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T. Truly Yours Pt. 1

I love my comedians smart.


I love my comedians, smart as shit!

Been little over 6 years I got hooked on comedy. Stand-up comedy. Phuck that. Been little over 4 years I knew being a clown could be televised and people even made money (or lack thereof. Listen Linda! I don’t know y’all or your lives, don’t pressure me fam!) out of it! I remember how it started, I think. I was on the artsy side of YouTube – Def Jam Poetry – I was enjoying and watching Shihan’sType of Love” for like what the umpteenth time? Then on the right hand side came a recommendation. I don’t know who it was. Can’t even remember. Must have sucked. But then it began, I’d start laughing at my device like a mad kid who’d just discovered weed “I don’t do weed mum, chillllll. Issa metaphor. Before you start calling me “upandan”. I recognised Bernie Mac, doing lewd jokes and shit. Loved it, OBV! Then came that other guy, then the other short one who is very ripped now, until I “jammed” (Nigerian pidgin, get familiar or nah..whatevs) one of my favourite humans.

God! Dave Chappelle!

He looked stupid af! I didn’t even know what I was looking at. But literally few minutes in, I loved him! I remembered laughing at something he had just said and right after I said to myself: “Did this motherphucker just drop facts?? Where they do that???“. I mean, I thought it was all about stupid stuff. I wasn’t ready for reality check whilst ugly laughing. TF?? Then I discovered Donald Glover too. Phucking guy. Should come up with another special already!

Then I remember, one very gloomy day, couple of years later, I was completely, totally, utterly out of it. I had not left my bed in days, wouldn’t talk to my roommate who thought I hated her for some reason and I’d try to have NO verbal exchange with person(s) and see no one (not even my roomie, who was almost like inches away from my bed). It was a challenge. The less I talked, the less I despised myself and all I’d do was wait and wait and wait..till whatever was happening to me got bored and melted away. “Boy I’m tired, everyone should just stop breathing already!” I’d tell myself, “Is this how folks usually start by cutting themselves, no?“. Didn’t know what it was. Couldn’t give it a name. I mean, how do you give a name to whatever is bothering you, If you don’t know and can’t handle your emotions properly? So, I’d wait, till whatever was suffocating me, from within, unseen and unknown creature, would leave. Butttttt, that’s not why we are here!

That day, while watching re-runs of Dave Chappelle’s show and closing up on his “Block Party”, I remember this light skin dude popped up on my recommendations “Oh! BTW YouTube? I kinda love and cherish you, If you are reading this, let’s get married, love you. buh bye x”.

God! Trevor Noah!

I. watched. the phuck. outta. all. he. had. done!

“Ohhhh, you want a medicine. They say laughter is the best medicine eh? Yaa. So why don’t you make a joke and fix that?” as he mimicked that South African nurse, boy, I lost my shit!! I was fixed! Boy! I was.

Then after that, I just simply stalked his ass, down to when he started out as a contribuitor on “The Daily Show” with Jon Stewart. I mean, why do you think I even watch “The Daily Show” now. Never. missed. an. episode. “Thank you online streaming, let’s get married too. love you. buh bye x”.

There, I discovered this brown, hot, wonderful married man.

God! Hasan Minhaj!

So, his comedy special finally came out the other day. Not really one to cheat on Dave or Kev (he’s stupid, sometimes you need stupid, shut up, argue with yourself) or Trevor. But I’d had an hectic day and nothing could fix that than shamelessly hitting my uncomfortable bed and laughter. And skeptically, I gave the “Homecoming King” a play. “Don’t let me down b. I’m outchea rooting for you!”.

So much swagger when he got on stage. Then he started talking. So sweet and eloquent and furthermore, I understood every word he said. When you are not used to certain accents, you try to strain your ears to.catch.all.’em.words. Naahhhmean? Anyways, he starts storytelling, quite engaging. As an immigrant, I related hard as phuck to all he said! Yeah, he’s Indian and I’m Nigerian. But you’d be surprised how humans have so much more in common on the inside (experiences and what not) than what is plain to eyesight on the outside (Skin, fam. Skin).

“[…]It’s crazy, ’cause we know nothing about our parents and our parents know nothing about us […]”.

I was still chuckling at everything when all of a sudden I stopped and I asked the same question I’d asked before like: “Yo! Did this motherphucker just drop facts??“.

In my household, we really don’t know much about each other. Like, yeah, somehow, some bad had certainly been revealed on both sides and so has some good transpired too. If I were asked: “Bee, do you know your mama? Do you know how your dada really is?” I’d be taken aback, so farrrrrrr aback, I would, there and there, curl up in a fetal position and rock myself back and forth to schleep! It might seem I’m airing my dirty laundry but it’s really something that has been circling in my mind.

Do I really know this people? Do I want to? Do they even know me? Sure they do. But what about the other versions of myself? The 0.01 version. The outdated version. The cracked version. The OA update. The soft bricked and the “Oh my God, what have I done to it!!? Please, restore, restore, restore to manifacturer’s version, my phone won’t work again, I might need to start saving up for a new phone version.” Furthermore, do I even want them to? I’ve heard and seen surreal instances of people being very open to their family members without fear of being judged or silenced. I grew up asking for as little as possible. I grew up knowing which day I could go back and ask for a refill and which other day I knew I needed to just watch TV to make the hunger go away. I knew. I knew her “don’t you dare take that cake” stare. I recognised the “let us get home, no one is gonna save you from this ass whooping” stare. I never really understood the “are they in a good mood today or nah” days. But I knew and respected it. I respected and feared them. It’s the african way. A no brainer. But do I even know these people? Do they know who they are? Do they know there parents? What about siblings? It’s a vicious circle, you know? Can’t really say much, ’cause when you do “you are spoilt and rude” and when you don’t “you have join bad gand abi? I will beat that evil spirit out of you.” Sometimes, the father says “you should talk to me, I know stuff, call me, ask me stuff“. I will regret it but all I can say is “Nah fam, pass“. We don’t “open up” where I come from, someone, somewhere, took that away from us, parents or children alike.



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r. Race against a machine

I always thought of racism as a social construct not just by westerners but by black people who found themselves in the diaspora as well.

I moved to Italy, like “you all know” at the age of 11 *and three quarters*. I never thought racism as a thing. Never gave it time of day or thought for that matter. I mean, I was coming from a place where everyone looked alike, various shades of melanin aside, we were all “Children of the merciful Lord” – apart from the government leading the country at that time. No, not them, God didn’t love those.

I came to Italy because the father had been living here for an absurd amount of time and my mom was oddly fond of the idea “a family gatso live under the same roof”…or something along those lines. In the midst of very light skinned people – *shit, what is that? Your vein is saying hello? WTF is that normal?*-, I never thought of racism. Not even when people as old as my parents would say “If this and that happens, It’s because these oyinbo people don’t want you to be better than them. Like we set out to lick their faces and stain them with the color of our skins”. Even then, I never thought of racism as something that big of a deal. I mean, I know hate, I know misunderstandings but the depth of  skin deep all that and then some went? Na, never gave it that much of a thought. It simply made no sense to me, you know? It’s like the Azande and witchcraft, it’s always the fault of the latter, never their fault.

You wanna know when reality hit me in the face? I don’t know, I can’t remember truth be told. Would I say what people around me had been saying about these “oyinbo [- white]” people had suddenly caught on and influenced my way of thinking? Boy, please. No.

But one (of many) paticular episode shook me to the core made me say: Motherphucker, what did you say?

Chaka Khan | Ain’t Nobody

Felix Jaehn | This other body f. Jasmine Thompson

When my younger sister was born, motherphucker looked like Benjamin Button you know? old as phuck we realised she was anaemic. So, in the beginning, we’d go back and forth from the kids’ hospital, where she got her regular treatments whenever she got her crisis/pain episodes. She was 4 and it was my turn to stay with her whilst the rest of the family caught a break from seeing the same ol’ walls. The girl would always cry ’cause she was always in severe pain, her joints and muscles would hurt and standard procedure: my lil motherphucker would cry. Word must have gone around the small pediatric warden that the little black girl was sick. Might I add, we were, of course, the only black family in that space radius. So, on this particular day, I decide to take the lil motherphucker out of bed, make her walk around a little bit you know? Make her paint, maybe she’d get distracted or something. I mean, I don’t know what I was doing but knowing that there were other kids tryna sleep, I, more than anyone else, know just how frustrating it can be to hear a kid wail at the top of her tiny lungs. So, I take her to play amirite? Plan seemed to be working, she was visibly still in pain but if I anybody knew my lil motherphucker, right at a tender age she’d always been strong and resilient. She’d make annoying little noises while painting and ask stupid questions like: Am I going to die? Negro, shut the phuck up I would reply: “Nah”. 

After sometime though, my plan seemed to not work anymore ’cause she had started crying a whole lot more in the corridor. Out of the blue, came this stupid heifer and I remember her go to the nurse, who was on duty and she asked: Excuse me, that girl is crying. Can you tell them to go back to their rooms? I think her sickness might be contagious.

There was silence. Then there was rage. Then I lost it, then the nurse lost it too.

Now, maybe it’s understandable that a mother is trying to keep her poor likkle (not a typo, I said what I said -wrote rather) kid from all black crying babies of the world but man, I cried, cussed her bitchass out (which I rarely do, I was brought up well) and cussed her out a little bit more. Think her husband came to drag her back into their room ’cause he realised the wife wasn’t making sense after a while.

“Go back to Africa” “I don’t want your sickness”. I still didn’t think of racism then you know but I started to acknowledge it as a probable cause, nevertheless, I never pledged to the race card, all willy nilly.

With this acknowledgement though, there on forward, came a series of unfortunate events that made me reluctantly recognise that for some people “the black skin wasn’t the right skin”. Unless we were talking penis sizes and “rythm in their blood” factor, then all was white aight.

“I have to check your bag” – by an unauthorized sales lady, when I’d just put a used tissue paper in my bag in a supermarket and I had other people around going ’bout their business.

“Take this monkey you call a girlfriend out of my way” – by some man and his lady, when I was walking with someone.

“Is that you King Kong” – bullies, hope they are in jail now with my leopard themed scarf around my neck, on my way back home from school on the bus.

“Hey Nigger, How much?” – usually from older men who would roll down their windows when they saw me walking.

“Thank you little nigger/monkey” – last year, by a small kid I gave Ice-cream. His dad didn’t let him apologise.

For years, I’d been taunted by people for the color of my beautiful skin. I’ve never had a problem with my skin. Maybe problems with my hair, my diastemed-crooked smile, hell even my extremely slim figure but my skin? Never. Hell, when Netlog was still the “in” thing, when Tom from Myspace was still in your Top 8 and Hi5 would do what Hi5 did best – exist, I made friends with self-provclaimed skinhead and racists. I’d troll my trollees and with some, I kept a cordial relationship.

Wanna know when I started having a problem with racism and racists?

When the belittling and racexplaining came in to play. It was with the covert rather than the open, blatant racism. It was with the old lady holding her purse a little to tight to her bossom, when I walked by (something I have started doing now too, can’t trust these hoes). It was the subtlity, the missed opportunities, the sneer, the backroom talk, the  “It’s not racism, it’s just a figments of your immagination” talk- Bitch, whet?  I just want everyone to acknowledge the wrong and the unjust that resides in people. You know?

I was a teenager when I finally acknowledged racism but that doesn’t mean I’m in the wrong for putting people on a high pedestal or rather thinking even though people were stupid, the couldn’t be that stupid. I was wrong. Meh.

This Girl | Cookin’ on 3 Burners ft. Kylie Auldist

This Other Girl | Kungs


Ps: My sister lil motherphucker is great by the way. <3


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e. El Dorado

Yesterday was a great day.

Yesterday I was lucky enough to advance and age (with grace If I might add). It was great. No panic attacks, no bickering, no remorse of any kind, no anger. I yearned and prayed for peace of mind (amongst other things) by midnight and boy, I breezed through the day like I phucking owned the world. You get to appreciate everything and everyone a little bit more when you make up your mind that dark clouds have no claim whatsoever over you.

Today however, I stayed in my pyjamas, bled through multiple sanitary pads and suffered those menstrual pains and pangs. Like how a true motherfucker would, if he/it could.

And I finally, finally binged watched “13 reasons why..” while at it.

It’s comical. I admit it’s beautifully shot and played but in substance, all I could say was…WoW! Not a positive wow, I was irritated and I’m not even trying to jump on any bandwagon either but wow, it was shite. Even though I’d still watch a Season 2. Makes no sense, does it? I’m as puzzled as you are. True talk. But yeah, it’s a lot to take in. Teenagers are assholes but depicting them as unintelligible creatures that flip and carve so easily to peer pressure (I’m trying to generalize – largeeeeely here folks) just like fucking morons when the situation permits them is just, GAHD DAYUM! Why?! Wake Up!

Giving that the series does brilliantly cover and accurately depict that rhetoric ’bout how “a butterfly batting its wings could create a hurricane – someplace, somehow“, I constantly found myself calling out various characters regardless.

Wow.” “Ain’t you a fucking moron??” “Soz cuz, can’t relate”.”What? No! WTF are these people?”

I’m yet to place my finger on what really pisses me off about the series and the characters that are being brought to life. I mean, for pete’s sake, I like how  it didn’t gloss over human fragility and interpersonal exchanges, the various intricacies of growing up, mental health, depression, sexual assault just to name a few. Still, I found it incredibly cheesy.  Maybe that’s it – it was cheesy. Maybe that’s why I found some things redundant. As someone who has constantly fought her battles to keep a leash on her sanity, I know just how detrimental the dark corners of ones mind could be. It’s a phucking trap man, it’s exhausting. Just merely reminiscing about it gives me the chills. It wears you out man, you are in a real sunken-ass place (all reference to Get Out of course).

Years back in high school, while having my usual rant session with a schoolmate of mine on our way back home, I we came to the realization that the hardest part about being a fully functioning human being wasn’t just about having food on the table, paying bills and being a respectable civilian in a fucked up society. No, it wasn’t just that really. It was really about staying afloat. Staying alive, literally. When this friend of mine and I would touch the grounds of suicide and choices taken concerning life/death issues, we’ve always thought that dying was actually the easiest way out. And no, it wasn’t to shame or fault anybody but when that realization hits you – that staying alive is should be the end game because “death was the easiest part about living” – it made sense. It made sense to us at least. A lot. And that hasn’t changed.

Have I ever contemplated suicide? Aha hah.

Yes. Yeah, I have.

Boy, never really said or wrote that out loud. I thought of how easy it could be, to just – stop. Put a full stop. Period. It was a welcome feeling in the midst of all the angst and anxiety and conflicting emotions racing through my mind and wrecking my soul. It was truly a warm sensation, I won’t lie. And then I snapped reluctantly dragged myself out of it.

Obviously, we all differ. Various shades of strength. We all react differently. Our emotions pushes us to fight, for different things, various reasons. That realization I’d come across years before slapped me when the thought of suicide caressed my mind. It was rough. “Stay. the. phuck. alive. FIGHT FOR YOURSELF – da fuck?“. That is the hardest part of battling with life and everything, anything it throws at us, staying in it. Staying in the chaos, regardless. And it is rough. You see, even the most put together person you know in the room will lose it when certain synapses of the mind can be fingered, toyed with. It’s mind fuckery-ing that no one rightfully likes to dwell on for too long and for those of us who do, there’s no glory or candy o’er here. No one is really got their shit together, you see? Yeah maybe you can be solid with certain things and the world outside but when it’s just you, on the inside? Tête à tête? Fighting yourself, mind, body or soul? Boy, that war is no child’s play. We all survive with masks. Like that Pirandello novel that caught my attention that one time “Uno, nessuno, centomila “- One, No One, One hundred thousand.  Obviously, certain people will make their choices regardless. They are not stronger but make no mistake, that doesn’t make them weaker either. There’s no better than or worse than. It’s just meh…whatever you do, life wins you see? It goes on.

I really don’t know what pissed me off about the reenactment of “13 reasons why..” or maybe I should say that now I have half an idea. Humans are resilient motherphuckers in general but I don’t know man, one can’t simply accept shit (and dish it out too – Hannah was a bitch sometimes too) and just decide to let it all stop. And you do take full responsibility for your actions. The series kept looking for scapegoats, victims and situations to pin the blame on. It was a phucking blame game, this one! Gahd! I mean, there were obvious perpetrators, don’t get me wrong. But they were like what? 2 or 3? Life is twisted, people are bad. Some are great too. Situations are tough but then sometimes they are not too. You know?

One day after school, I remember this aforementioned friend of mine ended our rant session with a “non avere mai paura di chiedere aiuto, L.” – “don’t be scared/ashamed to ask for help”. We were not even talking about something that deep. But she said it, out of the blue. And it stuck. And when that aforementioned thought caressed my mind, know what I did? I shut down. Completely. Then I dragged myself out of that dark hole I had secluded myself and I whispered. Then I coughed a little. Then I talked. And now, with this WordPress thingy? I think I’m fucking screaming.

Ain’t giving up without a fight. Didn’t do it then, ain’t starting now. Ever. I need to remember that.

FIGHT FOR YOURSELF, daily.” There are always 13 reasons why that idea doesn’t really suck.

Bobby Caldwell – Open your eyes


John Legend

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b. Black Rain [pt. 2]

La prima volta che sentì la canzone di India Arie – I am not my hair ero probabilmente troppo giovane per capire l’importanza del perchè una donna nera, famosa, bellissima con i suoi capelli afro dovesse sentire il bisogno di fare “addirittura” una canzone per inneggiare dei cazzutissimi capelli! Sono capelli, chi se ne frega, i miei capelli tanto facevano schifo, pur mettendo creme liscianti per debellare la mostruosità che erano.  Ricordo che per ore insostenibili, mia madre,  mia sorella, e chiperloro mi dicevano “aspetta”! “ASPETTA CAZZO!“. E comprendevo il disagio, ste creme costano, si doveva aspettare che facessero il loro lavoro, che la natura prenda il suo corso. E prontamente credevo di poter finalmente avere capelli da sogno, che fanno “SWISH”, come le ragazze in tivì, come le ragazze in classe, come… BUGIA! Finivo con la scapola bruciacchiata e capelli “nonesense”. Non mi pesava, non troppo insomma. Ero spesso annoiata, mi lamentavo della monotonia che avvolgeva la mia esistenza, finché non sono arrivati loro.


Ormai sì può dire che ero nata imparata. Ero su ogni social network (Netlog, Badoo, Hi5, stocazzo), cominciai a scaricarmi musica illegalmente, iniziai ad usare eMule, mi avventurai nel mondo del p2p, a controllare la veridicità dei files scaricati da Limewire. Postavo musica su eSnips. Mettevo musica su 4Shared e Megashare. Facevo CD per amici di mio padre. La musica, la musica mi salvò. Non mi interessavo più dei miei capelli – insomma, relativamente, tanto non potevo farci nulla. Finché non arrivarono loro.


E lì capii – basta accontentarsi, ecchecazzo. Guardai un video su YT e capiì che potevo avere molto di più, aspirare a molto di più. Sì, sono solo capelli, ma i miei spezzavano pettini! Cazzo! Basta! Si ricomincia, da zero!

Quindi mi tagliai i capelli. Sembravo un uomo. Brüt diaól!

“Ma stai bene..” “Ma perchè ti sei tagliata i capelli?” “Ricresceranno…” bla, bla e più bla. Ora, mentre metto nero su bianco, comincio a rendermi conto di quanto sia (stata talmente) fragile come persona. “Non mi importa quello che pensa la gente, avrò capelli lunghissimi come la tipa su YT! Vedrete infami!”

Quei capelli non arrivarono mai o meglio, non ero mai contenta e i miei ricciolini se ne accorsero. Non mi cagavano. Facevano di testa loro. (LOL).

Passaranno quasi 5 anni, vari commenti da persone a cui tenevo (negative e positive eh) lasciati alle spalle e uno delle annate più brutte della mia esistenza per capire quale fosse veramente quella mancanza che mi pesava e mi soffocava dal “didentro”.  A quasi ventisei anni, sta cosa dell’accettarsi e amarsi veramente è una vera rogna. È un percorso lungo e tortuoso. Neanche la Nellina è stata capace a prepararmi a sta vita quando mi aveva mollato con quella bomba “Tu da grande sarai una bellissima donna” in classe.

A parer mio è metafora per: “Un giorno sarai (in)cazz(ata)uta e ne avrai abbastanza delle varie situazioni che fanno della tua vita la realtà che conosci. Prima di arrivare a questo punto della tua vita, potrai cominciare ad allontanarti da tutte le cose e persone ed ambienti a cui ti eri abituata. Forse vorrai anzì esigerai cambiamenti drastici. La mediocrità non ti andrà più a genio. Ti guarderai allo specchio e ti farai schifo. Si, schifo. Ogni cosa, ogni persona entrata o che vorrà entrare nella tua vita verrà scrutinata minuziosamente. Ogni evento dovrà servire da monito e lezione. Proverai a piangere certe sere e lacrime non scenderanno e ti incazzerai perché “la natura non sta prendendo il suo corso”! Fallirai, ti dispererai ma col passare del tempo – comincerai ad accettare anche i vari fallimenti per quello che sono. Saprai assaporare al meglio rivincite e prese di coscienza. Dio vuole, ti sveglierai una mattina, sveglierai anche tua sorella e di tua spontanea volontà, vorrai darci un taglio! Vorrai ricominciare da zero. Ma per davvero sta volta. Non per il tuo moroso, non per quel ragazzo per cui hai una cotta, non per seguire una moda, non perchè tu ti sia sentita obbligata di farlo, non per quella YTber di qualche anno fa. Ma perchè ti piacciono veramente tanto le metafore cazzo.”

Da un anno a questa parte, sono felice. Sono veramente felice. E quasi ne ho paura. “Cosa ho fatto per meritarmelo?” è la domanda che mi frulla spesso per la mente. “Qualcuno me la farà pagare in futuro? Il fatto che sia talmente in pace con me stessa?“.

Mi tagliai i capelli quel giorno a Giugno, ero fottutamente decisa. Guardavo il parrucchiere, super entusiasto con l’armatura attaccata in vita – che mi guardava ora titubante, ora eccitato dallo specchio del locale.

“Sei sicura? Sono un sacco di capelli.”  mi chiese. “Sì, taglia tutto!” dissi. Mi sorrise compiaciuto. Credo che quando un/a cliente si rivolge al parruchiere dicendo di “tagliare tutto” sia quasi comparabile a quell’orgasmo fantomatico tanto desiderato per certe donne.

Fu liberatoria. Non l’orgasmo. Non per il parrucchiere. Per me. Tagliarmi tutti i capelli dico. Vedere ogni ciocca cadere al suolo mi fece venire una nostalgia improvvisa. Volevo dirgli di fermarsi ma proprio prima di cacciar parola, sentii una certa leggerezza che ragazzi…che ve lo dico a fà! Finì di tagliarmi i capelli e mi misi a ridere come un’idiota. Si preoccupò il tipo. Si preoccuparono alcune ragazze del salone. Mi preoccupai. Mia sorella mi fissò.

Spacchiu ci sarà stato da ridere?

Capii. Capii e continuai a sorridere.


Le persone che scegliamo di far entrare nelle nostre vite, le vastissime scelte, inavvertitamente, trascinano anche le loro vibrazioni dentro di esse. Siate tutti sulla stessa frequenza d’onda. Per me erano capelli, ma questi, come la vita stessa, erano/sono una metafora da districare, come nodi che dovrebbero venire al pettine.

Ps: Fatalità su Spotify, Love Yourself di Mary J. Blige è venuto su. Grazie Universo. Ci sto provando.

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