Confessions of an imperfect mother

I'd like to think of myself as a good mummy, certainly above average. If asked to score myself out of 10, I'd say 7.5 on most days and 8 on a good day. Yet since encountering the numerous modern day mummies on the school drop off, I can't help but wonder if my children might be a little short-changed by a far from perfect mum. I mean I cook, I read stories, I might even bake every once in a while with the help of my girl Ms Betty Crocker but domestic goddess I ain't. The thought of making bread from scratch makes me shudder - I mean all that needless kneading - what's the point? And when it comes to being enthusiastic about my children's efforts - I'll admit that there are only so many pictures of stick families I'm willing to post on my wall/fridge. I love my kids but my life does not revolve around them and I admit that in modern day terms, that makes me an imperfect mum.

It seems we live in the era of the super achieving mummy. The woman who's made motherhood her vocation and I don't mean in the sense of being a stay-at-home mum but rather in that her children are the centre of her universe. She will make it a point to attend every PTA, every rehearsal and will be the first to volunteer for the bake sale. She takes her role very seriously and is on duty 24 hours a day. While I admire the single-mindedness of these women I recognize that this could not possibly be my reality. Yes I adore my children and love spending time with them, but I also adore me and realise that I need to take time out for myself too... for my own sanity. The difficulty is finding the right balance and here is where the confession comes in.

I have been known to refuse a big running hug from my youngest because I just got my nails done. Yes I know how vain, but I feel I did my time when they were babies and I spent months smelling of regurgitated milk. Surely I can't still be expected to look like the same sleep-deprived hot mess five years later? Aside from the dedication to beautifying myself at their 'expense', I've also been known to guard my free time quite jealously. If this means locking myself in the bathroom for a long hot bath or missing the odd schoolmate birthday party then so be it. I get that we're expected to act as unpaid taxi drivers for our little angels but there are times when the birthday parties seem to happen constantly. Short of dedicating my weekends to shuttling them from one to the other, naughty mummy that I am, I opt out. Admittedly opting out requires a form of bribery usually in the form of an extended TV 'pass'. Yes, I know how shocking using television as a babysitter- what can I say other than that it works! Then there are times especially at the weekend when the dance/football/tae kwan do/art classes are over, the food shopping and cleaning have been done and the thought of cooking threatens to reduce me tears. At this moment I thank God for that creepy clown and his chicken nuggets and over-salted fries. If it's any consolation I do wipe the salt off and insist the kids wash down their genetically-modified meal with water instead of the more appealing fizzy options. Also the children see it as a treat even though I end up feeling slightly guilty that I wasn't organised enough to give them a wholesome meal.

Raising a child in the 21st century is whole different ball game to what our parents experienced. If our little super-achievers aren't mastering the violin while learning Cantonese, they're training to become the next Prima ballerina. I'm not sure whether society is to blame for this need that we all seem to have to raise children who don't seem to ever stop. It's no longer enough to have a child who does well at school and has one or two extra-curricular activities for fun. Our kids are encouraged to race ahead of their classmates, master several languages, instruments and be ace at numerous sporting activities. And this would be fine in itself but the 21st century mother has to facilitate this sprint to the top. I was told recently by my daughter's teacher that I should consider some playdates with classmates as part of her personal development. The words that entered my head but fortunately didn't leave my mouth were: "Doesn't she see enough of them already and why on earth are you trying to plan my spare time for me?"

It can all be rather exhausting at times so for now I think I'll stick with my shortcomings. I'm hoping my kids will continue to laugh when I get their bags, lunch, books even names mixed up and will still squeal with delight when I suggest a Saturday trip to McDonalds. When this changes then maybe I'll start reassessing my parenting skills, until then I'm going to continue enjoying my imperfect moments that allow me to be a little bit self-indulgent.

Has our generation dropped the baton?

There is a scene in Katori Hall's new play on broadway about Martin Luther King Jr which sees Angela Basset's character deliver a monologue to Samuel L Jackson's portrayal of the legendary Civil Rights activist. I cannot recall ever feeling so blown away by someone's delivery on stage nor have I ever been left feeling such sadness and elation by their words. The premise behind the scene 'the baton passes on' is the depiction of how the world has progressed since and because of Martin Luther King Jr's incredible work. In the end, The Mountaintop  left me pondering whether our generation who are the supposed leaders of today, the would-be grandchildren of Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, Nelson Mandela, Kwame Nkrumah, have in fact picked the baton from those great personalities of the 60s, 70s and 80s.

A week ago, Wangari Maathai, an incredible woman, environmentalist, women's rights activist and Nobel Peace prize winner died and as I read about the incredible work she'd done and found myself more and more in awe of this larger-than-life yet unbelievably humble personality, I couldn't help but feel that her kind are a dying breed. There seems to be a lack of the sense of urgency that people who became adults in the post independence era had. I would even go as far as to say we lack inspiration in today's world. Our call to action is linked to either commercialism or selfishness. We seem to be driven by a desire to better ourselves and our nuclear family  but not to sacrifice for the greater good. The media which we consume with reckless abandon teaches  us to focus less on the 'We' and more on the 'Me' likewise the 'new' religions reinforce this notion of self-centeredness where people are encouraged to pray for their own success which often times is translated to acquisition of money and the material goods they crave so much.

I've heard the argument many times that there is no longer a need for carrying on or passing on the baton; as though the work of these great men and women were done - some would say we've achieved what they wanted us to achieve. I beg to differ. There is as urgent a need for action as there ever was. While the struggle is no longer for Civil Rights for African-Americans, Self-determination for countries in Africa and the Caribbean, who can honestly argue that there is no longer suffering or injustice in our world. Can we honestly attest to every person having the basic human rights which we take for granted? Or that we are happy with those who govern us, whether democratically elected by us or hand-picked by some government sitting thousands of miles away and determining our country's future? Can we put our hands on hearts and say that we're doing a great job taking care of our planet? Are we really content with our lot in life or just overcome by apathy?

I recognise these are loaded questions and perhaps the picture I paint seems more gloomy than the reality you perceive. I oftentimes hear people talk about how much things have improved, how much more fortunate we are than our parents and this may be true for some of us but we represent but a small percentage of the earth's population. As long as the majority of the earth's population still struggles for access to basic things like food, education, for their freedom, there can't be any room for complacency. After call, should we not be our brothers' keepers?

I don't pretend to know the answer to so many of the problems we face today - like why Palestine is an occupied territory in the 21st century, why millions of Americans live below the poverty line, why sexual violence is still used as a tool of war against the unarmed and vulnerable, and children still denied the right to education or perhaps and most importantly why so few share so much wealth while so many go without. Nonetheless I think a debate is necessary and as urgent as it was in the 1960s or 70s, we need to recognise that unless those around us are comfortable and happy in themselves and well taken care of, our comfort zone remains extremely precarious. However small our action, it's important for us to pick up the baton for the sake of our children and grandchildren in an effort to create a better world where noone is left out. In the words of the late Wangari Maathai, we can all aim to be like the hummingbird.

Black woman seeks white man for promotion of marriage among her race

Yes, I know the title of this post sounds absurd doesn't it but that's precisely what a black male author is suggesting in a recently published article in the Wall Street Journal entitled An interracial fix for black marriage. It was forwarded to me by a friend who happens to be black and also happens to be married to a white man. She and I have had this discussion about black women dating outside their race a number of times in particular following advice from her older African-American aunt who pronounced to us, then single black women in our late 20s that when it comes to most black men "they either gay or they in jail".

Now I agree with the core argument made by author, i.e. 'black women should not just limit themselves to black men' but unlike the author I don't believe this will in some way promote marriage within the black community, it's simply put - a numbers game. There are more 'available' black women than there are black men so unless you're willing to share....there just wont be enough to go around. I confess I've never been great at maths but it seems like a no-brainer to me.

Admittedly I haven't always held this view but as I've gotten older and I'd like to think wiser, I changed my tack regarding the dating game in part because I realised that relationships really do not have to be that complicated. I know a number of couples who on paper would seem incompatible because of their different cultural backgrounds but in reality end up having more in common with each other than with their so-called ideal match. Also what makes couples click is far less tangible than a country, ethnicity or a language; if it were simply about finding someone from the same culture as you surely there would be fewer divorces within specific communities. We could all marry the son of our parents' friends and be done with - same educational background, same cultural values etc etc....but ofcourse marriage isn't science. This is where again I disagree with the article's suggestion that black women would do better marrying someone who is as educated and as accomplished as them; in my humble opinion two high powered professionals do not a long-lasting and happy marriage guarantee ....but let's leave that for another discussion.

Back to the whole lack of eligible black men debate that we've heard all too often, It's important to also put this article into context, the statistics cited by the author are particular to the USA though I would concede that they are no doubt similar to those in the UK, however in Africa and I suspect the Caribbean, a successful and eligible black man is far from becoming an endangered species. In countries where black people are not a minority, the question of finding successful black men rarely arises because all the lawyers, doctors, accountants, bankers, politicians are black and I would dare to add, they outnumber the women. So it is a given that if you're educated, you will find a black man who is as, if not more educated than you. Granted if you live in the UK or the USA, this fact doesn't really help you much which is why I agree that as successful black women we should think outside the box but not only to date men from other races but to also date men from other walks of life. Personally I don't see why Love should come with a degree or a six figure salary and I'm sure we can all attest to knowing high-powered couples who look fantastic on paper but are as miserable as hell in real life. The values we should be promoting are mutual respect and love not his and hers mercs and sizeable investment portfolios.

All this being said, I have to add that I do sympathise with black women who find it hard to date outside their race because I think sometimes it's as simple as who you find physically attractive and many simply feel they are not attracted to white men. However I still think we should be careful of convincing ourselves of such absolutes because even though we think we're not attracted to the white men we see everyday, how many of us will turn down an offer from George Clooney or Robin Thicke or Matthew McConaughey or the gorgeous Jason Lewis? My theory is, if we can drool at the fine white men on our screens then surely that means we don't find all white men unattractive.

Last night I watched Something New with Sanaa Lathan who stars opposite some fine white man whose name I forget, and thought it dealt with some interesting questions regarding interracial relationships. In one scene Sanaa Lathan's character complains to her white boyfriend (the hot one) about not being able to talk to him about the pressures she faces as a black woman in a professional environment on a daily basis. She makes reference to the African-American expression 'black tax' which refers to black people having to work twice as hard in order to achieve the same thing as their white counterpart. Something which her boyfriend understandably had never heard of. Although glossed over, for me this raised an interesting issue that could have been further explored, i.e. how do our partners from different cultures deal with similar problems that are real for us but that they will never experience. But while issues of racism and discrimination are real for a number of people from minority groups, it need not be our daily mantra. Yes it may happen, and yes we will find ways to deal with it. If our partner, be he white, black or green is compassionate enough, he will lend an ear while we rant about the boss who double-checked our work simply because...or was quick to point out how 'well' we speak as though this were not expected. I also think that a lack of empathy can happen even within our own race. I have friends who are often frustrated with their husbands (from the same race) because they feel they just need someone to listen while they complain about discrimination issues at work or the supermarket or the kids' school. Yet for many of these men, every problem has to have a solution, this business of just talking for the sake of it, airing your grievances just doesn't make sense to them. As a result they are no more sympathetic to stories of perceived or real discrimination that we just want to 'discuss', than they would be if they were white.

So Mr. Ralph Richard Banks while I agree with your core proposition, i.e. black women please be open to dating outside your race, I don't agree it should be done for the 'Greater Good' unless ofcourse that greater good is You + A loving partner + A happy life.

Is the jury really still out?

Can I just say in my defence that I've resisted weighing in on the case against Dominique Strauss Kahn for some weeks now. The reason for this was primarily because  there is no shortage of so-called factual accounts and opinion pieces on the matter. Everyone seems to be adding their two cents worth of what they think happened or didn't happen, and who they believe is credible etc etc. I feel as though it's all getting a little tired to use a popular expression. So forgive me for going back on my word but as the media backlash gets nastier with Le Monde deciding to publish a photo of DSK's accusatrice together with an account of a visit to her impoverished village, I can't help but express my opinion and outrage at what's being bandied about in the media, both American and French.

So we've all read theories from the claim that the whole affair is part of a rather cunning plan by DSK's political opponent, Nicolas Sarkozy to the stories of DSK's Accuser being a dishonest sex worker who lied on her asylum application and associated with a known drug dealer. It's been quite a 180degree turn from most of the press; the story started with a woman that was a devout muslim and became one of someone that could not be trusted because she had lied about her asylum application and made reference to her intention to benefit from DSK's wealth in a private conversation. To be fair though, the French media has been consistent in condeming her and doing their best to reveal her identity in order to secure the backlash. Having said that, their stance was in part to do with their rivalry with the Americans and their treatment of the would-be French President; from the dreaded 'perp walk' (the parading of an Accused person for all to see) to the moral high ground many Americans took over French attitudes towards "ow you say...ze sexual indiscretions" of a public figure.

Without wanting to go into the merits of the case itself, there are some issues that I feel in desperate need of a healthy dose of realism.

Starting with the District Attorney's doubts about her account which have stemmed from the lies she told on her US asylum application - which somehow means that she could not be truthful about a rape and by extension anything else, even if a rape allegation is supported by physical evidence. In effect what such a conclusion suggests is that if there was bruising consistent with someone having grabbed her private parts (which is what was alleged), this would be worthless evidence because she had lied on a matter completely unrelated to these events.

Secondly there's the issue of a private conversation she had a day or two after the incident which reveals that she was at that time aware of DSK's status and wealth and hoped to benefit from it - for argument's sake let's assume she is in effect a gold-digger. If my memory serves me, there have been countless women who approached rich men (assuming this was the case although there's no evidence to suggest it), and were subsequently raped by them - remember Mike Tyson who was convicted of raping a beauty pageant queen who visited him in his room at 2 a.m. Likewise English footballers will attest to the countless women who've accused them of rape which often took place in these men's hotel rooms. Yet the location and the women's  motives for going there in the first place did not dissuade prosecutors from bringing rape charges. Perhaps the standard for rape has since changed but the last time I checked, telling lies in an unrelated matter and being a gold-digger does not bar a person from being a credible rape victim, ...until now that is.

The notion of having lied on one's asylum application is too laughable to even discuss in detail. It's like being told that people lie on their CVs...... - to which my response would be: "no shit Sherlock" . Yes people lie on asylum application because their futures are on the line - often times it's a choice between economic hardship and opportunities to better their lives and the lives of their families. How is that any different to the countless middle class parents who lie to get their children into one school or the other? Surely lying for personal benefit whether it's to secure the right to remain in a country or to secure a better furture for our children is something we're all familiar with whether we care to admit to it or not.

Another matter that has me asking 'wtf' stems from the fact that Dominique Strauss-Kahn has never denied having sex with his Accuser. So whether this was a set-up or not, his lawyers can confirm that she didn't make up the fact that there was some kind of sexual act; the question that arises is whether it was consensual or not. Now while I appreciate that tastes vary, can someone please confirm the number of times they've seen a young attractive woman jump on an old pot-bellied man simply out of an uncontrollable sense of attraction? Granted there may well be exceptions to the rule but generally the older man-younger woman equation involves atleast one other element, - money. Yet DSK is not saying that he paid her for sex or that she even asked him for money and he refused but that consensual sex simply happened So I have to conclude that she found him so irresistible that she thought 'Yeah...why not random old naked man in room I'm cleaning, why don't I just have sex with you, that sounds like a fun thing to do.' I mean really? Really people? What are the chances? Or have I missed a new trend? Are old men the new Brad Pitt/Boris Kodjoe?

Whatever the outcome of the trial, if in fact the case goes to trial, I wish the media would just stop the hypocrisy and double standards. Either we have certain standards that we uphold regardless of who we're dealing with or we don't. We cannot have a 'No means no!' motto for certain victims of rape and have a 'Well it depends on what kind of a person you are' for others. Let's deal with the facts pure and simple and if race and power are going to come in to play then for goodness sake, let's call it like it is instead of hiding behind lies and false theories.

O is for Oprah!

A friend of mine called last week to tell me she was just sat next to Oprah in a hotel restaurant somewhere in the English countryside. As you can imagine we both screamed down the phone as a million and one questions rolled off my tongue...so what did you say to her? what was she wearing? who was she with? what did she eat? Unfortunately given the casual manner with which Ms Winfrey and her equally high profile friends sat at a table opposite my friend, there was little she could do or say. This was not a 'can I have your autograph' moment because the assumption was that anyone who could afford to stay in this hotel should be accustomed to seeing Superstars of Ms Winfrey's stature. So my friend decided to play along although she admitted to not being able to eat a morcel of food the entire time she was sat just a few yards from one of the richest and most powerful women on the planet.

Although I haven't been a huge fan of Oprah's show since she started dedicating entire episodes to 'comb-overs' and other equally banal topics, when she announced her final season, I felt a little pang of sadness. The first thing that came to mind was the realisation that I would never get to attend a live recording of one of her shows, nor be in an audience that receives a brand new car, or be told by the lady herself 'you're coming to Australia!' I thought back to the books she's recommended and that I've read, from The Poisonwood Bible which I loved loved loved to Life of Pi which baffled me and Say you're one of them which I loathed. I couldn't help but feel like this was the end of an era. As authors like Anita Shreve (remember The Pilot's Wife) know only too well, a mere mention of a book or film by Oprah sends it soaring to the top of a bestseller or box office list. Everything she touches seems to turn to gold. There were even reports that her endorsement of President Obama won him over million votes; I'm sure he's hoping she can work her magic again in 2012.

Over the years, Oprah developed a winning formula of being 'one of us' - whatever problems we had experienced, she'd experienced similar or worse, she would bare her soul, showing us the real Oprah, warts and all. Oftentimes we got to forget our own issues and thought to ourselves 'if Oprah can make it, so can I'. From wheeling the equivalent of the body fat she had lost for an entire audience to gawk at, no doubt in disgust, to revealing herself make-up free  - uneven skin tone, blotches and all. How can anyone not relate to someone so brutally honest about her numerous flaws? Oprah has cried more times than we care to remember and the majority of us loved her for it; with each painful revelation, she gained more and more adoring fans.

Oprah is one of those people I admire for what they've achieved and for how much they give back but do not necessarily understand or agree with the methods they employ. Coming from a culture where we are taught not to air our dirty laundry in public, I'm perhaps more reluctant than most to bare my soul even to people I know let alone complete strangers but then again I realise I am not a public figure known by a single name.  I also find her approach a little vain at times; since Oprah started her magazine O, in 2004, she has graced every single cover. I can't help but find that a little strange at the very least and perhaps it's the American in her that is completely at ease with celebrating her own success month after month for 7 years and counting and I readily admit it may be the British in me that is uneasy with excessive self-praise. I also recognise that her motivation for doing this may be simply because she is the inspiration and the aspiration that her audience need to see; perhaps Oprah reminds them every day of what is possible.

It is impossible to dispute that Oprah is a phenomenon. She is the original rags to riches poster girl; she came from nothing to achieve so much and constantly gives back to communities all over the world. As easy as it would be to hate her for being so obscenely wealthy, we can't help but love her because every so often she's shared that wealth with us. I love the fact that she has managed to reach so many people - especially the often overlooked hard working middle class American who may have a job that covers the bills, if only just, yet is grateful for small miracles like a tax rebate or big ones like Oprah paying their mortgage for a year. You get the impression that beyond the publicity, she really wants to impart something to her fans, and for the most part it's something intangible, it's less about the free gifts and more about the life lessons.

Another close friend and fan recently told me about Oprah's Masterclass series which runs on her newly launched television network OWN  and features people like Maya Angelou, Diane Sawyer, Simon Cowell, Sidney Poitier, and Jay Z talking about their lives and what brought them to where they are - how they acheived 'greatness' if you will. In the pilot, Maya Angelou says "When you get, Give, when you learn, Teach" and this seems to sum up what Oprah has always strived to achieve. She is fully cognisant of how blessed she is and how important it is for her to give back, be it her wealth (in 2009 she donated $40 million to worthwhile causes all over the world), or her influence (she continues to support artists, products and causes that she believes in) or her belief in the Greater Good. She is clearly one of a kind and I'm certain if there were more billionaires with hearts as big as Oprah's, the world would be a much easier place to live in.

Watch the Masterclass episodes on Youtube or here http://www.oprah.com/own-master-class/Oprah-Presents-Master-Class

Beautiful Salone

On 27th April 2011, Sierra Leone celebrated its 50th Independence anniversary and although the debate about what there is to celebrate still goes on as do the celebrations (if you had no idea, few nations know how to party like us), it got me thinking about what it is that makes my country special. No doubt many people feel this way about the place they call home but for me there is, has always been something magical about Sierra Leone.


Growing up in the Capital City, Freetown, my childhood was nothing short of idyllic, I grew up surrounded by a loving extended family and attended a school I looked forward to going to (inspite of my frequent canings – I admit I was handful) because I would get to spend time with my friends and work hard in order to be top of the class. There were activities and events throughout the year to look forward to from schools’ thanksgiving ceremonies which involved getting dressed to the nines and marching in the streets of Freetown for all to admire, to ‘Jumps’ as the daytime parties were known back then. School sports days were an exciting time where you’d get to compete but again always an opportunity for a new hairdo, new specially-starched uniform and a chance to show off to friends and family.

It was all about traditions and we loved looking forward to these at different times of the year, at Christmas it was about the family get-togethers, scrumptious meals of jollof rice (rice cooked in a tomato stew) with chicken stew, krio salad (a salad that is packed with what seems like 101 ingredients and named after the descendents of slave returnees) and roast-beef (not to be confused with British roast beef – these were beef kebabs marinated in hot scotch bonnet pepper, tomato puree and peanut butter). Christmas day started with church, and church traditions, and ended with visits to the various grandmas and aunties’ homes in the centre of town – where the action was. With each visit came more food, more laughter, and more celebrations. There were masquerades where figures referred to as ‘debul’ dressed in elaborate costumes, covered head to toe, would dance and perform tricks in the streets. As children we were told they had special powers and were not be stared at - of course we obliged and marvelled at them as they performed magic. They had names likes Mama Para (the really tall one – probably on stilts), Gunu-Gunu, Paddle and Kaka-Debul.

Boxing Day involved outings to the beach – with delicious food, home-made ginger beer and sweet bottled drinks like Vimto, Mirinda and 7-Up packed in Coleman picnic coolers, we’d head off to the likes of Sussex beach again with family and friends. New Year’s Eve (‘watch net’) would involve going to church and as we got older maybe a party or two afterwards. New Year’s Day was also a beach outing day, who could blame us in a country where the Atlantic oceans stretches over 300 miles. On Pray day as Eid-ul-Fitr is known in Sierra Leone we’d receive food from our Muslim neighbours who had been fasting or better still attend the numerous parties and celebrations they had. At Easter we attended church and spoke solemnly of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ but for children the highlight was kite flying. These came in all shapes, colours and sizes and we competed with each other to see whose would go the highest, who could bring whose kite down, Easter without kite-flying just wasn’t Easter.

When I left Freetown and moved to London, I recall feeling constantly nostalgic for my old life. The traditions just weren’t the same in England; and although I was young enough to be able to adapt, my childhood lost its sparkle, I envied my friends who’d stayed who probably envied me for being in the ‘First world’. It was even harder for my cousins who moved to the UK in their teens, they felt as though the rug  had been pulled from under their feet, like a parent interrupted a ‘sweet’ party and sent everyone home. Although they got on with life, there was a greater yearning for the life they’d left back home. They’d recount exciting stories of Inter-Sec Sports where the various secondary schools in Freetown competed, the latest fashions, popular boys, even the newly opened nightclub Bacardi’s they’d sneak to occasionally and I would sit and listen with envy.

Visiting Freetown at Christmas time now became our new tradition and one that we equally looked forward to; as we exited the plane, thoughts of poor cabin crew service and ghastly food would evaporate as we felt the blast of humid air in our faces and walked across the tarmac towards eagerly awaiting family members and random strangers who just liked the buzz of an airport. The partying would usually start the same night – with phone calls to the few friends still in town confirming the best parties for us JJCs (Johnny-Just-Come - a term used to refer to Sierra Leonean holidaymakers) to attend. The next morning our aunt would treat us to oyster stew which we'd eat with kotor bread (traditionally baked half baguettes sold at local Fulani-owned stalls). We'd also sample all the local snacks throughout the holiday the granat cake (peanut brittle), breadfruit chips; we'd enjoy fruits we never got the chance to eat in London like chuk chuk plum (a prickly fruit), guava, small pink apples and countless other exotic fresh fruits. At the end of our two week holiday we would return to the UK, saddened by the thought of leaving sunshine and incessant fun for cold winter days that started in darkness as we dragged our feet to school and ended in darkness as we made our way back.

Years later when I moved back to Sierra Leone, the country took on a whole new meaning for me, the partying was now infrequent but I appreciated its natural beauty more than I’d done as a child. Sierra Leone is stunning in a word. Its landscape, green and hilly, the ocean is visible from most parts of the Capital City, did I mention its miles and miles of white sand beaches? The people are warm and friendly and even though they seem to revel in a bit of ‘kuss-kass’ (drama), their bark is far worse than their bite. A 5ft nothing elderly lady can challenge a burly taxi driver, knowing full well he will concede in an argument over the elevated fare he tried to charge her. There were times when I would drive through the streets and find myself shouting at people ‘fool-man’ ‘your idiot’ ‘oosai yu pull yu licence’ (where did you get your licence from) as I knew I wasn’t about to be pursued by some nutter and become the victim of road rage. Insulting people (‘for koss’) is an integral part of who we are and often times the ones with the loudest mouth are the most cowardly ending a verbal fight with words like ‘nar way nor more....’ (if it wasn’t for the fact that....). As an adult, I got to travel outside Freetown visiting Makeni and Port Loko where I found people equally approachable and welcoming. I found it comforting that I could also speak to my people in Krio (the lingua franca) – it meant that we could somehow relate to each other, even though not everyone in the places I visited spoke it, there were always a few who did.

Sierra Leone’s architecture is also worth a mention, from the traditional colourful Krio houses in the Capital City and the Krio villages in the Peninsula to the modest wan-flats (bungalows) and huts in the villages, to huge beautifully designed houses scattered in the suburbs of Freetown. Sierra Leone's architecture is an assortment that captures the imagination and tells the story of the country’s rich history.

Recently I stopped by an Italian colleague’s office to ask him a work-related question and spent thirty minutes listening to him tell me about how beautiful Sierra Leone is; he had spent a couple of years there working with the UN peacekeeping mission. He told me that the ‘patch granat’ (roasted peanuts) that were sold on the beaches were the best he’d ever had, not too salty, just right and so crunchy. The lobster he had at Bureh town beach was the largest, most tasty he’d ever had and did I know that River No. 2 was just so beautiful, the white sands and clear water, he’d never seen anything like it. (I smiled and told him there was one just like it in Jamaica). He went on about the food, oh the food, and how his house-help used to make fresh shrimps which were so huge, he made a fist to demonstrate and they were just so delicious. The people were so nice, he was invited by colleagues to their houses to eat and this was so unusual because he’d lived in Liberia and Guinea and Angola and this had never happened in those places. As he continued waxing lyrical about Sierra Leone, I smiled, nodded and remembered why I love my country so much.

Africa and the single narrative

I've been trying to read a horrid little book (well not so little but very horrid) that was recommended by a colleague of mine as a background to the conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The book, Blood River by English journalist, Tim Butcher is peppered with racist stereotypes about Africa and its people and is evidence of a lack of understanding or perhaps desire to understand the problems that plague the DRC. His account is superficial at best but if I'm honest I would say shallow and racist with comments referring to 'the natives and their kalashnikovs', depictions of the 'emotionless' corrupt Government minister, and references to the 'dark continent', its 'dark past', 'dark present' etc etc. The book offers no hope, no depth and clearly no understanding and what makes it infuriating is that rather than telling 'his version' of a story, Tim Butcher seems to be offering up a so-called factual account of what he describes as 'the World's most dangerous country' with over-simplistic and inaccurate pronouncements including one about Tutsis being taller and thinner and having finer features than their ethnic neighbours. The irony of it all is that Butcher's journey which culminates in the writing of this book was a mere 45 days long, aided by the UN and various NGOs and a lot of money and by his own admission he lacked skills in the languages spoken by the so-called 'natives' whether French, Lingala or Swahili. Yet the book was well received and received high praise for giving 'A fascinating insight into Belgian colonial history and Congo today'. Reading this book, or attempting to, reminded me of a confrontation I once had with Rod Liddle, another English journalist who having spent two weeks in Uganda, returned to the UK to write some ridiculously inaccurate and damning account of the country, its people and its problems, all summarised in less than 2000 words.

This simplistic approach to a hugely diverse and complex continent seems to follow the style of colonial accounts of the 'dark continent' and its population who were summed up as either docile or savage, but always primitive . Although the modern narrative is less openly racist, the suggestion that you can sum up a country, however small with one account and especially when you have no real grasp or understanding of its cultural or social dynamics is no different from what European 'explorers' and colonisers were doing when they reported on Africa.

I recently watched a film called Kinshasa Symphony about a symphony orchestra in the DRC's capital and beyond the poverty what I saw were hard working, incredibly resourceful people who had developed a passion for classical music and who were striving every day to make their lives better. It was a simple story yet one that we never seem to hear when we see or read accounts of Africa.

The vey talented, Nigerian author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie gave a talk two years ago on the danger of the single story, in it she eloquently speaks about the impossibility of engaging properly with a place or person without engaging in all the stories of that place or person: http://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story.html

In fairness, foreign writers are not the only ones guilty of perpetuating the one-dimensional view of Africa and while I think it's wrong to expect any writer to paint a full picture of a country or a place, I do think is important for African writers to make it clear that they are simply telling one story, one little part of a very large and complicated jigsaw puzzle. Unfortunately because of the lack of a positive discourse on Africa, there is a tendency to turn writers, whether they are writers of fiction or not into 'experts' on the continent. These same writers seem to lap up their newly-acquired status, making gross generalisations about countries with countless ethnic groups and languages, while accepting their new role as an 'authority' on x, y or z country. This would never pass for so-called developed countries, considered by their very nature as far too complex to be summarised by one work or one writer, so it saddens me that it still passes for Africa.

I read a book last year which infuriated me to no end called 'Say you're one of them' by a Nigerian-born Jesuit priest; not only was every single one of his stories about children in various parts of Africa devoid of any hope, but what made it worse was that the cover of his book had the following quote from a review: "Akpan reveals Africa's pain, pity, joy and grace, and comes closer to the truth about modern Africa than the entire outpourings of the western mass media.". I appreciate that this is just one person's opinion but the effect has been to somehow sell this book as an accurate account of African children's lives. One of Amazon.com's readers wrote that the book had opened their eyes to how children in Africa live and suffer. The reader is based in the United States of America and having read this book had concluded that this was the reality of all African children.

As Ms Ngozi Adichie states "the consequence of a single story is that it robs people of dignity, it makes recognition of our equal humanity difficult [and] emphasizes how different, rather than how similar we are". Moving to the UK from Sierra Leone as a child, I remember having to contend with established stereotypes from the playground about living in a jungle or swinging from tree to tree and living among animals. That story which my classmates had all seen on television and read in books had absolutely no bearing whatsoever on my reality growing up in an urban centre in a middle class family. To this day, all the Africans I know have never been to, nor seen a jungle, and that includes those who grew up in the village but as African children moving to Europe or America, that was our single story - animals and the jungle.

Anyone who chooses to embrace a single narrative of any place in my opinion, contributes towards the false accounts that are at the root of our ignorance of one another today. Historical accounts are full of lies and half truths because stories were told by individuals who had their own agenda. We now have an opportunity to ensure that many stories are told that reflect not only the cultural diversity of places and people but also that celebrate the beauty of the human race. In all my travels, I can safely say that for every difference I see in people, there are countless similarities because even though our circumstances vary, fundamentally we are all the same.