New Purpose

I have decided to repurpose this website. 1) I seriously fell behind on the reviewing of books yet I still continue(d) to read them; 2) they were never really that good, more reports than review as my brother sagely told me; and 3) I've decided to indulge the narcissistic tendencies of this generation and share my thoughts for the world to read because I think I have something to say.

You are the one to judge whether it is of merit.

I'm feeling wiser at the age of 31. More clarity has been coming and I've been changing because of it. Not drastically but in sure & definite steps. And there are things that bother me and delight me about the everyday encounters of life.

Being a 30-something, intelligent, well-paid, suburban-raised Black women already rubs the mold of stereotypes we all desperately cling to.  Some stick and some fall away; mostly to my amusement and rarely (thankfully) to my chagrin.

c

double Ds on deck:Day 30, 30 Nov 2012

Changed the title to "double Ds on deck" for now.

Contest is over. I met my goal.

Word count: 54,619 words
Pages: 105

Now for the editing process to begin... later, going to go party now.

Thanks everyone for all the support. I wouldn't have made it without you.

Becomes Becoming: Day 5, 05 Nov 2012

The next morning, we took our time strolling from his house to the public transport. It was our last day together. The sky was clear for once. The coal factories had shut down for the day and given the city a brief reprieve from the smog. The sun blazed unfiltered on unfiltered but we barely noticed it as we tried to prolong the day. Chinese women walked swiftly by us, their fair skin protected by the sun-brellas (as I liked to call them). I laughed as I retold Dayo about the time a taxi driver rubbed my skin to see if my caramel color would come off.

“I would have told him off and not paid,” he spit out. He was obviously not amused.
“He was just curious. We both laughed and sang Christmas songs afterwards,” I said, still laughing.

“You’re not serious.”

“Yeah it was a long taxi ride. It took 2 hours to get to where I was going. Anyway, he wasn’t trying to be mean or racist or anything. Just curious,” I said, defending the no-name cabbie. Curiosity would be how I would sum up the Chinese reaction to me. All the miscellaneous pictures, long stares, rubbing of skin, and touching of hair were innocent of anything racist. It was their amusement in my differences that made me like most of the Chinese people I had met that summer.

“Maybe you’re just jaded from being here too long,” I finally said in a newfound sense of Chinese camaraderie.

“Maybe,” he shrugged, wanting to move on. He put his arm around me. “You know I don’t know if I can let you go,” he said, cocking his head towards me.

“I think you’ll manage.”

“Right now, I don’t see how I can.”

“Please! Don’t even act like this is going to be something for real. I just met you and we barely met each other and we already argued after 2 days.”

“Anyway, that wasn’t really a fight. And we made up so forget about that. I do know it’s going to be hard to forget about you.”

“Hmmm you might convince me to stay,” I said, blushing. I wasn’t joking either; I had never felt connected to someone so quickly before.

“Promise?”

“No,” I said shaking my head at the ridiculousness of the idea.

“You’re right,” he sighed. “My mother always told me never to let a girl fall unless I was ready to catch her.”

Again with the African proverbs, I thought to myself but I had to smile at the wisdom in it. I wonder if every Nigerian read Chinua Achebe growing up.

Rush hour was constant in Beijing. Unless it was the wee hours in the morning, it was best to travel with public transport or by bicycle. There were different types of congestion everywhere in Beijing: human, auto, bicycle. Nowhere was it worse than on the bus. It was as if the driver was getting paid by the number of people that could get on. That very well could have been the case but my lack of Mandarin kept me from validating my theory with the bus-travelling public. Complex conversations with non-native-English speakers didn’t transfer well and my Mandarin transferred even less. I had literally ridden my whole bus route on the last doorstep on the bus several times. Feeling the wind blowing through the cracks on the bus door as you tried not to push too hard against it was not the safest feeling. But that was Chinese traffic. For my last day, I wasn’t feeling nostalgic for the familiar tang of the bus crowd so we headed for the subway station. The train was crowded with the normal Friday traffic but there was enough room to freely stand.

The train pulled away while I was fumbling with my purse. I stumbled and started to fall but Dayo caught me.

“Watch it,” he warned, rumbling lightly in my ear, “you’ll fall.”

“You were there to catch me,” I murmured, smiling mischievously as I looked up at him, playing back his mother’s words to him.

“Nice!” he laughed.

We exited at my station. I rattled off all the places I needed to visit before I left: the tea shop; the Afghan restaurant, which had a simple but divine combination of bread and meat; to say goodbye to all my friends; and, finally, to pack.

“Is that cool?” I asked after rattling off the list.

“I’m all yours,” he said and took me by the hand.

“All day?”

“All day.”

As I took him with me to visit my friends, I kept noticing the admiring glances the women gave Dayo. It was vain, but I felt proud at having this Adonis walking along beside me. His head was a little on the Peanuts­-side but it balanced well with his plush lips and the wide smile that flashed his perfectly white teeth. And all of this was set on top of a strong back, muscled chest, and six foot plus body. And yes, his shoes were big. I wasn’t a beauty queen but I could hold my own. My face also suffered from Peanutitus but the crown of curly twists framed it well. My dark amber eyes were happy almonds sparkling over high cheekbones that often broke into a plush, bright smile. I guess what I’m trying to say is we looked damn good together.

I was supposed to go out with Robin that night for our last night out together. I had not told her I was bringing Dayo so she was surprised to see him towering behind me when we met at the same club from 3 nights ago. Robin and I had switched. This time, I was the one bringing Dayo. I registered the shock on her face but also detected a “girl-we-need-to-talk” look as well. I felt a prick of ominousness; I knew things were too good to be true. When we got inside, I quickly sent Dayo to get us some drinks.

“Oh my god, you won’t believe what I found out about Dayo” she blurted out before he had barely walked away. I checked to see if he had heard anything. If he had, he didn’t show it because he kept walking calmly to the bar.

“What?” I asked apprehensively, not really wanting to tamper with the fantasy of the last 3 days. It was my last night here. Did I really want reality? I asked myself.

“He’s got a girlfriend!” she said triumphantly. Why does she seem happy about this? I asked myself. “I just found out yesterday. My girl told me that he’s got this Aussie chick,” she continued.

“Why didn’t you tell me when you found out?”

“I tried calling you but you didn’t pick up in your hotel,” she explained. I blushed slightly, remembering where I had been instead of my hotel.

I couldn’t respond. I didn’t know if I was more annoyed at her for ruining the fantasy on my last day or mad at him for not telling me. Does this really make me a hoe now? I wondered. I’d never been the other woman. I didn’t want to admit it but a part of me felt pride at being able to sweep away another girl’s man. Am I my sister’s keeper? I reminded myself.

“Yeah, I’m about to handle this,” I finally said decidedly as Dayo returned.

“We need to talk,” I commanded when he put down our drinks.

“Al-right,” he said slowly, drawing out each syllable. I couldn’t explain it but I could feel the threat in that one word and I questioned if I really wanted to have this conversation. Am I my sister’s keeper? I repeated to myself.

I motioned for him to follow me outside. I couldn’t help but notice Robin trying to hide a smirk as we walked away.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I asked when we got outside.

“Yes,” he responded slowly. Somehow he managed to make it sound like two words. Again the implicit threat was there although he appeared calm.

“Really?” I asked in shock.

“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly, “I heard Robin say it as I walked away. She’s always meddling in someone’s business.” He shook his head dismissing her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked heatedly.

“You didn’t ask.” He said it so innocently that I forgot I was supposed to be mad at him.

It took me a second to reconnect the thread.

“Umm, why should I have to ask? You’re supposed to tell me,” I said, bewildered at whether he was being audacious or just truly did not know any better.

 “I didn’t know I needed to tell you. But yes, I have a girlfriend. It is long-distance and we have an arrangement,” he explained calmly. He never left my eyes and didn’t seem the slightest bit uncomfortable. It disarmed me.

Now I was just simply curious. “What type of arrangement?” I asked.

“Well I’m allowed to date but not allowed to fall in with someone. But I have to admit, you’re testing the limits of that arrangement.” I could feel the low rumble of his voice as he chuckled at the last statement. I could see he was in awe at how much he had fallen in over a matter of days.

I was still processing this arrangement and his awe at nearly breaking the arrangement when he took my hands, breaking my concentration at his physical touch.

“C’mon Chuckles, it’s our last day. I didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t let Robin’s meddling ruin the few hours we have left.”

I thought about it and all the righteousness I had felt briefly melted when I saw that smile. I reasoned that he technically wasn’t wrong since he had an “arrangement” and it was my last day and Robin was just a little too happy to tell me the bad news. Yeah, my sister can have him back tomorrow, he’s mine for today, I thought. I took his hand and started to head back to the club.

As we walked on the steps, I asked him, “Why did you call me Chuckles?” He just laughed and pulled me inside.

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The sun was just beginning to break day and my taxi was idling as we lugged the oversized suitcase down the lobby steps. Each tug of the bag grew heavier as we neared the time to say goodbye. I was amazed that I found myself attached to this person that didn’t exist in my life less than a week ago. My heard thudded along with the suitcase lumbering down the steps. I knew it wasn’t just the chemistry, the attraction, the sex. I felt lighter when he was there but tethered to him at the same time. We watched as the taxi driver stuffed the unwilling suitcase into the trunk. The trunk slammed with finality and we knew it was time for me to go.

I turned to look at him and found his eyes searching mine.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said.

“I know,” was all I could manage.

I reached up on my toes and hugged him deep. We held each other until we found what we were struggling to articulate. It was more than a hug; it was a communication of love. I kissed him goodbye and got in the cab, watching his frame grow farther away.

Becomes Becoming: Day 4, 04 Nov 2012

He needed to change the train ticket and I had a closing ceremony to attend. We decided to meet again at my train station in the late afternoon.

On my way to meet him, I stepped out into the walkway. The sun still peeked through the incessant haziness of the Beijing skyline. My hotel was located in a university so the streets remained pretty quiet until you passed the main gates. Students passed by on bicycles. I could peek into the dorm life as most of the windows remained open. August heat, city-wide smog, and no air conditioning meant every window was always open. There were usually at least 3 beds in a room from what I could count. I could never make out where the clothes would go since the beds occupied the entire space. All I could ever see were bunk beds and laptops. Dorm life could be summed up as a place to sleep and a place for technology. Oh yes, and lots and lots of bicycles.

I walked down the university lane under the shade of the ficus trees. On the main streets, there was the usual combustion of cars, buses, and bicycles. The street vendors were posted on the sidewalks selling everything from litchi fruits to calling cards on rolling metal carts. I liked to buy flowers from the same old man once a week on my way home from work. It made the hotel room feel a little more like a home. Plus everything was dirt cheap; the flowers were no more than a dollar for a bouquet of lilies. I walked past all of these familiar sites with none of them the wiser of this new change in my life.

I reached the subway. No one was there. I checked the time to see if I was early. I was actually late. But I had no cell phone to call him. I waited… and waited. Thirty minutes had passed when he came sauntering out the subway doors with a bright smile on his face. A thirty minute wait in late summer smog and humidity had left me wilted. Even my annoyance was tempered by the heat.

“Sorry, it took longer to change the ticket than I thought,” he explained, kissing me quickly on the cheek. He proudly pulled out his changed train ticket as proof. “The time was going. So I had to pretend that I didn’t know anything and cut into the wrong line. I pretended not to know any Chinese and he got so frustrated that I wouldn’t leave that he changed the ticket for me. Otherwise, I would have been even later. Cheer up! I’m staying,” he said, laughing. I had to smile in return.

“Good,” I said, cheering up with the power of his laughter. I shook my head at him and pushed him playfully on the shoulder. “African people time, it’s worse than Black people. So I should get used to you being late!” I was only half-joking.

“Where did this African people time come from? It is not being late; it’s getting there when the time is right.”

“You sound like a proverb.”

“Then you should listen to its wisdom,” he joked back. “Come on, our train is about to leave.”

We were headed to his house. We entered the subway station and crossed the tiled floor quickly to catch our train. He played with my hair on the way.

“I’ve always liked girls with dreadlocks. It was one of the first things that caught my eye when I saw you,” he said, his fingers twirling a piece of my hair. I had been wearing twists all summer. Easy to maintain, long-lasting, and cute was the hairstyle I wanted before I left the states. I toyed with the idea of not telling him the truth. I would be gone in a couple of days, so it didn’t really matter. But my policy of honesty is the best policy won as always.

“You know it’s not all mine, right?” He looked confused. “This is weave. It’s not all my hair and they are twists not dreadlocks,” I explained further.

“I thought you were all-natural,” he said, slightly disappointed. “You dey fall my hand.”

“What?”

“It just means you let me down.”

“Over hair?”

“It’s a woman’s crowning glory.”

“Oh my goodness,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Let’s not bring Jesus into the mix. You weren’t throwing out scripture last night. Besides, it’s just hair. And my hair is all-natural. I just added some more to it.”

He decided to drop the matter but I also noticed he stopped playing with my hair and was now scrutinizing it instead. His round eyes were now squinting searching for God knows what in my hair. Men are so funny about hair, thinking to myself and sighing, and they are the ones with the least of it. Go figure.

“So how long is your real hair?” he asked after some time. Apparently, he had not dropped the matter. I looked at him daring him to ask the question again. “Seriously, I’d like to know since you are deceiving me with this hair.”

He was actually serious!

“You can consider me bald-headed,” I said, irked at his persistence.

“Don’t say that!” he exclaimed like I’d cursed him. This was too funny, I thought.

“Fine,” I conceded. I assured him I wasn’t bald headed and that within these twists lay a curly afro that would be the crown he wanted and more.

By this time, we had reached his stop. I exited a little deflated from how I’d entered the train. But a couple blocks of hand-holding to his place got me back to where I wanted to be: un-annoyed and happy. His residence was surrounded by a guarded gate, similar to mine. I guess college preparatory schools needed security too. But his home was much larger than mine and it was an actual 2-bedroom apartment in comparison to the studio hotel room I occupied. The tour was fast and ended at his bedroom. Feeling awkward again, I suggested we check out the kitchen again to get something to eat since it was getting late.

The fluorescent tubes flickered to life as I surveyed the kitchen. The walls were made of tiny white tiles. The double sink was clear of dishes minus one coffee cup. The tiny four plate stove was spotless. Everything looked clean; clean and unused. I opened the refrigerator and confirmed why.

“So you don’t cook much?” I asked, staring at the refrigerator. I saw eggs, some spices, bread, and an almost-empty carton of juice.

“Not really. I eat out.”

“I was going to cook but should we just eat out?”

“I’d really like you to cook please.”

I looked again in the refrigerator, my expression wary. I had offered to cook. I liked cooking and had not been able to all summer living in a hotel. But this was not exactly what I was thinking of when he accepted my offer.

I looked again and turned to him. “I hope you like toast and scrambled eggs.”

He started grinning like a kid with candy. “I don’t know if I’ve had them but I’m sure it’ll be good. Do you have what you need?”

He showed me where the pots and pans were and I got to work. I didn’t know half of the spices in the refrigerator so it quickly became an experiment of sight and smell. There was no salt in the house, so I tried soy sauce. There was no black pepper, so I tried the African pepper. And I added whatever else smelled decent. Ten minutes later, dinner was served. Those were the nastiest scrambled eggs I’ve ever made. He didn’t complain though and ate up his share entirely while I picked at mine.

After dinner, I mentioned that we should watch a movie.

“What about the dishes?” he asked, gesturing toward the sink.

Aww hell no, was my first thought. But I decided to be more diplomatic and said, “I cooked, you clean,” instead.

“What is that?” he asked.

“The rule we had growing up. Whoever cooked didn’t have to clean. Besides I’m your guest.”

“Well growing up in my house, you ceased being a guest if you stayed for more than 5 minutes. And we didn’t have your rule growing up. So why not be a nice girl, and help clean.”

Misogynist behavior was one of my few buttons and he was stomping on it.

“Are you serious?!” I erupted. “First of all, I AM your guest and I AM not cleaning your dishes! And I’m not a little girl to do what you like, I am a woman!” Although my tantrum left me feeling anything but woman-like.

“I’m just asking you to be nice and do the dishes too.” His smile now seemed idiotic and infuriating to me.

“Are you serious with this shit?! I’m done!” Good girl decorum was out the window and I stormed into the living room. I grabbed one of the magazines to try and diffuse my anger. I was so angry that I could feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes. Why is this affecting me so much?, I thought, I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway. I tried to reason with myself but there was no balm for this anger.

I could hear him in the kitchen washing the dishes. I was still stewing when he sat next to me on the couch. I could feel him looking at me but I had curled myself deeper into the leather with my back to him.

“I didn’t know it was going to upset you that much. I’m sorry,” he said remorsefully. “I was pulling your legs a little. I didn’t think you were going to take it that seriously.”

“Well I did,” I mumbled, nursing my anger unwilling to accept his apology.

He sighed. “C’mon, don’t be upset the rest of the night. I brought you out here so I could spend more time with you. I don’t normally invite girls to my home but I wanted you to see it. I don’t want this little thing to ruin the rest of the night.” He nudged me.

His touch softened some of my resolve to anger. Damn, still attracted to him, I thought as I felt the familiar current starting to spark.

He nudged me again. I turned halfway to look at him. He dazzled me with a smile. I gave a half-smirk in response. I already knew I wasn’t angry anymore. I turned to face him and pushed him hard in the chest.

“Don’t do that anymore. Just cause I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m supposed to clean up after you. I’m not your momma and don’t want to be.”

“I hear you,” he responded sincerely.

“Okay.” It was years later before I learned that "hearing me" was not the same as agreeing.

“I’ll try to remember not to pull your short legs anymore,” he teased, smiling mischievously at me. I grinned back. He pulled me to his chest. All my anger dissolved as I melted back into what had quickly become so familiar.

Becomes Becoming: Day 3, 03 Nov 2012

Please note: If you are someone who does not want to read about certain details of my love life (like my mother), then please skip the passages I highlighted in grey or skip this whole post altogether. Love, Nichole

Our first conversation was a smile. We were stupidly grinning at each other and unabashedly checking each other out. Every time I ran my eyes up and down his body, I’d catch his eye and just grin some more. The shy girl who broke into sweats when holding contact with a guy was gone. I felt like a woman and it felt good. It only took me 22 years and a trip to Asia to get there. Robin smiled, rolled her eyes, and ushered us into the club.

At some point we actually had a conversation. About what, I shall never remember. But what still sticks was his laughter. It resonated with a deep baritone and wouldn’t leave you till you at least smiled too. The joy in his laughter was wrapping me right into his man hands. Even then I knew that laugh was his greatest weapon. It rang like a bell through your head, made you forget your worries, and left you with a smile and only a faint memory of what you were discussing. But I could tell he was equally enchanted and disarmed any time I put down my thank-you-braces, happy-dance smile.

On the dance floor, he could hold his own. It felt like 15 minutes on the dance floor but actually turned out to be two hours. We took a break. While he went to go get some water, Robin pulled me to a table.

“Soooo?” her almond eyes looked at me suggestively. Her black braids popped against her light skin. Her plump lips that were almost too large for her narrow face were twisted in a sly grin.

“What?” I tried to stall, hoping Oludayo would return quickly.

“Yeah, don’t play dumb, it’s not cute. I see you! I did good,” she said with a self-satisfied grin. She had been trying to hook me up with her friends all summer. Unsuccessful as she was, she still kept trying. Now I had four days left in Beijing and she finally picked the right guy; great timing.

“Yeah, you did good… really really good,” I laughed, propping my elbows on the table.

“I couldn’t stop staring at him at first! And he can dance! And he makes me laugh…” I rattled on, waving my hands around excitedly. I was facing her with my back to the crowd.

“And he’s so tall –,” I tried to jerk my hand up high and back trying to mimic his 6” 2’ frame against my 5” 5’ body. But it hit something high and solid and laughing. I had back-handed him in the jaw. Embarrassment was starting to leave pin pricks up my legs and down my arms. I didn’t know how much he’d heard. The I-am-woman streak was fighting the old habits of the shy girl. I turned around to see him holding our waters and a wide grin. He put the drinks down, kissed my cheek and propped his elbows on the table right beside mine.

He looked me in the eyes and simply said “I like you too.”

Something flashed in his eyes. It scared me. It literally felt like lightning striking my core. I was scared but intrigued too and more than a little turned on. I grabbed his hand and he kissed me. The electric energy continued to spread between our lips.

“Uh, I’ll catch up with you guys later. Let me know when you’re ready to go,” Robin interrupted as she left the table. We apologized and turned back to each other laughing.

“How tall am I again?” he continued with his belly laugh.

“Tall enough,” I said, laughing back.

“Dalia,” looking me again straight through my eyes, “do you want me to come home with you?”

My face contorted from the inward struggle between my heart, my body, and my good girl upbringing. “Noooo… I can’t do that,” was my weak response. The good girl advice of never bringing a strange man home with you the first night was barely winning this battle. I mean I’d already kissed him in the club; something good girls do not do.

“Really?” he didn’t believe me for a minute.

“Yeah, I can’t do that?”

“Alright,” he said, edging closer to me. I could feel his lips behind my ear. “If that is what you want, ok.” It took all my good girl effort to nod quickly and step away.

“Let’s go find Robin,” still unable to look him in the eye. “It’s late.”

Robin, Oludayo, and I squeezed into the back of the cab. I was the only one non-fluent in Mandarin so I let them do the talking. Robin rattled off three addresses to the cab driver: hers, mine, and Oludayo. Robin and I lived close to the club; while he was in the next district. I sat in the middle between Robin and Oludayo. I could fell his leg pressing against mine. Robin’s presence was the only thing tampering our current. She gave me a quick hug before jumping out of the cab at her stop. She reminded the driver to drop me off first, then Oludayo. As she walked away, he looked at me.

“One stop or two?” he asked.

Sometimes it’s good to be bad. “One,” as the cab started moving to my destination.

After Oludayo paid the driver, we entered the university hotel that had been my home for the past three months. The bright lobby was deserted as we crossed the faux marble floor arm in arm. The ever present lobby attendants, of whom I had grown used to the daily stares, were looking extra hard at the company I brought. It was 3 in the morning and I had never brought a man home the whole summer. I think they were happy to see me getting it in. I had learned over the past months that China was not prudish about sex like America and boasted birth control pills as their highest transacted drug. To them, I was finally fitting in with the standard.

We were silent in the elevator, in the hallway, and when I entered my room. The room was cluttered with clothes, gifts, food stuffs, and life. For living in what I classified as a studio for an entire summer, I had done pretty well. The room was not messy but cluttered. Looking at the bed, I started to feel uncertain; uncertain and stinky. The funk from dancing hard for hours was blocking all of the electricity from earlier.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I said decidedly.

“Good, I will too,” he responded.

“Alone.”

“Oh,” he said, looking a little shy himself. Showering together is for the movies. Someone always ends up cold in the back and my hair always gets wet. Plus, I was really funky; like playing soccer for 90 minutes straight funky.

I looked at myself naked in the bathroom mirror. I looked good; I felt good, time to smell good. I returned from my shower wrapped in a towel. I found him waiting on the bed watching some show. I tossed a new towel to him.

“All yours,” nodding towards the bathroom. Musty nuts are not welcome here, I thought as he passed me on his way to the bathroom.

As I waited in my towel, I started to get nervous. Was I really going all the way the first night? Does that make me a slut?

I knew I wanted him here but I didn’t know this person and sex was a serious thing. What kind of spirit did this person have. I truly believed, and still do, that you inherit a part of a person when you sleep with them. Something transfers and something locks you to them. More than my Christianity has kept me to a 6-month no-sex rule. And I was about to break it.

I heard the water turn off. I quickly threw on my pajamas. I figured I could reason better if I had more clothes on than a tiny towel.

He came out in the tiny towel, bare-chested. Damn, he looked good. My pajamas started to feel unnecessary.

“Hey, um, do you have some extra clothes?” he asked pausing after every word.

“Do you really need them?” I asked. He blushed!

“I feel a little underdressed,” pointing out my clothes. I rummaged around the closet to find him some oversized sweats. I handed them to him.

“No shirt?” he asked, teasing me.

“No, you can remain topless,” I said matter-of-factly. He shook his head and chuckled as he went back in the bathroom to change.

For all the boldness we had in the crowd, we found ourselves quite hesitant alone. We sat next to each other on the bed, leaning against the headboard; close but not touching. We were watching the nothing show and making general conversation.

“So, Oludayo, you’re from Nigeria, right?” I asked.

“How’d you know?”

“I have a lot of Nigerian friends back home. Let me guess your tribe,” I said, scrutinizing his face. “Yup,” nodding my head in agreement to myself, “definitely Yoruba.”

“How could you tell?”

“Yoruba people tend to have something open and happy about their face. And they are loud!” I laughed.

“So you’re saying I’m too loud, abi?”

“I like it. It’s like listening to thunder.”

Pause. The nothing tv show had ended and chatter of Chinese commercials filled the space.

“So, you’re from America and you’re Afro-American,” he stated.

“We say African-American or just Black,” I corrected.

“But you look Nigerian, sha.”

“Everyone from Africa tries to claim me as from their country. You won’t be the last. I don’t know where I’m from originally. It’s somewhere in Africa but America is my home.”

“That’s too bad,” he frowned. “Regardless, you look Nigerian.”

“I like being from America, so I don’t see anything bad about it,” ignoring the Nigerian comment. I’d been called Nigerian, Ghanaian, Liberian, etc… throughout my adult life. My mother took this DNA test some time ago and it said we were from the Mandika tribe in Senegal. But I never really trusted those tests beyond the marketing ploy I believed them to be.

“Ok, so what brings an American to communist China?”

“What brings a Nigerian to communist China?”

We both laughed.

I explained that I was there on a research grant funded by the American government. Basically it was a fully funded trip, with a stipend, to conduct research at a Chinese university. The government’s goal was to bridge research between the East and the West; my goal was a free trip to China. He explained that he was there teaching Physics at a college preparatory school. The pay was good, the hours minimal, and they paid for housing. Physics, I thought, must be smart.

We went on like this for an hour, sharing surface-level stories about ourselves.

“So what does Oludayo mean?”

“It means ‘joy arriving’.”

“Seriously?” flashing a smile.

“Seriously. But you can call me Dayo.”

“Ok, Dayo. I’m ready to go to sleep.” I arose to switch off the light and TV, and slid under the covers next to him. I had read somewhere that you should never sleep with anyone whose last name you didn’t know. “Dayo, what is your last name?” I asked. He switched on the nightstand lamp and reached for his wallet. He gave me his ID.

“Ee-song,” I pronounced, reading his last name of the card.

“Wow,” he was impressed. “Most people say I-song cause that’s how it’s spelled. I knew you were Nigerian,” he smiled and leaned down to kiss me.

We woke up late in the morning. My eyes fought against the sun. I retreated to his chest to snatch some more moments of sleep. I didn’t want to speak for fear of morning breath, but I was not ready to get up and face the day either. I listened to his heart beat and tried to match my breathing to his. I wonder if he’s trying to match his breathing to mine, I pondered. I often wondered if men did this but I suspected this was just a woman thing.

I felt him take a deep breath and wrap his arms tighter around me. Yup, definitely not going anywhere, I thought. Since this was my last week in China, I didn’t have to do anything but attend some banquets. I figured he was on some sort of break too because it was the middle of the week and he seemed in no rush to get back to his school.

He squeezed me again and rested his chin on my forehead.

“Can you extend your stay?” he asked. I had told him I was returning to America on the coming Sunday.

“Why?” I murmured, trying to angle my mouth down so he would not catch the morning breath. Again, I suspected this was a female thing because he seemed to have no problem speaking directly above my nose.

“I don’t think I can let you leave me so soon,” he stated simply. He raised my head and kissed me again. I burrowed my head back down into his chest to respond. Damn morning breath!

“I can’t. My family’s expecting me to be back this weekend. My birthday is on Monday and I have to be back home for that. We have till this weekend anyway. So let’s enjoy it till then.” My practicality had returned with the sun. There was no way I was going to change my travel plans, upset my family, and pay sums of money just to spend a couple more days with this guy I barely knew. I took a long look at his chest again and sighed. This was just lust, not love, I assured myself. I didn’t believe in love at first sight.

He paused. “About this weekend…” I could feel his head angling to watch my reaction, “I’m actually scheduled to visit a friend down in Wuxi. My train leaves on Saturday.”

“But last night you said you would be around!” I looked at him in confusion, morning breath forgotten.

“Yeah, I didn’t know you then,” he confessed.

“So you lied!”

“Yeah,” he watched my reaction. I wasn’t even that upset because I did go home with a stranger. I guess a little lying came with the territory. But I didn’t want him to go so soon either.

“Change the tickets then.”

“They’re for this Saturday,” he tried to explain.

“I don’t care. You said you’d be here this weekend, so you need to be here this weekend. Change the tickets,” I said looking him dead in the eyes.

He held my look. I could see him reasoning and working things out in his mind. Finally, he gave me a wry smile, “Ok.”

“Good.”

There was a knock at the door. It was noon and I was still undressed. I jumped out of bed to see who it was. As I walked, I felt his eyes on me. I looked back and saw his admiring stare. “Nice ass,” he said and laughed.

Becomes Becoming: Day 2, 02 Nov 2012

“What you talking about girl?” she finally asked. The puzzle on her face softened with concern. She could tell something truly was eating me and I was struggling to get it out. I took a deep breath and began.

“You said that I want perfection and that I would get nothing,” I started. I paused again.

“If this about the hair, no problem. I already forget,” she told me kindly. I glanced quickly at her. She knew I wasn’t talking about the hair. She was trying to give me an avenue back to keeping my privacy. Her concern was shouting from the bold crease crossing her forehead and her small eyes angled in an anxious slant. She was trying to send me comfort with her eyes. But all my eyes could return was an inner anguish. I took the concern and remembered her wisdom, and decided to carry on.

“There was this guy, this man,” I began again, “and I just broke up with him. At the same time, I can’t stop thinking about him. My heart hurts. And I don’t know if breaking up was the right thing to do.”

“Is that it? A boy?!” Mama Keita smiled. “Ahh, this pain every woman know. Don’t you see it on the movies all the time. It always work out in the end. You will be fine. You pretty girl. You will find man no trouble,” she tried to assure me. She motioned at the TV across the room. A woman was wailing after a shouting match with her man had ended with him leaving. This was a Nollywood movie, so when I say wailing, I really mean wailing, like paid professional mourners. “See, they get back together in four more scenes, watch. It always works out.”

“Yeah, but that’s a movie, this is my life.” Logic and practicality never leaves me, even in times of despair. “I need help with my life.”

She sighed. “Dalia, what do you want to know?” Her daughters continued to braid the other women’s hair but I noticed every head was angled in our direction. Well, I guess I will be the entertainment this time, I surmised.

Airing my dirty laundry with a group of strangers was just not done in my book. I liked to appear put together and on my game. That was why people entrusted me at work, my friends believed my opinions, and my lovers admired me from the start. I come across pretty polished and do a decent job of hiding any cracks of self-doubt or stupidity. And not to sound arrogant, but I pretty much did have it together. But when it came to love, things always just fell apart. And going through the same cycle of thoughts in my head, pity parties with the same people, and invective rants via ill-advised phone calls or cowardly emails to the ex was keeping me in the same loop of like-love-mehhh-doubt-dump and repeat. Maybe doing a little airing out would clear some of the dust in my love life.

She pulled her shoulders back to receive what I had to give. I started again.

“I had been dating this guy for a long time. And I just decided to end it with him. But it wasn’t like he was a terrible guy but at the same time it wasn’t right for me anymore either.” She had guided my head back toward the front of the store and had begun plaiting again. “I still think I made the right decision but I still wake up with him on my mind and he is still there when I sleep too.”

“If you say you made the right decision, then where is the problem? You will forget him in time. Time solves everything,” she offered.

I gave an ironic half-smile. “My ex used to say the same thing. ‘Time solves all things’,” I said. “I figured three years was time enough to have a solution. So I ended it. I was tired of the same old delays and the same old stories.”

“So tell me about him, your ex.”

“I’ve known him for seven years, across four continents,” smiling at the memories of us spread across the globe. “We dated the last three and I guess I always had him in my mind as the one I should be with. He was the one impractical thing in my life. But I always figured love was the one area where logic and practicality didn’t apply… I always thought finding love was like watching magic; the details didn’t matter, the experience did. But the last year was as if someone explained the trick to me and none of it seemed so special anymore.”

I waited but Mama Keita was quiet and plaiting. I pulled forward against her plaiting to look back at her.

She jumped a little when I looked back. “Oh, I didn’t know you finished. I figure you would just keep talking. Go on, I’m listening. Keep going,” she prodded. She pushed my head back around so she could keep working.

“So he was—,” she tapped me on the shoulder.

I looked at her and she cocked her head at me with a raised eyebrows. “What is the boy’s name?”

Right, begin at the beginning.

I wasn’t in a hair braid shop anymore. I was on a dark street in China, Beijing to be exact. I had been exploring China all summer and was meeting a friend to my favorite club spot. It was an expat club, which meant you could find a few people who could keep the rhythm and, best of all, buy you drinks. Being one of the few Black women in the city had its perks. It had inspired a boldness and freedom in me that I’ve rarely experienced since. My friend, Robin, was an ex-patriot like me and the only other Black woman I’d met all summer. I eyed the street vendor turning the skewered meat on his make-shift rotisserie. It was 11 at night, still a little too early to be setting up shop. The real crowd would gather around 3 in the morning, with hungry and drunk expats vying for the little scraps of meat on the wooden skewers. I vaguely wondered if he was making his own dinner when I noticed Robin crossing the street. She was bringing the friend she had promised and he looked tall from afar. My excitement matched their quick steps. I did a quick check of my outfit and felt my booty for confidence.

I met them with a giggle. Giggling is the one girly-girl trait I allow. I missed his name at first. I was too busy checking out that body. Tall, muscular, chocolate with a bright smile; a name really didn’t matter at the moment. Later I learned it was Oludayo. It literally meant “joy arrives” and it arrived in a delectable package.

Becomes Becoming: Day 1, 01 Nov 2012

“Being Black and well-to-do in Wisconsin is like living in a frozen tundra. There’s no one around like you and it’s always too cold.” A slight tug to my head brings me back from my idle musing. I try to sink lower into the stuffed plastic chair, but it reclines no further. Man it’s cold. Thank goodness I had the foresight to wear boots. I tap them restlessly on the iron bar. I only wish I had been as wise in my food selection before I left my house this morning. I stare at the steadily dwindling size of my Snickers bar and take another long drink of water. I refuse to buy the overpriced snacks wrapped in cellophane on the thin blue carpet floor.

I’m four hours in, half-time; the normal time when I start getting antsy. I stare again at the movements flickering on the small TV screen. The movies offer some comfort although they are so predictable I can even follow the ones in non-English. Despite the juvenile plots, I still get into them. It could be the result of sitting motionless for four hours has finally numbed my brain as well. But I wait in anticipation for the redemption I know will come to the faithful women who waits for her man to finally act “right”. My goodness, it’s the same story everywhere I guess. Simple or complex, everyone wants the good girl to eventually win.

Normally these movies get me through but this time is different. The woman is slow and the room is cold. I glance around at the shiny posters taped to the bare, white walls. Some have rips in them but the room is overall neat. Along the wall of windows is a weathered couch, sunken in the middle from all the big bottoms waiting their turn. I sigh and stare at the sun shining on a cloudless, winter day. The sun doesn’t reach my chair. I touch my hair to see how much further there is to go. What a way to spend a Saturday.

My body lulls to the rhythm of hands pleating in my hair. A jerk brings me back to my senses. I glance at the woman who has a round face, kind and firm. Her eyes break their concentration to give me a brief smile. We are beyond the point of chit-chat so we go back to work: her braiding, me staying in position. The woman’s name is Mama Keita. I would never dream of saying it without the “Mama”. She was old enough to be my grandma and saying Mama felt right.

A knock at the door broke our reverie; it’s always locked. Mama Keita’s braid shop is on the cusp between the hood and suburbia. For a shop full of women, they take no precautions. Her granddaughter checks her grandma’s eyes for approval before opening the door. It’s a delivery man bringing the main currency of this shop: lots and lots of hair. In exchange, they give him a wad of cash. No wonder they lock the door. Everything here is cash currency. Don’t even think of handing Mama K your visa.

I took the break to walk on my stiff legs. There was nowhere to go but make a tiny semi-circle and stretch. After five minutes or so, Mama Keita summoned me back to the chair with just a look. She says so much with her eyes. I wondered if that’s an age thing or a wisdom thing… I eyed that chair like the enemy it was. The piece of yellow stuffing sprouted from the rip in the dull red plastic. It was the only bright spot in the shop and I was about to sit on it. To delay the inevitable, I walked past the chair to the mirror to assess her work. It was a pretty good job but not precisely what I had in mind. It was too stiff, didn’t flow when I shook my head, and the length was too long. All of these points I was storing up in my head as I tossed and scrunched my hair in every imaginable way that I would wear it. The crimp between my eyes was prominent as I squinted my eyes to examine some more. Yes, I found it: some of these twists were smaller than the other. “Unacceptable!” rang through my head as I counted back all of the flaws and swiveled triumphantly on one boot to accost Mama Keita. Before I could open my mouth, she clucked her tongue and said, “Dalia, sit.”

I grabbed a mirror on the way and plopped myself in the chair. I started rattling off all the complaints.

“The twists are smaller on the bottom than it is on the top. It’s gonna look weird,” I whined.

“It’s too long at the back. I wanted it to stop at my shoulders… this bottom one goes to the middle of my shoulders,” I explained, while she looked passively at me waiting for me to finish.

“It doesn’t swing. It’s too stiff, when I twist my head -,” I started.

She sucked her teeth and looked at me. “That’s enough. I know what I doing,” her Cameroonian accent adding depth to every word.

“But I know what it’s supposed to look like and this isn’t it,” I retorted, looking defiantly in her eyes.

“I know what you want so stop this now oh,” she responded. Although she said it so calm, I could see she was resolved. But I hadn’t reached the same conclusion.

“I have eyes and I can see and this isn’t going to look right!” was my response.

“Ach!” she cried. “Why you be so nasty girl! I have eyes too…”

I looked up to see the hurt in her eyes. I thought back on what I said and realized I’d messed up. Damn, my mouth ran away with me again.

I tried to play dumb. “I wasn’t being mean…” I started half-heartedly. The instinct to deflect blame has been strong in me since childhood; it’s hard to shake.

“Dalia, you know what I mean.” She wasn’t buying it. “You don’t say things like ‘I have eyes and I can see’. You show no respect,” she spit at me.

I felt horrible. This was a grandma, Mama Keita. And I disrespected her. The room started to feel warm with my embarrassment. With head down and eyes pleading, I looked at her and said sorry.

She locked eyes and I watched the hurt dissolve. She finally said, “If you always keep wanting things perfect, you will end up with nothing,” and resumed her work. My question from earlier was answered: it’s a wisdom thing.

Her words “perfect” and “nothing” bounce back and forth in mind. I sit in silence at her ability to express the main doubt I have about the big decision I just made in my life. “Do I want too much?”, “Do I want perfect?” swirled in my head. Although my head was down as she worked, my mind’s eye was on her and her words. “Did I expect too much from him?” “Was I setting myself up for failure?” “He didn’t cheat so he couldn’t have been that bad. Did I make the right decision?” All the thoughts I tried to drown out with television at home came rebounding in the aftermath of Mama Keita’s words. “Who was this woman? And how did she know?” I counted up the costs and realized she was right: I had nothing. Nothing of what really mattered. An inner battle of being right and being humble and honest raged in my heart and my mind. But I couldn’t be wrong. I’d already told him what was what and what was right. What mattered was I was right, he was wrong. Logically speaking, I won, right? My heart was not exactly on the same page. My mind’s eye wandered back to this woman. I thought, “If she knew this about me from 4 hours, what else could she know?” My southern-bred decorum stifled my mouth from speaking about my life to this stranger. But the question I wanted to ask her repeated in my head like a mantra. She was chatting away in French with her daughters; while I toiled away with that question. The question started to pulse with the rhythm of the pleating of my head.

“Did I want too much from him?” I blurted out. The French and her hands stopped. I could feel her looking strangely at me and I could feel the eyes of her daughters too.

“What you say?” Mama Keita asked. I repeated the question and looked in her eyes. The embarrassment had left me in my desire to know. When she responded with a quizzical look, I started to remember where I was: a cash-only shop with no heat and all-Cameroon all-day vibe. The only steady conversation in the place was Cameroonian French. She couldn’t get what I was saying and why was I asking her for advice. I panicked at my brazenness and tried to divert my eyes from the what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you question in her eyes.

But then, “Why not?”, floated in my head. What if she was some old-time sage from Mother Africa who could shore me up with some ancestral knowledge? Lion King soundtrack played softly in the background of my mind. Yes, I thought, she might know.

I looked at her again, hesitated, and asked “Do you think I want too much?”