“The idea that sex is something a woman gives a man, and she loses something when she does that, which again for me is nonsense. I want us to raise girls differently where boys and girls start to see sexuality as something that they own, rather than something that a boy takes from a girl.”
— Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
A male friend of mine sent me a link on You-tube for a song by Dance Hall controversial artiste 'Alkaline' titled "How it feel". The raw version of the song conveys that women love to have relationship with bad men, gangsters and thugs. The lyrics states that 'bad man' give women 'one hundred percent security' in a relationship. It is an interesting concept but relationship with alleged bad boys are anything but secured.
How can a woman feel secure in a relationship with a gun man and be safe when she has to be constantly looking over her shoulder for reprisals from people he might have hurt and rogue cops carrying out extrajudicial killings. How can you be secure and build a future with someone who might not be around to see your children grow up? A man in possession of a gun does not mean he will be able to save his woman's life or better yet ward off several intruders.
But the truth is women who date gangsters and bad men are not thinking about death. They are intrigued by their confidence, the contrast between the ruthless social image and the loving partner he often is to them. Some females find the "Alpha Maleness" of alleged gangsters appealing and the thrill associated with their dare-devil lifestyle exciting. Some girls love the drama, the beatings and the powerful feeling of conquest when they get a bad boy who is "mean a road" but "loving" to commit to them. After all bad boys do not have heart and it takes a strong woman to "calm them down when them a rage". Some ladies say guns are an aphrodisiac and are aroused by a man with a firearm, legal or illegal.
Girlfriends, wives and baby mothers of bad men know they play a dangerous game of karma. A few cases of women and children murdered with their bad boy father brings to the fore the grim reality of these unions. Pregnant women killed with alleged gangster baby father, children of alleged murderers abducted and women going to jail as accomplices to crime. The fact that the woman knows means that she is more or less accountable for the wrongs her man perpetrate. Bad boys offer everything except, 'one hundred percent security'.
"You alone understand me devilish ways...You don't know how much man out deh you save when me go fe one a them and you tell me behave...me no bother want fe dead and me no bother want fe go a jail"
Bad boys create recurring generations of career criminals. Mi granny always say be careful who you have children with, Guinep bring Guinep not Grape. Children sometimes suffer ill fated lives brought on by karmic consequences of what their fathers actions.
Bad Boys are a fetish for many women brought on supposedly by the cinematic and literature hero portrayal of gunslingers. Different strokes for different folks and women have been known to have relationships with serial killers and convicted murderers. Gangsters need love too and their women will tell you that not because he has a gun, it does not make him a killer.
A badman depending on how damning his reputation is will deter offenders from his family or his home thus providing a sense of security. Society has long called upon girlfriends, wives and baby-mothers to say what they know of their partners in an effort to curb crime and bring perpetrators to conviction. Some experts question the psycho-emotional state of women in these relationships and declare that girls from broken homes and dysfunctional families are more likely to be involved in such unions'.
Do you think badmen give their families and women one hundred percent security?
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Saturday, December 27, 2014
I always knew what kind of man I wanted. I just was not particularly insightful about the types I didn't like. I knew good looks were important to me, it was all I dreamt of as a child, ten years old, on the cusp of puberty plaiting a straw grass in the middle of the Ball Field. I wanted a light skin boyfriend with curly hair because I did not want any nappy head black baby like myself. My grand aunt drilled the notion in our heads that if a man did not have money, he should at least have colour. Never in my life did it occur to me that black was not a colour. At least not in my granny's vocabulary.
So I spent the first quarter century of my life judging men by how nice looking they were, instead of how nice they were to me. How much better than me they were and how much I needed to improve or change myself to deserve them.
I was not good looking by European or West Indian standard. Boys pinched my high cheekbones and made fun of my "black chiney" looks. I quickly learn to accept that I was not ideal but I never once thought that I was inferior for what I lack in looks, I compensated in smarts. I was extremely intelligent and I learnt to use it to my advantage. I quickly learn how to charm the skin off a snake, even the most elusive player blushed to whipping sounds of my sugar coated phrases and witty tongue. I was safe as long as i did not fall in love, let my guard down and become vulnerable.
So I took tips, read books and psychoanalyze relationships. I was the date doctor, armed and dangerous. I sieved guys out like ''Wheat inna flour'' and still always end up with jerks. Why? Because men who think they were all that are always alphas and I am very much attracted to alpha males.
I compliment them, build their self esteem, help them to see their true value and potential. And in return i believe they used me as some form of target practice. Now that they knew that they could get a girl like me, they wanted someone better. Better by virtue of who they i made them believe they were. Someone higher than themselves.
I was their placeholder, fall back girl and ideal but not perfect girl. I was cheated on, emotionally abused and verbally mistreated. At times I was tempted to tell them exactly what I felt but I could not resort to their pettiness. I thought their behavior was immature, ignorant and distasteful. I was an intelligent woman and I would not resort to their level.
But sometimes my emotions got the best of me and in a fit of anger and/or emotional frustration I told them exactly what I thought of them and how they treated me. Some reacted with indifference, ignoring my messages, packing up and leaving my place or treated me with blatant disregard that I got fed up and left.
Friday, December 19, 2014
I do not wish to become any man's target practice. If you do not want anything substantial with me, please do not waste my time. Do not use me as a placeholder for your ideal woman until you meet her. If you are still searching for your ideal or your upgrade then use the facilitations of prostitution.
If you want a relationship without the attendant commitment and demand of a union then why not buy pussy, that is what hookers are there for. No, Todays men want to treat every woman like she is underserving of a commitment for it makes them feel better . If they can treat you like a whore then there is no shame in not making an honest woman out of you.
Friday, December 5, 2014
The dogs ran through the yard kicking up ruckus outside. They said that dogs could hear a man coming down the road from a mile away due to their superior auditory mechanism. Something was coming and the dogs were afraid.
Diamond rolled over in her bed and fell back into a deep sleep. She could have sworn she heard noises outside, boots stampeding the ground and low guttural voices but then people always checking her Uncle early in the morning. She was falling back into a deep sleep when she heard a strong thud.
Diamond looked out the window, the place was chillingly silent. She knew what that silence meant, she had experienced it several times over the years. It was the sound of catastrophe. She heard a pop, it sounded like a gunshot and then eight more similar ricocheting sounds and it was coming from her Uncle's house.
She could have sworn she heard her uncle scream “Murder! No! No!!!!!!!!!” in her sleep. She knew it then even if the Police Officers standing at his gate and the several Lorries of Soldiers promenading on the road did not confirm that her Uncle was either dead or seriously injured.
She saw her mom ran out onto the Verandah and Uncle Patrick on the ground with his head in his hands. His face was strewn with tears. The soldiers and police officers were barricading her Uncle John's home preventing her mother from going inside to see her brother. She watched through the curtained window as they pulled her Uncle out by his arms and flung him into the back of the police Jeep. His baby mother and the child kneeling outside on the ground, crying inconsolable. As they drove away with him, he appeared to sit up in the back of the Van and the officers pushed him back down. His lips were moving, he was not dead.
Diamond ran outside feeling as if she was in a trance. Why didn't anyone follow the Police Jeep? She heard another pop reverberate down the road where the cane fields began. Her mother wailed on the ground at the feet of an officer who retreated and she fell on her face, rolling from side to side in a fit of hysteria. People were milling out of their houses, neighbors shouting "murderers" at the Police officers.
Diamond convulsed and her head spun, she knew the police had just murdered her Uncle. It was very clear in her mind. John was still very much alive when he left here. She grabbed her stomach, a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with her pregnancy overtook her. The police had simply murdered her uncle in cold blood. She spun around and then she heard the Police officer said “lady” after which all went blank.
The lights went out and Diamond fought to regain consciousness. She was dreaming, that was it! But she kept hearing her mother's screams and her Uncle Patrick's sob. She saw the blank look on the Officer's faces as they executed an innocent youth. John was no badman and everyone knew that. She saw John sitting up in the Van pleading to the police officers “Please officer don't kill me”, his chest covered in blood. Everything went black again.