September 30, 2005

Faking Poor

J. Star said: “The stories you tell about the beggars who weren't really beggars are quite interesting. Do you think that someone who is otherwise well off dressing in rags and pretending to be a beggar makes them mentally ill in some way? It seems most of the people on the streets I see here who are begging or have been for a long time have some serious mental health issues. There is the odd kid here or there who is dressed in hundred-dollar new shoes asking for change--I of course never give them any, since if they were truly destitute, they wouldn't have such expensive shoes. But most of the people are talking to themselves, or are screaming about hurricanes being God's retribution, or need someone to tell them when to cross the street so they don't get hit by a car. I never thought that any of them might be faking it. I don't know. It's an interesting concept.”


Putting everybody in the same basket wouldn't be fair to those people who are really destitute. But if we do, which we would normally do, isn't our fault. It's the “fake beggars”. I haven't read "A Fine Balance" by Rohinton Mistry but whatever he says in it is true. He's a fine writer. I read “family Matters”. Just beautiful. (See my review in the sidebar).


Talking to myself, I do that sometimes. Thinking aloud, you know. Sometimes laughing out loud too, when sometimes am reminded of something funny. Sometimes when am reading. I quit reading in the bus for that reason. I kept laughing during an half an hour trip, all the way. Nobody sat next to me. I believe they thought me mad.


When we were in Niger, on our way back home from school, we took a short cut and were caught into some kind of sand tempest I'll remember all my life. There were 5 of us, all no more than 13 years old. The University our parents worked in was on strike and we had no means of transport and thus had to walk 7 kilometers to and from school everyday. It was fun. Till this pseudo-tempest. The sun and the sky white then crimson. We started to hurry then A, my est buddy, just went mad. He started screaming: “its the end of the World. It's the Judgment Day. Today the disbelievers will be taught right.” He was jumping up and down the road, running in all directions. My little sister started howling. I was laughing. My little brother started sucking his thumb. A. #2 started tugging at his pants ( I never knew why) and began to yell at A (my best pal). The point is, A. was certainly not crazy. I think he panicked.


Do I think that someone who is well off dressing in rags and pretending to be a beggar makes them mentally ill in some way? I think so. Whatever the ail would be psychologically named. It's like some people stealing just for the sake of stealing. Some people lying just for the sake of lying. It's pathological. Isn't fair to the poor, isn't fair to us who have to think twice before handing a penny.


I have a question: Is it possible for a mad person to realize/be aware of the fact that in order not to starve he/she has to beg for money?

Posted by Fitena at 11:06:02 | Permanent Link | Comments (5) |

September 29, 2005

Poor

I've been having a connection problem lately. Poor connection. Made me realise how much this blog business means to me now. How much am addicted theSuley's Manhole Music Tea Room , Jenelle's My Life , J. Stars' The Melodrama Jukebox and The Great Saphenous.


Talking about the The Melodrama Jukebox, I read the “beggars post”. Then went to lunch with a friend. She was mad at me. I wasn't listening to her. She was talking about her man. Normal. Not the fact that I wasn't listening because she was talking about her man. The fact that I wouldn't be listening because I'd read a post before lunch. They get me thinking. They make me ponder. I tune out of futile conversations like talking about my girls' men.


So, I've been thinking. J, I know what you mean by poor beggars sometimes scaring you. I don't know what goes through your mind but what goes through mine is.... scary. Am sometimes also disgusted at myself for being disgusted by some of them. That's when I turn objective and think: “why don't they just try and get a job?” or the like. Being objective right now, I must say, it's with good reason that react the way I do sometimes. Wanna hear about it? No? Never mind, here goes:

  • My mum's best friend's daughter's mother-in-law (get the picture) was telling me about this poor woman who comes to her place regularly for a little something. She was telling me how “poor” this “poor” woman was, so poor she was pulling at her dress and asking for it and trying to pull her slippers form her feet all the while going on about her miserable life. I just stare at her. She's actually on the brink of tearing so sad she is about this “poor creature”.

  • I live in a town called Quatre Bornes. It's nicknamed, “La Ville des Fleurs” - The Flower Town. We have our she'-always-been-there-beggar. A woman everybody calls “Madame Balaies” (Mrs Brooms). I think she's crazy. She is always stationed at the Avenue Orchidée with her brooms and as soon as the cars stop she goes about knocking on windows or proffering her hand through them palm up for a rupee. Sad? I used to feel that way too about her till on our way from the market one day, my mum handed her a bag full of some of the fruits we'd just bought. She took the bag. Peered inside it. Handed it Back to my mum. “Give the money”, she said to my mum. We walked away. We gave her no cent. My landlord who's a police inspector told us “Madame Balaies” has bungalows at the seaside and a very fat bank account.

  • My first job was in a Freight and cargo office. I had to take the bus from Quatre Bornes to Port Louis. That's the Capital. Am on the bus stop one day running late. A 4x4 stops. A woman gets off. She's in rags. She goes straight to the waiting-for-the-bus people and starts begging. The 4x4 pulls away. Methinks: “Gentleman, giving poor beggar a ride!” How wrong. Turns out the guy was the woman's son. She's not deranged. She just “likes” begging.

     

That's enough. I did a little bit of Economy in High School. I learned the concept of wrong allocation of resources which I'd figured out before taking the class. There are more poor people that rich people in the world is what the concept is all about. The poor getting poorer and poorer and the rich getting richer and richer. Not fair but the sad truth.

Nowadays, India is massively investing in Mauritius. They're good in everything. Technology. Economy. Finances. I always wonder how come there are so many poor people in India with all the expertise they have.


You know what they do in India? You have people mutilating themselves, imputing a leg, an arm, whatever to be credible enough for a poor. For a cent. For a rupee. You have baby loaning “enterprises”. You're a woman. You don't look pitiful enough. You're loaned a baby. People feel more empathy towards your misery then. To get the full impact feed and give not the child anything to drink. He has to be crying to attract enough attention. That's sad. That makes me feel mad. Not at the poor.


I think that we shouldn't take anything for granted. You got a roof over your head. You have a family. You have enough not to starve. Be grateful. I have a good friend. She lives in house made of sheets of metal (tôle). Right in the middle of “La Ville des Fleurs”. Imagine living in such a house by any time of the year. Heat of Cold.


Am sometimes sad. I feel sorry for myself. I feel I've been robbed of an otherwise golden future. We've been having problems. So there was no question of going to University. Cost too much. I feel sorry and my mum is mad at my dad. She believes its his fault. Then i remember how it was like back there in Niger. We attended this primary school I'll remember as long as I live. We (my sister, me and our friend A) were the only one's to bring lunch at school. Al lunch time our lunch was stolen. The thieves would eat our lunches while looking at us, licking fingers and burping. They had no lunch. No money. Many of the boys came to school wearing underpants only. ONLY. Carrying their slates and chalk. They, of course, had no books, no copybooks, no pencils, no nothing.....


I remember and laugh at myself. Felling sorry for myself is something am trying hard to resist indulging in......

Posted by Fitena at 12:51:00 | Permanent Link | Comments (1) |

September 27, 2005

Right and Wrong!

"By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was RIGHT,

he usually has a son who believes he's WRONG!"

Posted by Fitena at 10:49:28 | Permanent Link | Comments (1) |

Your new english Dictionary!

Your Fourth Lesson!

Today is the D day! D as in : "Dancing: The art of pulling your feet away faster than your partner can step on them!" The D in all ses états!  Enrich your vocabulary right nere, right now!

 

D & C: Where Washington is.

Daily Double: Work and slave.

Damitrol: Tranquilizer.

Damnation: Beaver country.

Dance: Vertical expression of a horizontal idea.

Dancing: The art of pulling your feet away faster than your partner can step on them.

Dandruff: Chips off the old block.

Dare: Not here.

Dark Corner: A place where men get bright ideas.

Dark Glasses: A device to make the obscure feel important.

Date: An organized meeting between two people who have yet to realize their dislike for each other.

Deadline: An arbitrary moment responsible for creating the fine line between a paycheque and a pink slip.

Death: To stop sinning suddenly.

Debt: 1. A trap which a man sets and baits himself, and then deliberately gets into; 2. The only thing that expands in proportion as it is contracted.

Debts: The certain outcome of an uncertain income.

Debut: De part of the body you must park to be seated.

Debutante: 1. A bareback with greenbacks; 2. A young girl with bride ideas; 3. Girl who goes out a vision and comes in a sight; 4. One who comes out at eighteen and gets up at twelve; 5. One who lives a date-to-date existence; 6. A girl who’s in all day and out all night.

Decagon: De way you explain how your vehicle was a total washout in an accident.

Decay: 1. De letter which comes after de J; 2. The 11th letter of the alphabet.

Decency: Indecency’s conspiracy of silence.

Decline: Nudists in formation.

Deduce: de lowest card in de deck.

Deep-loma: For diving school graduates.

Defer: To remove cat fur from the sofa.

Deformation: A football formation.

Deifenestration: To throw all talk of God out the window.

Delegate-At-Large: A man at a convention whose wife didn’t accompany him.

Delinquent Children: Those who have reached the age where they want to do what mama and papa are doing.

Delta: A river with its mouth full of mud.

Demagogue: 1. A man who preaches doctrines he knows to be untrue to men he knows to be idiots; 2. A man who can rock the boat himself and persuade everybody else that there is a terrible storm at sea.

Democracy: 1. A country where you can say what you think without thinking; 2. A form of religion – the worship of jackals by jackasses; 3. A land where you are free to choose your own form of government – blonde, brunette, or redhead; 4. A place where you can say what you please, but don’t have to listen unless you want to; 5. A small hard core of common agreement, surrounded by a rich variety of individual difference; 6. A state of mind in which every man is as good as every other man, provided he really is; 7. A system whereby the person who never votes can cuss out the man the other people elected; 8. That form of society, no matter what its political classification, in which every man has a chance and knows that he has it.

Denounce: Words that name things (cf de verbs, de adjectives).

Dental Parlour: A drawing room.

Dentist: 1. A collector of old magazines; 2. A man who lives from hand to mouth; 3. A man who runs a filling station; 4 A magician who puts metal into your mouth, and pulls coins out of your pocket; 5. One who tickles the ivories.
Dentist’s Oath: “The tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth.”

Department Store Detective: Counter spy.

Depression: 1. A period during which we have to get along without the things our grandparents never dreamed of; 2. A period in which you have no belt to tighten (Recession: A period in which you tighten your belt).

Depth: Height turned upside down.

Dermatologist: Person who makes rash judgments.

Desertion: The poor man’s method of divorce.

Desire: The thing that is so often nipped in the budget.

Desk: Wastebasket with drawers.

Detest: De thing de teacher gives you at de time you are least ready.

Detour: 1. Something that lengthens your mileage, diminishes your gas, and strengthens your vocabulary; 2. The roughest distance between two points.

Devote: What politicians depend on.

Diamond: 1. A bright gem, the sparkle of which sometimes renders a woman stone-blind to the effects of the man proffering it; 2. A stepping stone in every girls’ life; 3. A woman’s idea of a stepping stone to success; 4. Nothing harder except making the payments on one; 5. One of the hardest substances known to man – especially to get back.

Diamond Cutter: One who mows the grass at the ball park.

Diamonds: Chunks of coal that stuck to their job.

Diaper: Diaper: 1. A bum wrap; 2. A changeable seat cover.

Diaphragm: A muscular partition separating disorders of the chest from disorders of the bowels.

Diary: Penned-up emotion.

Dictator: One who thinks he can take it – no matter to whom it belongs.

Dictatorship: 1. A place where public opinion can’t even be expressed privately; 2. A system of government where everything that isn’t forbidden is obligatory.

Diet: 1. A short period of starvation preceding a gain of five pounds; 2. Something to take the starch out of you; 3. Something you keep putting off while you keep putting on; 4. A brief period of starvation followed by a gain of five pounds.

Dieters: A word to the wides is sufficient.

Dieting: 1. The penalty for exceeding the feed limit; 2. The triumph of mind over platter.

Difficult: That which can be done immediately (Impossible: that which takes a little longer);

Dignity: 1. Something that can’t be preserved in alcohol; 2. The capacity to hold back on the tongue what never should have been on the mind in the first place.

Dilate: To live long.

Dilemma: A politician trying to save both his faces at once.

Dilettante: A philanderer who seduces the several arts and deserts each in turn for another.

Dime: A dollar with all the taxes taken out.

Diner: A chew-chew car.

Dining Room: The place where the family eats while painters are doing over the kitchen.

Dinosaur: 1. A colossal fossil; 2. How a giant lizard feels after a tough workout.

DIOS: The one true operating system.

Diploma: 1. The guy who fixes the pipes; 2. A job-hunting license.

Diplomacy: 1. A peaceful substitute for shooting; 2. Cutting the other fellow’s throat without using a knife; 3. Lying in state; 4. The ability to take something and make the other fellow believe he is giving it away; 5. The art of handling a porcupine without disturbing the quills; 6. The art of laying down the law gently enough to keep it from being broken; 7. The art of letting someone else have your own way; 8. The art of saying “Nice doggie!” until you can find a rock; 9. The art of skating on thin ice without getting into deep water; 10. The art of turning a dropped stitch into a loophole; 11. A blend of protocol, alcohol, and Geritol; 12. The fine art of convincing one's wife that she looks fat wearing a mink coat; 13. The art of saying nothing nicely; 14. The art of saying something when you have nothing to say, or of saying nothing when you have something to say.

Diplomat: 1. A fellow who prefers ironing out his differences to flattening his opponent; 2. A gent who thinks twice before he says nothing; 3. A man who convinces his wife that a woman looks stout in a fur coat; 4. A man who has learned that you can’t bend a nail by hitting it squarely on the head; 5. A man who remembers a woman’s birthday but forgets her age; 6. A man who tries to settle problems created by other diplomats; 7. A person who can be disarming even though his country isn’t; 8. A person who can juggle a hot potato long enough for it to become a cold issue; 9. A person who can keep a civil tongue in his cheek; 10. A person who does not think it necessary to understand things in order to argue about them; 11. A person who says, “I will take the matter under advisement,” instead of “no.”; 12. If you have the advantage over someone, and you lead him to think that he has the advantage over you, without giving him the chance to take advantage of you; 13. One who can bring home the bacon without spilling the beans; 14. 14. One who can keep his shirt on while getting something off his chest.

Diplo-mutt: A politician's dog.

Director: The one who always faces the music.

Disc Jockey: 1. One who earns his living by putting on airs; 2. A guy who lives on spins and needles.

Discharged Record Spinner: A slipped disc jockey.

Disco: A din of iniquity.

Discount: Something often sold in place of goods.

Discouragement: Seeing the secretary yawn over one of your snappy salesmanship letters.

Discretion: 1. A comb that experience hands us after we have lost our hair; 2. A sense that comes to a man too late to do him any good; 3. Closing your eyes to a situation before someone closes them for you; 4. When you are sure that you are right but still ask your wife.

Discussion: A method of confirming others in their errors.

Disguise: Such pains. Always troubling dismisses.

Disneyland: A people trap operated by a mouse.

Disrespect: Giving someone half of the peace sign without suggesting they’re number one.

Distance: That which lends enchantment to the view, but not when you run out of gas.

District of Columbia: A territory bounded on all sides by the United States of America.

Divorce: 1. Going through a change of wife; 2. Hash made from domestic scraps; 3. What results when the bonds of matrimony no longer bear interest; A splitting headache; 4. Long division.

Divorcee: A woman who gets richer by decrees.

Doctor: 1. A guy who tells you if you don’t cut out something he’ll cut something out of you; 2. A man who keeps telling children to eat more and parents to eat less; 3. A man who suffers from good health; 4. One who kills you today to prevent you from dying tomorrow.

Doctor’s Prescription: Something written on a subway train with a post office pen.

 

Dog: The only friend you can buy for money.

Dog Pound: A used cur lot.

Doggerel: A little pooch.

Doghouse: Falling-out shelter.

Dogma: A canine parent.

Dogmatic: Run by canine power.

Dogmatism: Puppyism come to its full growth.

Do-it-yourself: Enthusiast; a varnishing Canadian.

Dollar: The jack of all trades.

Dollar Sign: An S that’s been double-crossed.

Doltergeist: A spirit that decides to haunt some place stupid.

Domestic Argument: One after which the husband either goes to his club or reaches for it.

Domestic Harmony: Music produced only if the husband plays second fiddle.

Donkey: Instrument to get you into the godfather's house.

Donuts: The only non-negotiable element to a successful meeting.

Doorman: A genius who can open the door of your car with one hand, help you in with the other, and still have one left for the tip.

Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Dots: Symbols, which, in the modern novel, mean proceed at your own risqué.

Double-crosser: A man who acts like a skunk and hopes nobody will get wind of it.

Double Jeopardy: When your doctor calls in a consulting physician.

Draft Board: Where young men are weighed and found wanted.

Drama Critic: 1. A person who surprises the playwright by informing him what he meant; 2. A person who leaves no turn unstoned.

Dramatic Critic: One who gives the best jeers of his life to the theatre.

Dreamer: One who waits for something to turn up – whereas a doer turns up something while waiting.

Dreams: The fool ideas of the day before yesterday that have become the commonplace miracles of today.

 

Dressage: How old her dress is.

Drinking: 1. Act which does not drown your sorrows – only irrigates them; 2. Something which makes one lose his inhibitions and give exhibitions.

Drug Store: 1. A telephone with a business attached; 2. The poor man’s country club.

Drunkard: 1. A man who knows his capacity but gets drunk before he reaches it; 2. Human prune - the more he is soaked, the more he swells.

Duchy: A Dutch lady who marries a duke.

Dude Ranch: Where a guy who is rich enough to drive a Cadillac rides a horse.

Duel: Pistols for two; breakfast for one.

Durable Goods: Those that last longer than the time payments.

Duty: 1. That which sternly impels us in the direction of profit, along the line of desire; 2. What one expects from others, not what one does oneself; 3. What the normal man looks forward to with distaste, does with reluctance, and boasts about forever after.

Dyspeptic: A man that can eat his cake and have it too.

Posted by Fitena at 10:46:06 | Permanent Link | Comments (2) |

September 23, 2005

English or no English....

At least I never experienced anything like.....

Posted by Fitena at 07:05:40 | Permanent Link | Comments (1) |

To answer or not to answer.....

Jenelle said: "Girl, you speak good English! I think your picture story is hilarious! I would love to read the whole thing!"
 
Thanks. I'll try locate the essay's copy in my school junk (which am not sure I will!)

Suley said: "I loved this post. It shows you can write well in English. It may be slightly flawed here and there, but that's just cosmetic. I love your "hi-how-are-you-am-fine-thank-you-please-orange-omelet." and I like how you describe the way english sounded to you, like "ratatatatatat.""

"Cosmetic flaws". This is the most original compliment that's ever been made to me! Thanks!

I remembered a real funny episode I've been ashamed of for a long time and which anyone wouldn't lose the chance to remind me of in school.

My Form Three English teacher (that's during my second year in this school after I passed by turning up fifth) asked the class: "Can anyone tell me who William Shakespeare was?"

I raised my hand high, high, high. I knew. I was sure and confident and smug about my knowledge. What did they think of me my fellow class mates? That I was never going to be as good and knowledgeable as them in English related matters huh? Well, I knew the answer and no one was going to give it but me.

The teacher doubtfully looked my way. Looked elsewhere then decided she's give me honor of saying my answer loud and clear for everyone to hear.

"Ok, H. (they called me by my surname) tell the class who William Shakespeare was."

"Yes Miss, William Shakespeare was a private detective."

Everybody freeze. Everybody go crazy laughing. Teacher staring at me with a her jaw dropped so low she could have stumbled over it.

I don't know why but, the honest truth, I thought she was talking about Sherlock Holmes.

Posted by Fitena at 06:59:02 | Permanent Link | Comments (1) |

September 21, 2005

My English Tale...

Jenelle's childhood tale on J. Star's blog reminded me of something which has absolutely nothing to do with it. My English Tale.
I assume all of you have, by now, gathered that am no native English speaker. Bilingual by birth with a French speaking father and an Arabic speaking mom, I've always loved foreign languages. By age 7, I spoke two languages and 2 dialects. An Ivorian one (from Côte d'Ivoire) proper to my ethnic group, called Malinké and Zarma, a dialect spoken in Niger.
We were living happily in our Francophone Africa when my dad shipped us all to Mauritius Island on plane (? is it planed us or aired us instead??). Mauritius, a multi cultural island. Official language: English. No one speaks English. Creole instead.
I've got to get back in time a little bit here.
A year before coming to Mauritius, we stayed in Côte d'Ivoire where I attended Form one (7th schooling year). The teaching medium is French and English is studied as a foreign language. We're all ranging from 11 to 12 years old and are taught the English alphabet. We are given homeworks: memorize the colours of the rainbow in English and translate them, translate "ball", "baby", "balloon"... It was grand! I loved it. By the end of the year I'd learned how to say hi-how-are-you-am-fine-thank-you-please-orange-omelet. They were impressed, my fellow class mates. I got full marks!
On our way here, we had to transit by Kenya. At the airport. Officer is talking to my dad. "rattatatattattaa, rattattattata?" (sounded like a question). My dad. Stares at officer. Shakes his head. Looks up and down, right and left. No inspiration. Finally "Tomorrow!". That's the only English word he knows, my father.  
At the hotel. Breakfast, lunch, dinner: we ate omelets and drank orange juice. Thanks to me of course. Imagine, we would have starved instead. By the way, we were supposed to stay 2 days only in Kenya but ended up there for a whole long week. Language barrier consequence? Maybe.
I remember one day at lunch, they had this buffet ouvert. We were overjoyed. We were finally going to eat something different. We pilled up the plates. People smiled at us. We we so cute. Then this guys comes over to our table and pointing to our plates says "Muslim NO". I was happy, I understood. I told my family, this man says "Muslim NO". My father looked happy not. What we'd mistaken for boiled potatoes with yummy buttery sauce was pork. Not kosher.
So, we end up in this multicultural island with its coming from India, China and Africa inhabitants all speaking Creole. Am registered in a Lycée where the teachers thought I had to repeat Form One. They believed I couldn't make it in Form Two and will be failing anyway. The rector said no. Bless him. He said, Form Two it shall be.
Am in Form Two with an English luggage of hi-how-are-you-am-fine-thank-you-please-orange-omelet. The teachers felt sorry for me. Kept apologizing for not speaking french then asking me to tell them about Africa. Do people starve to death? What sort of house do you live in there? What do you eat? Do lions roam around the streets? Do people walk naked? I had no idea what the hell they were talking about. I decided I was never going back to that school. I did. The next day. And the day after.
My first test I scored 4/100 in Math and 12/100 in English. I was happy. A mauritian girl had scored 10/100 in the same test. Second term exam I scored 23/100. Good. Third term. I wasn't worried about all subjects like I was about English. You fail English, you pass in all, you repeat the class.
We were given this picture essay to write. You get 4 or 6 pictures which tell a story you're supposed to write about. The picture depicted this boy. Mum sending him to buy something. He goes to a river to fish instead. He falls in the river etc...
My vocabulary was desperately limited. I didn't even know how to translate "tomber" (to fall). So my Essay was so weird I kept on laughing the whole time I was writing. It's good, when you can laugh at yourself.
An extract as I remember " Boy, mum say go....... Boy go water......... The boy ploof in the water......"
Exams over. Results not yet out. I'm at home. Doorbell rings. I go check. My English teacher. She wants to see my father. I think: "that's it. I've failed. She'' probably advice papa to put me in some french private school." I was wrong. She came over because she couldn't believe how I'd managed to be fifth in the class of 38 pupils.
Posted by Fitena at 12:53:21 | Permanent Link | Comments (2) |

September 19, 2005

Hey Suley....

 Here goes:

1. How many cds, tapes, records, eight tracks, reel-to-reels, etc. do you own?

Th truth? The honest truth? Well, considering the fact that I go for quality instead of quantity, no offense meant to anyone owning 226 cds, 80 or so cassette tapes, and somewhere in the neighborhood of 1500 vinyl,  I own 4 tapes and less than 20 CD's. People who get to know me just can't believe it. Am soooo musically In and have lately taken a liking to salsa music and dancing . No really, am serious. That's about whatever I own. But I have more that 500 tracks on my PC. I have no CD player anyway, so what's the news of piling them CDs up. The tapes I still have right now are traumatized escapees of my lil brother's torturas! He dissects them tapes when he's not trying to flush them down the WC. When he's finished with them they're so dirty they are parental advisory or whatever.

2. Last musical recording you bought (itunes count, too).

None. And by the way, I don't buy. I borrow and burn. That's when am not downloading. Pssst, psst, hey Suley say what do you mean by Musical recording? No comprende, do you mean, a movie soundtrack of something. Enlighten me. Then maybe the answer won't be “none”.


3. Last album I listened to from beginning to end.

John Legend's Get Lifted album. It's just sooooooo beautiful. Man, I wish someone would sing to me like that and tell me:

Come on and go with me

There's something new for you to see

Come on and go with me

There's something new for you to see

Just relax


Am listening to it right now. The man's voice owwww! I gotta relax.

4. Six songs that mean a lot to me. Not album oriented? This one's for you.

  • Sarah MacLachlan – Angel. I just love this song. I must tell you here that musically, Mauritius is way behind. You try being up to date but still it ain't easy. Imagine Usher's Yeah still in the top 20 songs? Like I said, we're hopelessly far behind. So how did I discover Sarah MacLahchlan. Well, I watched this movie featuring Meg Ryan and Nicholas Cage, the French version is titled “La Cité des Anges” (lit. The City of Angels). Angel was a soundtrack. I waited for the credits to roll and got the names of all the songs listed then looked them up the Internet and now I listen to Angel whenever I feel down. See the lyrics here *My favourite Lyrics* .

  • Christina Aguillera – Beautiful. Because We're beautiful. No matter what they say.

  • Corneille – Comme un Fils (lit. like a son). French speaker or not, you'll love this track. Music knows no barriers, be they linguistic or whatever.

“Donnes moi tout même quand il reste plus rien,

Rends moi soule de toi quand rien n'est bien,

Fais demain quand le présent est chien,

et j'en ferais autant”

Translation:

“Give me even when is all is over,

Intoxicate meof you when nothing's all right,

make yestarday when today is bad

because I'll do the same...”


The translation does no justice to the original but what do do.....


  • Erycka Badu – On and On. Now that's a song just the way I love them. The voice, the lyrics. Just awsome. “The man who knows something knows that he knows nothing at all” and again “If we were made in His image then why don't they call us by our names”. Man, just Magnifique!

  • Can you Stand the Rain: The Boyz II Men. I love all their tracks anyway. T'was hard choosing one.

  • Who Lamhé – An indian song. :-)


5. Songs or Albums I would consider my "guilty pleasure." These are the recordings you love but are afraid to admit it...

hmmm, “guilty pleasure”.... non loso... oh yeah. I love:

  • This track called Milkshake but I have trouble remembering the artists name. She's got this big hairdo and her name starts with a K. The video is so full of imageries. Bad, bad, ad but no quite as bad as

  • Khia's Dirty. I haven't seen the video but I wouldn't wish to see it with my folks in the same room. If its as dirty as the song that is.

  • Usher's - Can you handle it. “...Will you tell me, All the freaky things you are, Before I do, Need you to know, If we make it through, Our love will grow”. No kidding! “I'll go deep as I can, Giving you the rest of my love” uhum....

  • Unleash the Dragon, an old track by I don't remember his name anymore. Nasty.

  • Rock the Boat – Aaliyah. Huh?

 

6. Who are the bloggers you are passing this on to?

You did a fine job. Passing it to the only other people I could think of passing it too. I don't know whether Cmhl has had it so am going to pass it along to her.



BTW, maybe next time you should remember to add a question about our favorite singers. I would have gotten the chance to talk about: The Boyz II Men, Brian McKnight, Alicia Keys, Craig David, The Sugababes, Laura Pausini Kelly Rowland, Norah Jones among others.... :-)

Musically Yours

Posted by Fitena at 10:52:22 | Permanent Link | Comments (4) |

Life Goes on.....

You guys remember my saying that last week's posted (or the week before) were all about death? Suley, remember I told you I had a lot of free time to spare for the meme and that I was going to start it right away. I haven't and now you say : "Didn't I tag BOTH of you (Jenelle and me) for a music meme? Y'all are required by the Holy and Sacrosanct Laws of Bloggery to respond to memes posthaste or risk having your Potato license revoked. :)". My apologies, and I do have a good excuse. Life is unpredictable.
I disconnected. Opened the document I saved the meme on and concentrated. Then the phone rung. It was Martine (pronounced Marteene). My best friend's sister. Flash back. The day before I'd gone over to my BF's place for a long-time-no-see-hi-how-are-you visit. He wasn't back from work so I had a good chat with his mum instead. We talked, laughed at silly jokes, I made faces because she was preparing her dogs' (2 "bergers allemand") food. I said good goodbye and see you later and went to mend over businesses. Back to the next day. Then the phone rung. It was Martine (pronounced Marteene). My best friend's sister. She tells me she's got news to break to me. I thought "She's pregnant". I thought "my BF brother is getting married". I thought "Ced (short for Cedric, my best friend) is getting engaged". I thought about a lot of possible news she was going to fill me in about. Good news. She said to me "my mum died". I thought "This is a joke. A bad joke. She can't possibly be joking about something like this. She's serious. Auntie M died."  What I said was "She can't possibly have died. I just saw her yesterday afternoon. We laughed, we talked, she looked fine to me." She started sobbing then and it got through. Not quite but enough for me to tell her how sorry I was. she hang up and I sat here. In front of my PC. Dazed. clutching at pens and pencils and sheets of paper. My boss who'd stopped by the door stood there staring at me. He asked me whether I was OK. I smiled and told him "Am fine, my best friend and neighbour's mum died." He asked me whether she'd been sick. I said of course not. She's fine. He looked hard at me and say you make take the day off if you wish to. I think it's the "She's fine" instead of "she was fine" that made him give me the day off. That's why I didn't submit my meme Suley. But Life goes on. I shall work on it by the end of the week.
It's been a very hard and shitty week-end. Harder considering the fact that Auntie M was 55 years old. Her husband is more that 80 and was the one making preparations for his eventual depart because he hasn't been keeping well lately.  Harder considering she is the youngest of four daughters. Harder, considering I saw her on the eve fine and fit and well. Hard. Real hard. I sat next to my BF and he was humming under his breath. I couldn't believe it. His mum was there, dead and he was humming. Then he started bitting his nails to blood. I shut my mouth and sat back. I understood. Every one copes with devastation his way. I felt useless and dumb telling them I was sorry and that everything was gonna be all right.  It sounded so hollow and senseless. But life goes on right. So maybe I'll get the meme over by day after tomorrow.
This morning I went out at 5.30 am for a jog. I needed to exorcise. It felt good. I was ready to start a new day. On my way to work my next seat neighbour pulled her newspaper out. Juicy news. Some guy had slaughtered his four year old daughter then stabbed his wife to death. Forty nine times. He then tried committing suicide. He could've stabbed himself. No, he preferred pills. He hasn't died. I felt sick. My blue bright sunny new day was greying. I get motion sickness but this was definitely not the motion. But hey, life goes on. Then, listen Suley, I think am finally going to work this meme today. Later on.
Still on the way to work. I turned away from my newspaper reader and looked out of the window. Mauritius is beautiful. All green. Those sugar cane fields. The Cybercity. Yes, they're turning Mauritius into a Cyber Island. Whatever that means. The Sugar cane fields are still here but till when, time will tell. Traffic Jam. Everybody works in Port Louis. The Capital. That's because most businesses are located here. They're working towards a decentralization.  It'll help reduce the traffic jams in the morning. The grey on my day was slowly dissipating. I just had to keep away from the newspaper and its reader. I was gonna be fine. Just keep looking out of the window. Oh, look there. What's this? Ohmygod! I was staring at the minced remnants of a dog. Crushed. Finished. Goowy.  Jenelle  am so very sorry. I put my head on my knees and waited for the dizziness to pass. I made it to work. I don't know how. But then, Life Goes on. Suley, you're getting the meme right now. Who am I to dare violate the Holy and Sacrosanct Laws of Bloggery huh?
 
 
Posted by Fitena at 09:59:25 | Permanent Link | Comments (2) |

September 15, 2005

The Little black boy.....

Suley's : " I was over at a friend's great-grandmother's house. She's 95 years old (born in 1910!) and she just casually refers to all blacks as "nigras." We laugh at her, but she doesn't get it" reminded me of a poem I read when still in high school.... One of the most beautiful poems I've ver read. Here goes: 

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereav'd of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives his light, and gives his heat away;
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,
Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' "
 
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;
And thus I say to little English boy,
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
 
I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

William Blake (1757-1827)

The Little Black Boy

Ain't it just beautiful, huh?

Posted by Fitena at 08:09:58 | Permanent Link | Comments (4) |
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