Losing My Religion

This last one was never published. We could not agree on the content and length. It was supposed to be a series. I was going to wax lyrical about religion and its pervasive effects on my society. But yeah, I am lazy. Writing is not that fun, guys. Deal.

There are just some Friday nights that arrive and you are filled with fear. It is not Friday the thirteenth. It is not Halloween. And yet, decent people weep quietly as they wait, with trepidation, for the Sun to go down. It does not start immediately. Oh no, you have a few hours of sweet, normal darkness. And then as the clock hand draws closer to 11/12 (the witching hour, as some call it), they come. The high pitched whine as instruments are being tuned. The painful screech of a microphone passing too close to something. Finally, some tone deaf sub-human beings to warble. Yes ladies and gentlemen, it is that time again – Friday. Night. Vigil (dun dun duuunnnnnnn).

Religion was brought to Africa many years ago by the “colonial masters” long before most of us were born. The people heard the Word and embraced it; lived their lives by the tenets set before them. Even now, post-independence, looooong after the colonial masters have since moved those beliefs, concepts, notions hold sway in the society we have managed to build for ourselves. This was meant to be a onetime article. In the coming weeks I plan to talk your ears off. You don’t really have to listen. But I really need to rant so like it or not……

I can only speak for my own country though. But I feel I can speak for it well. Come with me on my journey. Help me to understand, come to terms with the madness religion has unleashed on my land. Or maybe it is not madness and I am the one who needs to learn. Only time (and Umuntokanje) can tell…..see you soon!

I Am A Slut

Ok. I lied. That was not the post that actually got published. Our editor wanted a little more back story. She also changed the title. The back story she ended p getting out of me was inserted just before the last paragraph. Years later, I still hate it.

Trying to explain how I got this way is hard. I started out a good Catholic girl. Who grew up in a society where sex was the norm. Girls getting pregnant was slightly more commonplace than girls graduating high school. My high school -the best in that region, and also an all girls, did what they could to keep us focused. Sex was a no- no, but we were taught all the precautionary methods. "Everything but" was acceptable. Honestly, no one cared what you were doing so long as you did not get pregnant or catch AIDS and have to drop out of school and fuck up your future. Then I moved to an uber conservative society. The culture shock, the drastic change in the definition of slut, was a lot for a young girl to take. I stayed a virgin, refusing to party or date, just so I had something to throw back at the idiots who had drawn conclusions about who I was by my attitude and (lack of?) boundaries. (Those years can be blamed for my current aversion to being touched.) It did not help that when I finally decided to give it up, it was to a manipulative abuser. My second partner was basically my sex therapist. Demystifying sex with him is still the best sex I have (currently) ever had while also teaching me to love and own all of me. Moving back to my liberal society also helped. A lot! Returning to old beliefs helped reconcile so much. I had to learn (and still working on it) to mesh all I had picked up both consciously and unconsciously over the years.

PS: I have since had much better sex than le ex...

Slut

This was the second one. There was a lot of back and forth with this one:

I am a slut. I have it in me to be ratchet beyond all boundaries. I am also a prude. I think sex is sacred, not something that should be bandied around. I love sex. Love it. It hurts me when I do not break you off. Hurts me when I do not leave you completely sated and yet wanting more. I am also ashamed. Ashamed of the number of sexual partners I have had. Utterly embarrassed by it actually. How did they become so many?

My humble origins were just the one guy. Him, who I was going to marry. Then it turned to two. Because I did not want to continue to be haunted by the memory of the one who had used me so cruelly. Now, I no longer hunt for excuses. I just do it. But the guilt is still there. Eating away at me. I hate myself for doing it. Wonder how I can live with myself after yet another misdeed. But it does not stop me. I am still going. Little by little though, with every new partner, that guilt is waning. Each day, I find I care less and less about how people or society or whoever sees me. I am just here to get my (and his) rocks off.

But then, I have to ask: what is my limit? In my bid to not listen to society, to not "play by the 'rules'", I find that I no longer have boundaries. I did start out with some. I would never do this. This is a no go area. Oh hell no, not me! Not that! But more and more, I have been blurring lines I never thought I would cross. To be honest, I have straight up crossed them. And just like with the sex, with the new partners, it gets that much easier each time. It is not even about social norms, or morality, or expectations. In my bid to drown out the accusing voices, I have gone far overboard with the things I have done/i do. Or have I? For many, I am fine. I have done nothing wrong. I am "owning" my vagina. Unfortunately, I disagree with them as much as I disagree with those who think I should keep pretending I am not sexually active (or presently horny as I am now).

So, this is where I am now. I am no longer a virgin. I have no interest in "reclaiming" said virginity. But I do not much like the direction in which I am headed. Oh, I plan to keep fucking. Sex is way too awesome to give up. (Sorry God). But I need to define my boundaries again. Redraw my lines and never ever cross them. I am a slut no doubt. But as always, it will be on MY terms not anyone else's. Some days, I will be a prudish slut, others a slutty prude. But every day I will be (true to) me.

Slut.

Claire

A few years ago, a friend got a bunch of us girls together and had us send entries into this blog she had started. That blog has long since become defunct. I manage to contribute two entries. This was the first one:

Let me tell you about Claire. Claire is five years old. Claire has just started at a new school. Her little sister who she fondly refers to as "her baby" is starting school too. Claire is ready to have fun, and play with all the new friends she will make at this beautiful new school. She is so excited. Claire has Down's syndrome.

If you have never encountered it before, you would just pass her off as odd. A bit slow, unrefined...nothing that being in a good learning environment could not fix in no time. However, as time went on, it was quite apparent that we were out of our depth. The head administrator had a meeting with the mother. She admitted her daughter had a problem and agreed to get a professional opinion. We needed the guidance so the most could be done for Claire. Weeks passed. No feedback from the mom. Despite the head teacher's request for after school one on one (no charge), Claire and her "baby" are the first to be picked up. The mother was approached again. She insisted that her daughter was just restless. Blamed the old school. Mumbled about the doctor's recommendation. Left the office as quickly as she could.

Not all children are born "perfect". This is your child. Her "baby" knows there is something wrong with her big sister and takes advantage of it. Her classmates know she is different. Children are not kind. Down's syndrome is not the end. With proper help, especially at this early stage will guarantee Claire a good life. There are so many well-functioning Down syndrome adults out. It is not to be swept under the rug or prayed away. Do not just pretend it is not there. Help your child.

Writing this, I was so angry. I wrote a scathing letter all ready to put the mother out in the open. Then I heard an opinion; heard a couple of opinions. Yes, Claire has Down's syndrome. Yes, her parents are in complete denial. But, Claire is first and foremost, a child. Claire is a CHILD. And she deserves so much. From me. I have not been doing my part. I saw a problem, decided it was beyond me and I shoved it into the laps of the parents. What was I doing for Claire? Had I exhausted all possibilities? I was so ashamed.

The next day, I hugged Claire. I sat with her and patiently explained in terms she could comprehend what it was I wanted from her. I catch myself when she lumbers around (insensitive, but that kid is uncoordinated, man!). She has felt the difference though, Claire has. She is responding. Impressing me. I have started collecting articles. Reading up on approach ideas.

Claire has Down's syndrome. But she is five years old and in a new school.