I'm a Gold Digger

Yes you heard me. Big ol’ gold digger and I don’t give a rat’s a…bottom! Oh no, I’m not alone in this illustrious career. It’s well sought after and apparently, quite a lucrative hit. I belong to a gang of black African women married to or in relationships with white men. As some people would have you believe, we ALL are seasoned, hardcore gold diggers. 

The romantics (mostly white) will ask, “ ….So, how did you two (lovebirds) meet?” There’s no doubt it was love. Very close friends (black, white, etc) wont ask -- they were there as the story unfolded and were constantly furnished with up-to-date details.

The WISE people, (the kind that’s not necessarily close to you but you’ve known them for ages and they claim to know absolutely EVERYTHING) finally allow their undesirable brittle disposition to shine through the friendly facade, “…Soooooo, how did you manage to catch yourself a white man…mmm?” (Replace ‘catch’ with any word that makes that sentence sound derogatory, like, bag etc.). I picked him off the road, idiot! A sweet ‘how we met’ story, oozing chemistry and thick with passion won't count. No sir! I’ll still be the little sneaky gold digger who knew where to hit and HIT HARD. I’ll often catch an eye roll that I wasn't supposed to, or an exchanged look that was meant to be discreet or sometimes, I get that annoying conspiratorial  ‘we both know the real story’ smirk. A smirk I’ve wished (many many times) I could wipe off with a punch that would hopefully dislodge a tooth or two…hell, why am I being nice…the whole goddamned set of teeth!  

According to wise people (I’ll go out on a limb here and state; mostly my fellow countrymen - black to the bone)…

Adolescents, their Parents and Sex Talk

The owner of a cute button nose suddenly stopped in his tracks and looked up at the large woman and reflected, ‘Wow! My mummy is so smart. She knows everything! I’ll ask.’

A few minutes prior to this conclusion, the 6-year-old boy had endured a taxing conversion. A conversation so bizarre, he’d been left almost unhinged. It was the longest he’d had to sit through so far. His innocent comment about his pregnant mother’s size had led to wasting a precious 10 minutes sitting still and listening to a nightmarish story of how cows grow baby cows in their bellies and there being nothing mummy cow can do about how big she gets, because see, it’s baby cow getting bigger, not mummy cow. She’d then gone on to tell him about the little girl growing in her own belly and how he’d soon have a sister. Boy, was he struggling to wrap his head around that. How?! His mind was a riot of questions. Oblivious to the tremors she’d just set off and satisfied that her boy had got it, mother and son continued on their way, with the mother thinking to herself, “There’s no way I’ll let

Rebel Teen Fashion

The teenage apparition 50m away and moving towards me exuded darkness.  Fierce, ruthless, wholesome darkness. She couldn’t have been more than 16 years old. She looked angry and confident in her gloom, seemingly levitating with the help of thick-soled ankle boots. Heavy-duty platform. They seemed to weigh down her waifish frame. Her assortment of jewelry, mostly chains, jingled with each step. Chains hang from her jacket, snaked their way out of her tinny short’s pockets, weighed down her arms and gave the jingle to her boots too. Her little black summer jacket had sleeves that had probably, with eternal purpose been chewed on by a mad dog - at precise internals. An impressive collection of rings adorned her left ear lobe and one more looped through her nose. Not a silent apparition at all.  

The left side of her head had been shaved to a glistening finish. The remaining (lucky) shoulder length mass of pink tinged dark mane was slickly swept across and to the other side of her head, ending in downward spikes. Completing a hairstyle I’m sure was meant to shock. The sneer taking residence on her young face was probably a well practiced ‘in front of the mirror’ expression. She had on deep red lipstick, heavy eye shadow and eyeliner so thick it seemed to weigh down her eyelids. Eyelids…eyeee…what?! THE EYES! It was jarring to suddenly encounter a blue doe-eyed look - totally in conflict with the owner’s ominous landscape. I had an instant feeling she wouldn’t hurt a fly.

I was incredulous that her parents would let her in or out of the house.  A friend later enlightened me…they most likely support or are resigned to accept her choice of self-expression.

An African teen, turning up home dressed as aforementioned white teen would set off a chain of events, hilarious only to an observer. African parents become vociferous at the slightest hint of anything they consider an offense.