I haven’t posted a blog in a while. I should have put one up a week ago but I have had a serious case of ‘pro-longed’ jet lag. I spent close to 17 hours traveling when I left Ghana. 13 hours on a plane (Accra to New York to Atlanta) and about 4 hours at the airports. Transit through New York seriously sucks and is a very frustrating experience. And then I had to move. Yarda, yarda, yarda.  

Anyways, I miss home, incredibly. As cliché as it always sounds, there really is no place like home. I can’t seem to wrap my head around it. What is it? Honestly, what is it about Ghana that we just can’t get enough of? And I know it’s not just me. No matter where we are, most of us call Ghana home. We look forward to going back home. No matter where we are working, struggling or having fun, our hearts and our minds are all back home. It’s a part of us we can’t shake, a part we don’t want to shake. So what is it?

Earlier this week, I had a conversation with someone, let’s call her Abena. Abena is seeing someone new, and I asked how it was going. She said she was confused. She likes the guy very much, but people keep telling her things about him which is confusing her. She said she’s realized she’s quite gullible, and usually influenced by talk, and once again, she doesn’t know what to think. 

She isn’t the first.

True scenario, names changed:

Joyce starts to date a new guy. Ajoa finds out Joyce’s man is a cheat. It takes Ajoa a while, but she witnesses a clear act of indiscretion and tells Joyce. Joyce says, ‘Hey, it’s my situation, I love him, no one is perfect, I’m staying.’ 

A short while later, Ajoa gets involved with someone. Based on my observations, and what I know, I tell her, I don’t think this guy is treating you right, take it easy. Ajoa tells me, ‘When you get yours, play cha-cha with it. This is my situation; there is no perfect man out there.’

Less than a year later, Babs starts to date someone new, someone Ajoa has dated. Ajoa tells Babs her man is no good. Babs says, ‘I know what I’m doing, thanks for the advice. No one is perfect.’

Josh sat behind his new Mac computer staring forlornly at the screen. He wasn’t thinking about the $2300 he had recently spent on the laptop. He wasn’t thinking about the report that was pending that he had to write. No, he wasn’t thinking about any of his pressing obligations. He was staring at her picture and thinking about her.

Josh stared at his ex-girlfriend’s face and felt a pang of pain and regret, and it was getting worse with each passing day. And that was mainly thanks to Facebook.

They’d gone their separate ways years ago. When they broke up 10 years ago, he was sure it was over. They’d tried to stay friends. There had been a few random hook ups, sporadic periods of long online chats and text conversations, and rarely some phone calls. Close to two years ago, the communication had dwindled but that hadn’t bothered him much. He was over her, had been over her for years. There were no lingering feelings. He was done with it all. He lived a very active life, especially socially. There was always something happening. He didn’t have time to brood. He’d probably dated at least four women since their break and slept with countless more. She was never on his mind, not until now anyways.


I like touching you, I like you touching me

I like the feel of your skin, so soft, so smooth

And in other places, so rough, so strong

I like your body, next to mine

Your beautiful, yet imperfect body

Merging with my equally flawed body

As in life, nothing is perfect, but I feel

What we have is close enough

This is a sensitive topic and I’m probably going to get responses split down in the middle. But who cares? I’m 30 and I want to lay my cards on the table. No long tings!  So, my clock is ticking loud, freakishly loud, rings in my ear like a train horn and I can’t seem to shut it off. Honestly, honestly, honestly, I didn’t expect to be single at 30, but here I am! I really thought I had time. I thought 30 would never get here and even if it did, I wouldn’t care if I was single or not. Age is nothing but a number. There is no rush in life. I have spewed all those lovely clichés us single ladies hold onto for dear life. And yes, it’s all true really, to an extent I’d say though.

I’d empty my already handicapped savings account just for the answer to this question. And I would earn that money back ten-fold! Can you imagine how many women, and even men, out there who’d pay to know ‘when it’s time to let go?’ It’s a question I’ve been pondering for years and I still don’t have enough data to draw any concrete conclusions. And not having the answer is pretty hard for me, because I am very opinionated. So I may not have the answer, but I do have some thoughts. Getting over someone is damn hard, harder than dealing with Man U’s ups and downs; harder than watching Heidi and Spencer on the Hills; harder than waking up on Monday morning; harder than enduring traffic, harder than…. okay you know what I mean. It’s just plain hard!

Close to 15 years ago, and I know I am showing my age, I wrote Basic Reality, a love story about teenage twin sisters who during the course of one summer, everything changes for them, their perception of love, friendships and sisterhood. The book was really a personal book, wasn’t looking to publish it. But I decided to give it to an old editor family friend, just to get his take. It was my first complete novel, and so I braved the world of harsh critical editors and handed it over. I expected different reactions, but the one I got, sort of threw me off.  He said, ‘You have to take out the sex scene.” I was a little confused, sex scene? There is only one mild sex scene and he wants me to take out that?

The rain lashed at the earth with an unrelenting viciousness that she’d never seen before. She couldn’t see any stars as she looked mournfully outside her window. The sky was as black as her soul and as harsh as the world she’d lived in for the last decade. She rose slowly from the bed and stood at the window of her bedroom, staring outside. It was pitch black. The storm had disrupted electricity as usual. When she was younger, she thought it was ridiculous that the lights always went off when it rained. The darkness used to irritate her. With time, she realized it was not so bad. She actually enjoyed lying in bed, listening to the rain, curled up beneath her duvet, just thinking. But tonight she had asked the house boy not to turn the generator on. Tonight was not a night for thinking or cozying up in bed. She just couldn’t think, and there was nothing gentle about this rain. Was this part of God’s continuous punishment?

Is kissing cheating?

Last Thanksgiving, during a particularly interesting and revealing ‘true talk’ conversation with my favorite boys, a question was thrown around – have you ever cheated. Kwame, (sorry to put you on blast) with a genuinely innocent face, he couldn’t have looked more saintly, says, ‘Is kissing cheating?’ The whole room erupts and he’s bombarded and blasted for at least an hour. What was worse, I think, was the completely oblivious way he asked the question. Seriously, he wasn’t kidding, he really wanted to know if kissing was cheating.

The hurdles I’ve jumped, the choices I’ve made

The regrets I have, the pain I feel

Where is the joy in living and being?

Sometimes I feel the warmth seep

Through my body, the warmth of a smile

I saw, the hug I felt, the kiss I received

And then, there is some joy in living and being