Full Circle: The global resurgence of Afro-Culture

Picture this:

I find myself somewhere in the heart of the Caribbean with my lady, having checked off the compulsory “beach, breeze, and sand” experiences. I'm ready for some mingling, eager to explore the pulse of the city. That evening, I find myself in a local lounge, soaking in the usual: a rhythmic loop of salsa, reggaeton, and reggae—Caribbean classics filling the air.

And then it happens. The music takes a smooth turn, and I'm suddenly listening to "Ojuelegba" by Wizkid! I’m floored. For the next 45 minutes, I’m treated to a full Afro-fusion DJ set, bouncing from Burna Boy to Shatta Wale, to "Sokoto" by Magasco! I am not only pleasantly surprised but positively giddy. This is not just because of the music itself ( it is a banging set of afrobeat and afrofusion alright!), but because no one else at the lounge seems to find this unusual. Here I am, somewhere deep in downtown Punta Cana, feeling like I've just walked into a bar on Malingo Street in Buea, Cameroon.

And then it hits me—this is normal now. African music has taken the world by storm, and it no longer shocks anyone, not even in the Caribbean, where, a few years ago, not a single Afrobeat track would have made it to the playlist. But here I am, grinning ear to ear, because the world has caught up with something we’ve always known: African culture is not just relevant—it’s dominant.

One thought keeps ringing in my mind: Full Circle. We are coming full circle. We’re reclaiming what has always been ours—the undeniable truth that we, people of Afro-heritage, are the originals. The originators. And once again, we’re right in the center, defining global culture and its direction. We are rising, not just from the shadows but from the very heart of the world’s past, taking our rightful place at the top of the tree, where we started.

Think about it. Our species, our civilizations, our kingdoms—they all began on the African continent. Yet through slavery, colonialism, and poor leadership, we slid down the global totem pole, becoming a mere footnote in the stories we once shaped. Our resources were taken, our people used, and our culture diluted. For centuries, we were the "others," divided and conquered, while our talents and our very essence were appropriated to build the world around us.

But this isn’t about blame. This isn’t a lament about how we got here. No. This is a story of rebirth. A story of how, through dispersion and struggle, we’ve held on to who we are. It's a story of how our resilience is finally bearing fruit, lifting us back to where we belong. Through music, through culture, through our essence—we are reclaiming the narrative. It is a story of how our afro-heritage is changing the paradigm for ourselves, our afro brethren, and to boot, changing the paradigm across the world!

But how did we get here? And why now, so suddenly?

Why has African music, of all things, become the spearhead of this global cultural shift? Why are we now, seemingly overnight, grabbing the reins of global soft power?

I believe that we’ve always been able to shape culture and music when given even the slightest opening. From reggae in the islands to salsa, rhumba, hip-hop. Too many roots run to the continent. They might not have been defined as being from the continent, but it doesnt take rocket science to trace the essence of many a popular music genre to it.  Yet, for so long, the gatekeepers and appropriators kept us on the sidelines. But now, the doors have been smashed wide open.

The giant—Africa—is finally waking up.

For years, it was our Afro-Diasporan brothers and sisters in the Caribbean, in the Americas, who carried the torch. They defined culture in our absence, showing the world what Afro-heritage could do. But now, the sleeping giant of Africa is stepping in, bringing a whole continent's worth of creativity and talent. This is not just one country—it’s an entire continent coming together. And the firepower is immense!

Let me share an anecdote that might help explain the cultural shift. I once asked an African-American friend why they’ve suddenly jumped on the Afrobeats wave. She said, “The first time I heard it, it felt like I knew the music my whole life, even though I didn’t understand the words. It was both foreign and intimate, familiar in my bones.” That feeling—that sense of belonging, of connection—resonates deeply across black cultures, in the same way hip-hop or reggae has for years. But Afrobeats brings something more. It gives all Afro-heritage cultures something to celebrate about Africa itself.

For so long, we’ve been the outliers, with our connection to the continent overshadowed by struggles and negative perceptions. Now, we can proudly say, “Big brother is here, and it’s going to be alright.”

There’s a kinship growing across the Afro-diaspora, an unspoken sense that we’ve finally arrived. And that global embrace, that all-inclusiveness, is what sets this moment apart. There is almost no musical genre that is foreign to us. We’ve absorbed influences from Orient to the West and everywhere in between—willingly or unwillingly—and now, when we speak through music, food, and culture, the world listens, because we speak a language they recognize. It’s as though our history of dispersion and suffering has made us global citizens, able to reflect back the humanity we’ve encountered everywhere, without losing the pulse of what makes us African.

But it’s not just about music. What we’re witnessing is a coming together of Africans on the continent and in the diaspora like never before. The cross-pollination of talent, ideas, and innovation is staggering. Producers in the U.S. and the U.K. are collaborating with young, hungry artists from Nigeria, Ghana, and beyond; Diamond Platinum collaborating his way across the whole continent; South Africa’s Amapiano is blending with  Fally Ipupa's Congolese rhumba; Patoranking is getting nods from the Rastafari community. The sheer diversity of the continent means the pool of talent in all spheres is deep and varied.  If we say Africa is just arriving, then wow, 'cos this is a gift that is going to keep on giving for a long, long time! Talk about tip of the iceberg.

I hope we can recognize this moment for what it is—a glimpse of what we can achieve when we stop waiting for others, or governments or leadership to solve our problems. This is a testament to the power of unity and of 'doing'; of what happens when we, as Afro-cultures - within and outside of the Le Continent -  come together. The global stage is ours, not just in music but in business, politics, and beyond. Music, food, and storytelling have always been the heartbeats of any culture, and right now, Africans are having their moment.

It’s time to embrace it. To capitalize on this momentum. To come together and define this age of Afro-ascendancy.

Race - Ramblings of a Racism neophyte. Part II

Land of the free...

Home of the brave...

A great many patriotic phrases like these mantras capture the essence of a great nation - Unites States of America. 

These same mantras will tick you the wrong way and sound a bit much and hypocritical when you contrast them in the context of racism and the racism experience in the US.

In Part I of this writeup I spoke mostly through my experiences to the encounters of racism as a black man in Europe and some of the racism I experienced. These experiences have informed my understanding and perception of racism, and how I navigated through that continent. Very little of my experience within Europe prepared me for the US and its brand of racism.

I must confess - I am new to racism - a neophyte of sorts. That is a true statement. Only in my adult life, and only in the West have I had to actually confront and live the racism experience. For most of my life, racism has been an abstract concept I have watched and read about, but never experienced till I left the Continent as an adult!

By my estimation, racism in the US is the most complex, inimical and dangerous of the experiences I have had. For any black man or woman in the US, racism is even more complicated because of the stench of slavery and its aftershocks and ripples. As an African, I cannot speak to the legacy of slavery, even though I experience both its benefits and its pitfalls in the context of being Black in America. There is a duality to slavery and  its perception from a black viewpoint,  that can be both advantageous and disadvantageous for the African ( sic: the ADOS movement).

A good friend of mine once captured some of the essene of this distinction when she said,' … as an African, my name precedes me. Because of my names' general uniqueness and distinction, in the US, I am quickly identified by those around me as a more comfortable black-  a less angry one'. I have learned this to be very true. My experience is that I am afforded understanding and even a degree of reverence due to my perceived originality. There is an easier interaction and association with white America I sense, partly because there is no sense of guilt or dread of repercussion. Diving even deeper, I think there are commonalities between us in filial context and a sense of comfort in known identity - as a black African, I might not know much, but who I am is not one them. As immigrants to a nation, there is generally no tension between White America and Immigrant African on the ownership and history of these United States -  and I suspect because of that, a greater magnanimity, tolerance and even acceptance of their humanity. This is not to downplay the fact that because of that  same Africanness - a difference in accent, dressing etc. - a different, more overt, more European kind of 'go-back-to-Africa' racism still exist, even more so in the age of Trump ( I promised myself not to go there, but elas, it is impossible!), and sadly amongst some of our own African American brethren. That kind still exist, but its very overt and non-institutionalized nature makes it the better of two evils in the US.

That statement alone makes for a sobering reality! 

The most dangerous racism of all isn't the overt but the covert and institutionalized. Unfortunately, America specializes mostly in the latter!

As an black African in America, you quickly understand that you are seen, way before you are heard or understood. And to that end, many racist incidences are still part of your reality. Racist encounters with law enforcement who stop you for no good reason or demand more of you than is required. You  will  hit the 'black ceiling' when it comes to opportunity, dignity and respect. Partially because of the situations in our own countries and governments a sense of low expectations from  both the government and law enforcement, some of these racist behaviors either go undetected or unacknowledged by Africans.

In a very true sense, ignorance sometimes is our bliss, and our .protection.

Because we aren't typically schooled in the racist undertones and innuendo that we encounter, ignorance helps with de-escalation, as the provoked reactions are typically absent. Of course I love chicken! (a scarce delicacy back in Africa), and water melon is amazing! And anyone stating the obvious to me or sliding it into a conversation or an a media ad, really registers zero on the 'Racism alert scale' for most Africans. I am sure I have disappointed a few myself.
Furthermore, our lack of knowledge of the rights or privileges we have as residents, means that aspects of institutionalized racism are more difficult for us to spot.This false sense of security and comfort they can be lulled into by dint of their Africanness and ignorance.

Unfortunately, this state of ignorant bliss is quite untenable for very long, as we are jolted to the reality of racism everyday in the media. If it is not by a President who insults and denigrates us, it is by countless stories of black lives lost to law enforcement. For every time my African privilege meant I got a kind word and genuine interest of who I am, there were multiple Trayvon Martins; for each time we heard about the American dream, we encountered many 'I can't breathe' deaths of more black men; for each time we heard 'This land is my land, this land is your land', we also quickly and very prominently heard 'you people from shithole countries'.  It doesn't take rocket science to see the criminal justice stats and wealth distribution to quickly realize the racism that is rife in this land.

A cursory look at the facts brings the realization that there aren't different kinds of black to racism. All black is made equal to a racist and a racist society. Your Africanness only buys you blinders which can do more harm than good in the grand scheme of things. You learn that knowing about your African American brothers and sisters, their history, and the rights they fought for, is your best shot at confronting racism in all its forms, whenever and wherever it rears its ugly head. A united front to speak out and call it out is the best way to confront this scourge. Defining racism past the black vs white dichotomy to include everyone - brown, red, blue etc. will only increase the power we have to change the status quo. I don't think racism is ever going away - call me a realist. I do however think that those who suffer racism can and should take on the mantle of dismantling its injustices, one after the other. And the only way to go at it, is to go at it together, your varied experiences be damned!

SoP @33kfeet

01/05/20\

Follow the crowd

Chapter 1

'Follow the crowd'

'Finally I am here!'
'Me voici donc en Allemagne!'
The first thought that ran through my mind as small well-ordered houses appear through the clouds. I wonder when I slept! I was so excited when  the plane took off, I could barely breath. I promptly lost all the enthusiasm when the first wave of turbulence hit - no one had informed me how frightful they would be. I wonder why humanity hasn't yet figured out a way of just building roads to all these places, eh ? I swore under my breath I would never get into one of these things ever again - let me just arrive my destination this time in one piece I prayed. I was quite sure the adrenaline in my body was enough to make me stay wide-eyed the whole way to Berlin! I guess my body just got tired and gave way. But looking through the window past the grumpy, snoring white man with the dirty white collar (I overheard him on the phone earlier, talking in really jaw-breaking Deutsch), I could sense the spine tickling giddiness creeping back. Ah! The air was indeed bluer out here compared to dusty, sunny Cameroon. This is bush! I am 'falling bush'! (Seems like I had to repeat this to myself every other time to believe it!). I once more explored my surroundings; Mostly white people who boarded the plane on all the two  transit stops - through Malabo (oil men) and  Zurich. I hear the announcement made again about touch down and the perfectly efficient hostess comes over and signals to my seat belt. Chai! These women keep smiling - don't their jaws get tired? And how come no one else in here sees how fake the smiles seem to be ? Either way my mind drifts to landing... I can only imagine the face of Nanga...oh, I can't wait to see her at the airport. I hope she's there....its been quite long since I saw her. Ever since the first year at the University of Yaounde when she left for further studies. Its been 3 years, but it seems like forever...
 My thoughts are interrupted by the planes descent and loud sounds from the engine as we touch down!

I am nervous...really nervous.

I carried my bag out of the plane, and down a long winding walkway, with everyone hurrying along as if they were late for church. I could barely keep up. Why is everyone here in such a hurry? No smiles? No acknowledgement or greetings? Did someone die ?
The customs and immigration stop is smoother than I thought it would be -'Ich bin eine studenten' I say in my most rehearsed German. The non-smiling agent looks through my newly minted passport with an unconcealed dose of doubt. He is obviously not impressed with my attempt at relating in German - (I am slightly annoyed at this, 'the language is not even nice' I pout in silence). But then, he couldn't find any hint of foul play and handed my documents back to me. I followed the crowds once more till I saw 'luggage', with an arrow pointing downward, then I froze!
Escalators!
 Now these things aren't as friendly to movement as they are supposed to be, especially for the uninitiated - and I was as uninitiated as they come.  Whatever happened to good old non-moving steps? Go up , come down steps? Now I had to prepare myself to take the right step so that I didn't over shoot, compensate and fall over. The horror stories I heard from Nanga and Tebo about their struggles in using these things didn't make matters any better. I slowed down for a little bit just so I could catch a quick glance at how the rest of those ahead of me did it. I felt unusually hot! Beads of sweat were forming on my shiny nose, and I was worried everyone else could see I was different. Duh! I was black I know, and coming from Africa too but hey, I was told to 'blend in' , whatever that meant. I was apparently not doing a good job of it right about now, from the stares being shot my way. As I neared the steps I couldn't figure out how all these people just climbed up and down with no care in the world without tumbling over. I put a tentative foot forward as i was suddenly jerked downward. I grabbed violently for the escalator handles, and even these were moving. I was on- barely, and it took me a minute to steady myself. On the opposite escalator going upward, I could see some old woman with a very disapproving look on her face! Whew, I survived! I have barely made it into Dresden proper and I already have a story to tell! This is going to be quite an adventure. I pick up my two very heavy bags and head for the exit. One more check and I am in!  I cant help but notice how the police constantly glance my way - this is making me uneasy, and then my unease is showing ,and I am sure that only makes me look even more suspicious. 'Calm down! Pull your bags and "follow the crowd"'Nanga had said.
I collect my hand luggage and head out. Then I remember the rule of thumb she had advised me on my last call yesterday 'when you do not know what to do, follow the crowd; that's what everybody else does'. So I followed.
There she was!
Not one piece of hair out of place. I would say 'vision of loveliness' , but that would be a gross understatement. Then she makes eye contact and I can see the excitement on her face as she races towards me. I try to contain my excitement and be all cool , but I am jumping hoops inside! I embrace her so hard, and can barely breath. She smells so good, just like she always has. Her ebony skin is so 'chocolaty' it seems someone polished her.She seems to have grown a little more light-skinned; I guess Germany has that effect on black skin. I seem to hold onto her for like forever through all those layers of clothes and jackets. Then I see two other black people walking our way and I figure they are with her. I release and just look around.
'You've grown' Nanga says in her usual teasing manner.
'You've not' comes my usual sarcastic reply, as we both smile at each other.
'This is Abdul, and Ngozi; my friends at  school. We live together'
'Nice to meet you'.
'Ol boy, how far ? Wetin di happen', Abdul says with a broad smile on his lean and streamlined face,with a very fit physique, exactly what you'd expect from a typical Hausa guy.
'I dey, nothing dey happen', I say back as is the usual greeting.
We exchange shoulder hugs as most African guys have been doing for a while ( blame hip-hop videos on Channel O). I smile at Ngozi and hug her as well. Ngozi is one specimen of a girl. Quite curvy yet not plump. Has a very good sense of style without being too overt. Her jeans and tank top fit her to perfection. She instantly makes me a little self-conscious about my slightly larger-than-appropriate-size blue shirt. She has the whitest set of teeth I have seen! A disarming beauty who doesn't seem too preoccupied with it . She seems to have that air of someone who knows where they are from, and where they are headed - I wont mind following her to wherever she is going...my thoughts start to linger.
'We are going to be late for the next S-Bahn Nanga!' Ngozi offers, as she grabs one of my bags and Abdul takes the other, and they start to race towards the exit. Nanga follows right behind them, and i join the race. This rather seems normal here--no one seems to mind! We head for the 'Ausgang'  into a tunnel-like corridor which seems to take us towards a direction of increasing train screeching noises. We climb the stairs unto the platform and race for the train as we see the conductor just about step in. The doors close just as we reach them, and the conductor looks at us with a satisfied snare as the train pulls out of the platform. I wonder why she looked so content ? We stood catching out breath, as we waited for the next one, coming in 45 minutes the schedule on the steel support beam indicated. I looked at the time and it was just a minute past the time for the previous train.
'So we missed it by just a minute ? And the conductor  couldn't stop?' I asked.
There was a knowing smile on all three faces , and of course Nanga couldn't resist as she gave me my first lesson in German time-keeping - '1p.m here means 1p.m. Not 2 minutes past, not one minute before. If you have an appointment and they tell you to arrive on time, they mean it. There is no African time here', she concluded emphatically, fully satisfied with her first teaching performance. It was always like that with her, a good heart she has, but she never shrugs from the compliments or limelight that come with being smart and knowing. Lets just say humility wasnt a strong trait. It was that same trait of always wanting to know in order to always be the person who knows' that drew me to her in the first place in Ngoakele (University of Yaounde). I digress.
Now, the concept of 'African time' generally needs some explaining to the uninitiated. the general principles state that the time for an appointment or start time for any activity is quite fluid, depending on the circumstances, and persons involved For example, if it is a ceremony with an important guest of honour, then start time is not what is on the agenda, but whenever such a dignitary shows up; but church time is  usually prompt as advertised (no playing with God's time)! If it is a bus departure timetable (long distance), the start time is when the bus driver has succeeded in filling up his bus with passengers. If it is an african party, then start time is generally not the time on the program, but the the time when the organiser determines that there is a good enough number of people for the party not to look to sparse or unattended, and even achieving this threshold of invitees generally is a problem. This needs another level of explanation. Now, because most West Africans like to be the person who the others look on as they arrive at the party in order for them to show off their appearance (their own little 'red carpet' of sorts), they tend to want to come a little bit late, when other guests are already seated (maybe due a lack of  red carpet opportunities in the motherland or something). It is appropriately termed 'the entry'. Problem is, everyone is clued in! They all want that 'the entry' experience!. As a consequence no one shows up anywhere close to the actual start time for any ceremony. I have been at parties that started 4 hours after the scheduled start time! You get the drift. This was going to be new to me! But I was up for it, and I actually felt happy, because I had always liked the idea of people keeping time, but probably because I was also not the most patient person on earth.
The next train finally comes, and we settle in. The train pull out and soon enough we are out of the airport, and for the first time I am able to see Berlin in all its splendour. Beautifully organised buildings of all shapes, which manage to stay in straight columns of concrete. Amazing architecture as we go past Potsdamer Platz, and head out West. Its clean, its spring, and you know it. The lawns on the houses are mowed, the houses are so organised, and nothing seems to be out of place. Its spring here, and the neatly planted and arranged vegetation is easy on the eye. Signs and directions in a uniform green and white, people scuttling by quite fast as the train moves on. The flowers are blooming. Swaying with such unison you would think they had been part of a gospel choir. I am truly enthralled. Douala has nothing but chaos, and this is the direct opposite of that. 'This, my friend , is 'bush'," I think to myself. Obviously, the guy who came up with the proverb about the grass always seeming greener over the fence definitely wasn't  from Africa, because this grass here is indeed definitely was greener, and the air bluer! I was fascinated at the order- a little too much of it... almost unsettling. Even the houses from one neighbourhood to the other looked exactly the same! How did they tell their houses from the neighbours' at night ?
My revelry is broken by Ngozi who wants to know about my journey, and all the other details about Cameroon and Africa which she seems quite interested in.  I begrugingly indulge her need for conversation, as I was more interested in soaking in all the scenery and order and cleanliness which was on display as the landscaped swept by from small towns to rows of trees to even smaller towns as the train passed by. Chai! The West was so organised that even the trees in the bush were of the same height and type! They all look planted; acres and acres of them. No wonder these people are the most advanced race on earth; they got even their forests figured out!
Ngozi and Nanga kept the questions coming; how is the food back home? What did I bring ? Is garri included ? Eru ? Dried fish? Who had accompanied me to the airport ? Did I cry ? I think I absentmindedly answered all the questions in the affirmative and they seemed quite satisfied and excited.
We arrived Cottbus, our final destination, sometime  just before dusk, and the sun was setting with a warm glow in the horizon. I had seen the sun set before,but somehow this sun seemed a little more golden. The whole day; sites and sounds of the West, had been surreal to me - so these things we saw on TV actually existed! I was impressed with the West. Day one couldnt have been better. couldnt wait for the rest of my life in this place. As we walked to the student quarters from the bus stop, we made small-talk with Abdul asking what we were going to prepare first from the Afro-goodies I had brought with me. I had never seen people this exited about eru and garri before. It seemed even more surprising to me given all the food they had out here. I couldnt wait to indulge in the excess beef and chicken Nanga had been telling me about, which was not only quite cheap here but the staple. I was told I will be living with Abdul , as Ngozi and Nanga were already roommates. This was quite fine by me, as they lived right across the hall. The room was a little disappointing I have to say. Much smaller than I had imagined,and the corridor seemed to reek of cat piss.The rooms were a simple rectangular shaped space , just enough to fit two small beds, a reading table a couch as old as the worn out brown carpet on the floor, and close to the door, a very small cooking stove and fridge. A small door opened into the adjoining bathroom which we were to share with the next door kids. A positively ridiculous design I thought to myself, why they would situate the kitchen next to the toilet and bathroom. While Abdul helped me set up, the ladies, who had invaded my luggage immediately we got in to get the food  out, had gone to their room to make dinner for all of us. We could get the aroma right across the hall, and it seemed to attract more and more africans out of the woodwork. They all came to say hi and welcome,but decided to hang around just long enough to be offered some of the food by a humming Nanga - she always seemed to hum unrecognisable music whenever food was around. She seemed prepared for this, as she has prepared more food than a small rebel army could possibly eat in one setting.  African hospitality, I was happy to see, extended even out in the West. The rest of the night was spent  eating,drinking and reminiscing about the past - our days at the university in Cameroon -  some of their more fascinating stories about life in Germany, which i listened with alot of fascination. Abdul was quite the chatter box after a few cans of Stella beer. He went on and on about life in Ahmadou Belo university in Nigeria and something about his popularity in those days. I couldn't wait to get out there and start building my own 'bush' stories , but unfortunately, the excitement of the day was taking its toll and I wading into and out of consciousness. We finally called it a day and retired to our room. I lay in bed replaying the whole day in my mind. Surreal was the one word for the whole experience. I went to sleep thinking to myself 'Goodbye to dusty roads and fufu corn; goodbye to general chaos and joblessness; hello! to organised forests and similar everything; hello to beefy hopes and cheesy  chicken burgers!'.
Morning arrived too soon.
I felt like a 20 tonne truck had run over me. I was a little woozy from the journey  since i couldnt sleep till 3 am last night. and the sunlight was already piercing through the window  covers, displaying  patterns of alternate black and white lines on my bed.The room was hot! Like Duala-hot! I thought I had left this sun behind at the equator ? What kind of bad luck is this? I checked my watch and it was already noon. Abdul seemed a little more prepared for this than I was. He had no shirt on, neither did he sleep with any covers.but his gentle effortless snore told me he was not about to wake up anytime soon. I guess German beer held up to its reputation of knocking people out.
I drag myself to the bathroom and after fumbling for a while, I finally get the hotwater-cold water balance in the shower and get a good bath. I wonder what my grandmother will say if she saw me bathing hot water on a hot day; ' Your skin will get twisted and wrinkled like those yellowpeople. That is why they get so old and so ugly so fast!' I could imagine her say disapprovingly.  I had my doubts on the scientific veracity of that claim, but figured I might as well enjoy myself in the now. I got dressed and headed for the Nanga's room. I didnt know if they were in, but I was as hungry as a Lion in the barren dry months in the Okavango basin. I needed to find food, and a cursory look around the room revealed a dearth in anything edible.
Nanga had gone for a class, but Ngozi was home, and she flashed a welcoming smile.
'Just-come, how far?'
'I dey. Hungry go kill me', I said with a laconic smile.
'Abeg come chop, sha!'
I sat down on the bed and flipped through the channels as she busied herself somewhere at the kitchen area. Had I mentioned she was beautiful ? That was an understatement. I could swear I had never seen a more beautiful ebony-skinned African. She had PP - proper proportions!. Not like the more skinny ladies I was seeing on TV as I flipped through, who were the stars in the west. This one was a real african queen. A backside only upstaged by her voluptuous bosom. Yet she had an alacrity and an efficient feel as she warmed food for me, you could see she was no stranger to exercise and hard work. And somehow, her clothes always fit. Even now , when she was wearing a some sweat pants and a tshirt, you could still make out her shape, and everything about it was nice. I quickly realised this girl was going to be my first impediment towards my academic goals here in Germany if she continued smiling at me the way she did everytime. I made a mental note not to come over too often. Plus, I still had unresolved issues with Nanga. She was my girlfriend back in the day, when love was pure and there were no complications of adulthood. Our idea of a date was hitting a mami achombo in the local neighbourhood of Bonamoussadi  ( a local restaurant usually around student quarters which typically had only one item on the menu -puffballs and beans). These eating houses comprised of makeshift rusted zinc stalls with benches for seats and questionable hygiene practices.  An inclusion of meat in the meal was considered quite ostentatious by student standards, and happened only on nights when I was feeling particularly loaded with money. Otherwise, on the usual days, the conversation went somewhat like this for almost every body who came to her stall
 The restaurateur would usually ask, 'achombo for how much?'
'5 puff-puff  with beans for cinquant francs mami', would come the usual reply or a slight variation of the puff puff to beans ratio.
'With meat ?'
'At your own risk oh!'
This was the indication to the seller that the particular buyer was not solvent enough to pay for meat on the day, and if she went ahead and put any pieces of meat in the food, it was considered a philanthropic addition with no intention of payment. Needless to say, this kind of 'philanthropy of hope' scarcely ever materialised.
But when she came to Germany for further studies and I was stuck in Cameroon, we soon realised the long distance was unsustainable, especially without any serious commitment having been made. She had dated other people, and so had I, though we still kept in touch. When I told her I had finally acquired a visa to come study Electromechanical engineering, there was a mutual undisguised eagerness to meet and or rekindle our romance; but there were no guarantees, just probabilities. But with Ngozi in the picture, even those probabilities might be downgraded to possibilities.
As we ate and discussed about studying out here versus studying back at home, I became keenly aware of how  focused and directed she was. She knew why she was doing a graduate degree in environmental management, how much she wanted to earn, what kind of man she wanted to marry, and the colour of the BMW she was going to drive! Oh, and not to forget the recycling business in Nigeria by 2014. Whew. I was both impresses and slightly intimidated;but more impressed than intimidated.  Good thing was, she didnt seem to be depending on anyone for the things she wanted. A dangerous combo - an independent hardworking girl with a plan! I think I just found my wife! I had angels singing in my head when I sensed she was impressed about my course of study. She then told me that I was the only african she knew who was taking that course as a major, given that most of the others only did Enviromental sciences which was taught in English.
'How good my German?' she asked curiously.
' Not so good as to run for political office, but good enough to sustain a conversation.' I said in German. She laughed a laugh that reminded me of a nice cocoyam steeped in red oil; yellow and sunny!
'Do you have a girlfriend ?' she asked with her eyes fixed on me.
'Uh... no!' I stuttered defensively, more from being totally taken aback, than from guilt.
This girl doesnt pull any punches, does she? I can now see why she is friends with Nanga. They are cut from the same cloth. She smiled and immediately started talking about how easy her course was, and how she felt the standards or demands of education here were so much lower than those in Nigeria. I nodded and feigned amazement and amusement at regular intervals, in order to hide my total ignorance on the subject at hand.Our conversation easily shifted to the things I needed to do to get settled, including registering at the Rathaus, purchase health insurance, and also get my personal room key from the Hausemiester. By the time we finished eating, Nanga had come back and joined in the stories and discussions.It was easy to see why the two were friends. They went at it from one topic to the other, shouting and exchanging both witting and dump remarks in equal measure. You could see they both were smart and fun-loving. Nanga was a little more on the materialistic end as she talked more from a place of her 'deserving' this and that as opposed to Ngozi who was more a 'go-getter' without waiting or assuming any handouts from anyone.Furthermore, from their clothes, you could see that Nanga had the more expensive outfits, but Ngozi was no slouch either. She wore her clothes and not the other way round. Just the thought of that mental comparison i was now making, drew my attention. It was the first time ever, that I had compared anyone favourably to Nanga. Not that there were no more beautiful girls in the world, but in 'my world', she scored high marks and graduated summa cum laude! But here I was mentally lusting over someone I had barely known for more than twenty four hours. I sure had problems. This dwelling in my head had to stop.
Ngozi had put on a Nigeria movie as I later learnt was their usual custom after a day of school. A way for them to touch base with Africa and its unique intricacies which they say they couldnt get from the Western movies shown on TV. By the time the movie had progressed 10 minutes, I was already losing interest due to the number of editing mistakes and outlandish acting that was packed right at the beginning of the movie. I wonder why women like these movies so much ? My mom was a religious follower of these Nigerian  home videos and would defend their quality and authenticity to death, talking about how they always carried a 'message'. I always retorted that if i needed a message, i went to church. Movies for me were entertainment, period. If you couldnt entertain to a good standard, you were supposed to stop making movies. The ladies were gripped by a scene in which some police officers who were chasing an allegedly  fugitive, cornered him in an abandoned building.
' This is the Nigerian special branch police, come out! you are surrounded', the policeman said. You could clearly see they were standing infront of the house with no possibility  of surrounding it since it had a thick bush behind it.
'Who are you ?', was the reply from the fugitive holed up in the house, as if the police had been speaking in a different dialect, not to talk of the fact that they had literally chased him into hiding!
'The Nigerian police special branch. You have been cornered'. I thought the last statement was obvious given that they had him hiding in a house? I also wondered whether all police were this polite in repeating themselves and their introductions. This was a good example of human rights etiquette for criminals in a developing country. Annan would be proud.
'Why are you here ? the fugitive asked seriously
'You are under arrest for human trafficking'
' Come and catch me then', the fugitive says in a hysterical growl.
The special forces have their hands over their heads holding their guns, with their arms obstructing their view at the same time! I ask myself how stupid you could be to be a police officer in a standoff and having your gun pointed skywards instead of towards your target. Then a melee broke out and there is some shooting and smoke. A pity the impressive looking guns the police are wielding sound like firecrackers. I expected something more imposing in sound, as you would see from the real western movies. Somehow, the police manage to shoot the fugitive. Thing is, the fugitive cries out and falls to the ground before the sound of the gun follows. Then the tomato prop on his chest suddenly bursts open to reveal his 'blood'. Really ? You would think that that sequence of events was supposed to have been opposite to be realistic,but I seemed to be the only person who found anything wrong with the scene, as the girls were all excited and animated at the spectacular action movie they were watching. For fear of spoiling their fun with my cynicism, I left and went back to my room where Abdul was still in the same position I had left him five hours earlier. He didnt seem like he was going anywhere anytime soon.
I was bored, and had not stepped out of the student hostel or Wohnheim, and hence decided to get my first glimpse of my surroundings. I figured I might as well hurry up and look around the block before things went dark. It was almost 7pm but the sun was not about to cede its position to darkness any time soon. I walked around the clean but nondescript apartment buildings, noticing the straight lines in which all the buildings were built, and the fact that all the trash cans were in exactly the same location from block to block. It didnt take long for me to realise a change in the people I passed along the way, as I went further and further away from the University campus. The smiles and air of camaraderie seemed to fade with every block I crossed. Fewer and fewer people acknowledged my 'Wie gehts' greeting, and even less smiled back. I also noticed the buildings had taken on a decidedly desolate and macabre feel, like no one inhabited them. No children playing outside, no adhoc football games by teens like I was used to in Cameroon, no nothing. I checked my watch and found out the sun had been decieving me! It was about 9pm now, and it still shone like daytime. I started to retrace my steps and got even more conscious as I was recieving unhappy stares and snares from the old people I passed on the road, and some teenagers were shouting something towards me from far off - some word with a 'sch' sound in it, and it seemed they expected me to do something in return. So I waved back and smiled! That was apparently not the reaction they expected because they froze and looked on in surprise as I continued heading back, but with decidedly larger step and quicker steps. I couldnt find anything but tarmac and ground. Grey buildings, grey sidewalks, grey everything. I was happy to finally see some of the University buildings, and blooming flowers in front of the building that proudly said 'Technische Universitat, Dresden'. Just my ability to read it aloud in proper diction warmed my heart a little, given the confusing set of sights and sounds I had just witnessed. I loved the ordered beauty of everything, but I was a little concerned with the bland predictability from block to block. Even more disturbing were the people, but I banished this to my imagination. Upon returning to the room, I recounted to Abdul what I had seen and sensed. He had this very knowing smile on his face and warned me in no uncertain terms never to wander too far away from the campus alone. He made me understand we were in a part of Germany which was not very racially tolerant, and giggled when I recounted my encounter with the young boys.
' Kaiwalai.. I can totally see why they were confused', he said as he laughed heartily.
I asked him to explain.
'The word you didnt heard--well, it was 'schwartz' - black ', he said, with a more serious look on his face.
'They were trying to insult you for being black, but you evidently didnt mind at all from the look of it', he said dryly.

'These people are not as exposed to different cultures as we are, so they still have really backward ideas. You want to make sure you never travel alone to such places, else you might actually be beaten or mobbed. Truly, it has happened before to my friend Kofi. He did beat the living daylight out of one of the skin heads who attacked him, but he got cut on his shoulder and lost a tooth. If you wander off again, you will meet skin heads. And if you meet skinheads you will have to fight for you life. And if you fight for your life you might have to lose a tooth. You dont want to fight and lose a tooth. Don't walk alone'.  He didn't need to tell me  anymore. I got the message, though I was bemused at his rather roundabout way of making the point.

I had barely spent two days out here and my reality was coming to fistfights with my imagination. I always read of racism, but it had always been very far, very abstract, very far removed from my loving and all-inclusive community experience. It was a strange thing to see it up front, but instead of anger, I found myself having a totally different emotion - pity.
We met up with the ladies for dinner--it was Ndole on the menu, and Abdul was as excited as a male peacock in the mating season because he finally could eat the sauce with pounded yam, a particular delicacy he hadnt had for a long time. As the night wound down, I reminisced about my day and convinced myself that no matter what gets thrown at me out here, I was going to make the best out of this place --racist or no racist. I had come too far away from the sweet cooking of my mother, to be cowered by snares from old women and delinquent teens. Nothing was going to stop me. Nothing!

Race - Ramblings of a Racism neophyte. Part I

Race!

I have tried to avoid writing about this otherwise very complex and convoluted human-made issue. Probably because i feel both equipped yet inadequate in writing about it. I worry I dont know enough or haven't experienced enough to say much, but then can't keep quiet given all that  I actually have seen and been through.  It paints quite a sad picture of humans as a species that a difference in melanin concentration can be this deep and divisive, but again, I digress.
From slavery to colonialism to native american and asian clan purges, its ubiquitous presence in every aspect of human interaction makes it something you cannot avoid no matter your best efforts - especially if you are black. An issue that stares you smack in the face almost on a daily basis, particularly in the West.  Given the spate of shootings and institutionalised racism on display, sometimes I want to blame technology for putting these instances in our faces and possibly magnifying the problem,  but then I realise technology can't capture what doesn't already exist. One instance of racism, one racially motivated death or injustice, is still one too many.

 It is just melanin folks; melanin!! Yet again, I digress.

And let us just get this out of the way, for those who might want to start an argument; science has proven without any room for doubt that there is invariably NO genetic differences between the races - NONE. Whew! Now that I got that off my chest and out of the conversation, let us proceed!

 My musings won't attempt any kind of nuanced or academic analysis of racism, as many people much better placed than myself have expounded and pontificated ad nauseam. I fear my voice only gets lost in the whole vindictive debate, and suffocates in the accusations and counter-accusations which only exacerbate the problem. I talk from an intentionally narrow & personal platform; from the perspective of a non-African-American African in America (N4A).

Full disclosure: I am black - Cameroonian, Black, and African to be precise, and in that order. Proud and happy to have been so all my life, and hoping I stay so till I die ( I aint about to do a Micheal Jackson anytime soon). But paradoxically, the mere fact that I proudly identify myself as black already makes me a willful participant in this unfortunate paradigm - it is what it is! I have always held that difference and diversity are intrinsic to God's earth and should be celebrated. I am a fiercely proud black man, and hold no ill will towards others who are proud people of their races. The issue with race as I see it, is not with self-determination  but with using race as a basis for comparison contrast, and prejudice projection.I  contend that identity is a good thing for it tells us who we are, and gives us a sense of belonging. But what I think is wrong with the quest for identity is the latter part of that statement; when our quest for identity and society overshadows our humanity, our empathy and our common sense. From such arise all kinds of negatives and mayhem.

I am new to racism, even though I have known about it my whole life.

 Let me explain.
 As an African, I only experienced racism in my adult life after leaving The Continent for education and socioeconomic advancement. I had read about  racism and watched 'Roots' of course, but it didn't affect my reality and or my outlook. Racism didn't shape my self-determination (say, in the way tribalism, nepotism and colonialism did - but again, that is a different discussion). I am a firm believer in the idea that knowing, and experiencing, are two very different things, and you really cannot know a social issue, until you experienced it - empathy aside. Having lived in multiple countries in Europe and now the US and travelled  around the world,  my take on race is coloured and defined by my own experiences, which are totally not unique in their occurrence but might just be, in their combination, as I am sure is yours. I have experienced overt racism in east Germany, covert racism in the UK and institutionalised racism in the US.

Paradoxically, I have also experienced some positives of being a black man in the world (I got my share of free drinks and female looks for being black, properly dressed and marginally well-spoken!)  Thing is, if you could speak good English, appeared a little confident and well-dressed, you had to be an African-American from New York, Philly or California - the youth in Europe (particularly Eastern Europe, couldn't tell the difference otherwise, and seem enamored with the novelty of  blackness ( in regions which had not been that exposed) and the idea of African-American culture (Hip-hop music,videos, culture, and sports heroes sure have done black people a world of good around world. I personally owe a certain measure of gratitude for that).

What you couldn't possibly be to them however, was a young man from Africa (not with all the hunger and disease infestation from that country - Africa! Plus, 'how did you get the money for a flight, to leave your tree houses and famine? And you speak English too?  Nah, definitely from Detroit!'). I quickly realised that your racism experience differs, depending on the perceived origin of your 'black', and unfortunately, Africans are at the lowest rung of that 'blackness' scale.Overt racism, which is rampant in pockets all over Europe makes the African position on that rung painfully obvious in the insults, injurious assaults, profiling and harassment you have to endure as a black person in some parts of Europe. Interestingly, you get treated with much more respect if, and when you are mistaken to be African American - go figure!

In some ways, these kinds of experiences were more tolerable to me. It was in your face. You know it, you can name and identify it, and you can locate it. You know the places not to go to avoid skin heads and racist nationalists; the neighborhoods and bars you only visit in a group;  what documents you need to have on you to thwart racist law enforcement. You figure out the survival tactics you can use to varying levels of success; speak impeccable English, fake an African American accent (sometimes to some honestly hilarious results), project more confidence and outrage than you really have, etc. Do this and you just might get away from tricky racist situations  - In other words, be 'American brash',( or just use the tried and tested 'I am an African prince' fallback, if all else fails). Essentially, because the fabric of that society refuses to lie to you about their racism, one does not develop a false sense of security and expectations. You know how far you can go, and how high you can climb; you take the rewards you can get and develop the skills and coping mechanism necessary to live productively therein. Without any promises of equality or 'land of the free' monikers, the racism - though equally abhorrent- is in fact  more tolerable.

 In most other parts of the world, as a black man, you might get beaten up by skin heads and have police harass you, but more often than not, you don't end up dead for 'driving while black'. Of all the places I have been to and lived in, nowhere is there a more complicated and combustible racial landscape like the USA, where an already complicated topic like race is mixed up with slavery, institutionalised racism, unfair criminal justice practices etc just to name a few. All this, mixed in the cauldron of the careless availability of lethal weapons and a controversial constitutional amendment to boot. Racism in America turns out to be a completely different animal... A minefield for any N4A who ventures on its shores.. This I will attempt to elucidate when next I muse...  To Be Continued.

SoP @ 330000ft.

The Afro-evangelist I No Longer Am!

My thought evolution about being black and African has taken quite a ride. I have always been a proud African, not much of a patriot of my country, and a firm believer in following your dreams, no matter where it takes you. By traveling away from my home, I have learned the value of what I call the 'other perspective', and a deeper appreciation  for who/where/what I am, It has increased the respect I have for all those who had to venture far away from what they call home, to make a living. Refugees, immigrants etc.

Surprisingly however, I have come to love my motherland more now than I ever did before, even though I work and live on shores which are far more advanced and with so much more opportunity. I suppose I can ascribe that to the classic cow not knowing the use of its tail till its cut off allegory. But in searching myself and discussing with others of like background, I have come to an appreciation that is not just nostalgia for home - There is something more to it, something deeper.
 Yes, I miss the food, and the community of people with similar values. And yes  I fully appreciate our cultural heritage and diversity because now I have a point of reference and can make more informed comparison with more  nations and peoples, other than from the perceptions I grew up with, watched on TV and read in books. As most people in the Diaspora will tell you, it is not all thornless roses on the other side of the lawn. There is more opportunity to make a living, but that living is typically a struggle day by day,with hand-to-mouth, bills and credit. There is of course the very tangible glass ceiling of opportunity, belonging and ambition that almost always lingers as a foreigner, no matter how many times you tote the flag and sing the  Star Sprangled Banner - Our accents and allegiance might change, but our essence remains.

I have finally come to the conclusion that 'Love for Land' is a real thing. This is what makes  Americans fight in wars all over the world, and what makes Britons die for Queen and country. It is the idea, the 'urge and itch' of Belonging and Knowing. Of affirming and coveting that unique set of values and memories that make your part of the world unique. Of feeling like you own a stake in this country/region,  no matter what its  status quo may be, and most times, in spite of the aptitude of the governments in charge, It is the realisation that no matter your achievements anywhere else in life, moving the needle or making any difference whatsoever, in any small way back home comes with an unparalleled sense of fulfilment, unlike anything else you might feel or achieved. An 'ache' to make something happen, or to improve the odds for those of your kin. It might be a need to implement things you have seen from the 'other perspective' you now inhabit. Or just the realisation that your contributions and legacy to this world might have so much meaning when applied to where you come from due to the opportunity, promise and potential you see of, and from it.

However this manifests itself, its presence can hardly be denied. This realisation led me to want to evangelise about this deeper feeling and meaning of being an African, a Cameroonian. To make all Africans in the diaspora see what I see and be proud of their Africanness, while rising to the challenges, creating new paradigms and challenging the prevalent stereotypes. My purpose for a long while had been to make others 'catch the fire', and be released from the 'whitewashing' mentality of the western world being the only 'IT' place; hoping they could bring to their homeland, what they have come to appreciate and love in the present stations. I was moved to pontificate about the duty to 'Do Something'. It gave me a new zeal to persuasively preach about our Home, Our motherland - Mboa-su! .

That 'all or nothing' approach has gotten me into heated arguments, disagreements and obscured the real essence to my message with not only friends, and acquaintances from all over Africa, but also people back home who thought it a little condescending of sorts. The intention might have be good, but the execution of the rallying call was sorely lacking in empathy and perspective. 

The learnings of that 'John the Baptist' phase in my life have left me with a few learnings, some of the more recurrent ones being that - Not everyone feels the way I do. The aspirations they had for themselves is what they have fully attained, and that is good enough for them. The opportunity to do, and be compensated for one's work, while provide for family and loved ones, trumps the motivations of identity and heritage, however noble. In other words - they have arrived! I still do not share this worldview from fellow immigrants and  Africans in particular, but I have come to make my peace with it.

 Secondly, some people rightfully think they owe their homelands nothing, given how much it took away from them. Lack of opportunity, wars, strife, persecution etc. And that hurt which still lingers, determines their outlook as much as any achievements they might have, or goodwill they might harbour for where they come from. This I empathize with, as I too hold no admiration for my nation's government,leaders, or feel I owe them anything.

However, what stood our to me is that no matter what most people might feel about topic, that feeling of attachment, belonging and heritage to 'Home' never fully goes away, no matter your sentiments towards the nation that houses Home. It is typically just diminished enough to obviate the need for any kind of spur to action. More importantly, I accepted the fact that no one preached me into it - I felt the urge or itch, re-connected and that left in me the burning need to do something for Home. 

So an evangelist in words I ceased to be. And an evangelist in action I have now become. My fulfilment maybe tied to the debt  I feel for home, but my identity isn't. With my present understanding, has come the clarity that not everyone has to be a doer, nor is every immigrant needed in achieving the potential that Home has, as those that are needed will react - 'the world will unfold as it should!', says the "Desiderata'. It is said that action speaks louder than words and that I have come to agree with completely. I am happy that in my evangelistic stage, I did help change some minds, but I am almost certain that if I just do my part, however small it is, I'll make more noise and turn more heads than I ever could, preaching from the mountaintop. Besides, even Jesus had to heal the blind and build tents - what more then, from a mere mortal like myself ?

SoP
From 10Km on high.
15/1/16

God, the White Man.

... I'm in church, (disclaimer: I'm a Christian). We are ringing praise and worshipping God as we do every week , and as we have been led to do for a very long time. Then the worship leader puts up a song slide, and the pictorial on the slide is disconcerting to me - it's a black God in clouds looking down  with his muscular arms and black flowing  beard. His splendid red garment flows with majesty and he looks really 'God-like'. Problem is, I'm snapped out of my worship mode... I can't seem to worship anymore, but look at the picture!? I soon enough realise the reason- the God in my head and my imaginations is different from the one the picture is presenting to me, and somehow my subconscious is taking notice- cognitive dissonance or something of the sort -  the God I've been led to worship and praise; the God I see everywhere and everyday - in books, Bibles, movies, stories as a child etc,  is White! More particularly, White-caucasian, not middle eastern or northern African! No,  just white!

Do this  small experiment with me; close your eyes... Now think of God the father - not Jesus. Who do u see? Now try imagining him in a different hue. Not much luck I guess . 

I've always known and felt this influence of white over black all around me in the signs and symbols used everywhere -  purity in white over black sin , black devil and white-light God and angels. I understand how that has coloured a lot of our worlds' ( and my) perception of blackness. I just never realized  how it had  affected me even in the most intimate and decidedly personal moments like worshipping God.

I don't know what to do with this anymore. I find myself trying to imagine a black or brown God now, every time I try to worship . This is getting quite distracting.,. I wish for the days gone by when I was less conflicted ; when I could worship my God the white man without second guessing which image of him is appropriate and why I couldn't imagine him black or brown. I'm conflicted. I know it shouldn't matter what colour God is, and His presence is all encompassing, and the only thing I need, but I have an active imagination!.

I'm not throwing any blame at history - it is what it is; I'm worried this same thing might be happening to many other people and limiting their experience of God. I'm worried new Christians and younger minds will get to where I am and be unable to manage the conflict between  God imagery that look more like like Bob Marley than Micheal Bolton.

I hope it doesn't make them question their faith- I'm not questioning my mine either; I'm just afraid that other people will react differently to this than I do. 

I pray your worship stays even if your images conflict .

I have come to realise that my issue is not even the fact that my God is white ; it is that every other imagination of him in a different colour feels inappropriate.! 

I need suggestions ... I want my worship back. 

SoP - February 2015.

I am Number 4

I figured I will be the last one carrying many rhymes and wise twists from him to You

I was hoping I would not just be one of the many, many ways he tries to show you how much he cares.

I am sure you have seen quite a couple like me, and know in so many words what he thinks of you.

I was just hoping I would be different, and it turns out, I am!

This guy loves you, don’t ever get it twisted! He sits at work and just writes all these crazy   things about you, to you.

He goes back home and cannot wait to talk to you. He sees your face and immediately goes into caring and sexy mode.

This guy loves you – he has written all kinds of poems for you. I think if I were you, I will really love him too. I hope you do! And I think he knows that too.

This guy loves you - because no matter who is  around - friends or family - he almost always seems to  think, and find ways to talk, about you.

I am number 4.

I know I am the last, and I know I am supposed to be more than all the others, but I just simply can’t.

I , as number 4, decided to tell you in the most plain of languages that he thinks the world of you, writes of you, talks of you, and always wants you – your mind AND body.

He knows you pain, sees your fears, and hears the things you don’t say. He wants you, wants to protect you, wants to be your man, and hopes you will be his woman.

I sometimes hope I wasn’t the page, but the person, to whom he wrote. 'Cos the words he types sometimes makes me wanna tear (no pun intended).

Thing is, he never really tried too much , as he wrote Number 1, 2 and 3. But in writing me, he did struggle quite some.

I wondered why, but I realized it was because for once, he was just trying to be as  real as possible.

He realized it was far easier to write in rhyming couplets and quintuplets,  than to adequately give utterance to his myriad  of  feelings.

He found that he loved you a little more than his large array of words could try to articulate.

So here I am: Number 4. 

Written with no rhyme, as his love letter to you. Just so you will know, that all he wants to say is ‘I love you’.

I was hoping I will be the last of such writings to you but, who am I kidding?

I know he will write again someday; I know he will always try to tell you those feelings in more ways than one.

But all in all, I know he loves you like he never loved before… So please keep me really close to you, ‘cos I think I was the most authentic of them all.  

Number 4.

SOP - December 2011