dawn and all I can type is classroom assignments. I’d resume to posting more frequently when I get some more time and most importantly, I’d complete * Diary of a broken Eve* once I get a little time to squeeze.

Greatest fears come to life.

If you’ve stared death in the eyes lately, perhaps your entire perception about life will change.

If I had a diary, 02-January-17 would definitely have made its way in it and would probably bare the title ‘most memorable day’.

Anytime I recount this story, I never miss a detail. I tell it all and just sometimes, I add a little spice to it but today I won’t. I’ll be completely honest with you on what really happened.

It was about 3:00pm, mother was in the kitchen with Serwaa, fixing late lunch. It was banku(a fine mixture of corn and cassava dough) I know this for a fact because Kwesi couldn’t eat his after what I’m about to tell you happened.

The day was just like any other except it was a day after new year’s and so the festive season was still upon us. Anyway, Kofi and me were in the hall and I’m pretty sure we were watching a movie. Then suddenly, I heard mother shout ” fire!” I turned to the kitchen area and through the transparency of the curtains that hanged as a barrier between the hall and kitchen, I saw a flame. It looked very intense even through the curtains and I heard them scream for water. It was to me, as a wild dream I was having. I had never seen so much flame of fire come out from the top of a faulty gas cylinder before. I was dead scared. Kwesi poured water several times unto it until we all came to an unspoken consensus that water couldn’t quench fire from an LPG or maybe it was the manner in which he poured the water. By this time, I had managed to run down stairs and as far as I could from the ticking time bomb. I was so certain that it would explode at least, that’s what science would also have expected.

And so I stood and watched from downstairs with the crowd that had gathered when they heard the loud screams. I became even more frightened because I knew anytime people gathered to watch a scene, the worse was bound to happen. In my head I had already read the following day’s newspaper headlines: family die in gas explosion leaving one survivor.

The local news anchors would make a fortune out if it.

The screams got louder and I was thinking why on earth my family was still in there when the cylinder could explode any moment.

I said a prayer for them: I said,” God, please that’s my whole family in there. I don’t know what I would do on earth without them… Do something. ”

And tell you what, it was around that exact moment I saw my mother carry the blazing cylinder with her hands to the corridor, probably the most insane thing I had seen all day-The rest of it is history, bottomline is everyone escaped, in the end, we laughed it off over dinner.

The day still holds as one with the best banku I have eaten ever.