WELCOME TO MY BLOG
A place where I pour out thoughts, ideas and some life experiences - I ask lots of questions, attempt to answer some, and have a cheeky giggle at us humans. There is awkardness and honesty - with regular side portions of guilt and shame. Some posts are commissions and some posts are sponsored - but most are just written to get out of my head and onto a blank page. Feel free to connect with me if anything resonates...
“Shadow work is the path of the heart warrior.” — Carl Jung
In 2012, after many raised voices and desperate pleas, my ex-partner and I decided to accept a housing transfer to a bigger property. With one baby and his two teenage children, we had outgrown his two-bedroom, fifth floor flat on the Loughborough Park estate with no lift. Begrudgingly, my ex-partner signed for the keys to a three-bed Victorian flat that would take us out of our beloved South London abode. It was newly renovated, had a lift and much more space. It was also in Sloane Square. In a signature, we had gone from living in the Coldharbour ward of Brixton, one of the countries most deprived areas, to Belgravia, one of the richest in the world. And so, like the black, female David Attenborough, armed only with my toddler, I began my trek into the unknown wilderness of SW3, otherwise known as Kensington and Chelsea.
‘Nothing is quite so exquisitely feminine as long locks. Mermaids, Disney princesses, Renaissance paintings – all of these art forms depict women with flowing tresses. Men like your long hair for the same reasons they like high heels and dresses; because it looks feminine.’
Nope, this isn’t a sardonic section from a feminist article from the New York Times, this is the gospel according to hair-development.com which, in an article entitled The Science Behind Why Men Find Long Hair Attractive, also states that long, shiny, luscious locks signify fertility, youth, elegance and (interestingly) responsibility. Apparently ‘growing long, healthy hair signals a degree of commitment and responsibility, qualities which are both attractive to the opposite sex.’
Well, we Black women are pretty f**ked then.
It’s New Year’s Eve. 2019. I’m 3000 feet in the air in between London and Rome. Between time zones. Between years and decades. It’s got me thinking.
Time.
Passing.
What do we really feel about it?
I turn the page of the free aeroplane magazine decorated with a beautiful, young, woman who looks almost aroused by her age-reversing 2% retinol cream.
Judging by the multi-billion-dollar anti-aging market, we are not so keen.
My mother always said not to get caught up in any trouble, as being black, I would be the one people would blame. Of course, I didn’t believe her. I always knew this was a way to put fear into me which, like many a traditional West African parent (ironically), she could. Many of my friends could swear, shout and berate their parents and be met with nonchalance, calm or a mix of carefully chosen parenting styles. I’d be met with drama. And possibly a slap.
I used to say I was born in Croydon which was actually a lie. I was born in a hospital in Kent, to a blonde-haired-blue-eyed-forty-something-year-old woman and an African American father. Fast forward a few years and my African American father had moved back to South London with a blonde-haired-blue-eyed-twenty-something-year-old woman and my mother and I remained. In the village. Alone.
I never went to India to find myself. This felt like a distinctly white, distinctly privileged and distinctly middle-class thing to do. It wasn’t an option. Or, more accurately, it didn’t appear like an option.
Like many I have always been sceptical of the prophets. No, not just the religious kinds but the ones that go by Psychic Sally, Tarot Tina or Mystic Meg. In my opinion, they were either scheming, deluded con artists praying on people’s weakness and desperation with the human condition - or (and perhaps more unsettlingly) they were gifted with the un-Godly ability to see through to your soul, predict a future full of potential woes and ultimately influence your own intuition and life decisions. Neither sounded great. So, I was surprised when I found myself sitting in front of one in a basement in Covent Garden.
In 2016 my single mother friend and I decided to take our five year olds away to Barcelona for a short break. In the midst of a failing relationship, this felt like a small revolution. Fast forward five years and we have just go back from Copenhagen. In this blog, I unpack how travelling as a single parent is not only possible but (sometimes) even quite fun.
It’s the age old question – can we as women have it all? And if so how do we keep it all without losing our sh*t? To me this has always felt like a conundrum for the white and the privileged. But today is a new day and we black women are smashing ceilings everywhere – especially in the creative sectors – so is it as easy as it looks?