In deciding to ‘transition’, my sister is making use of all the resources now available to black women when it comes to their hair. She is reading books and blogs, observing me and my habits, trying new products, and of course, she’s on YouTube, watching the cream of the hair guru crop, women who have taken the time to record their trials and errors, their triumphs and their knowledge of natural African hair. I am interested in natural hair on a personal level – for obvious reasons – but also on a cultural one. I am not my hair, but in the sphere of culture, history and society, my hair is bigger than me. Like any part of my anatomy, what I do to it is personal and private, but peculiar to hair, also public. And that’s where YouTube comes in: all these women, smiling and comfortable – and sure, a little narcissistic as is their right as human beings – talking about their hair, touching it, inviting other black women to take a look, to metaphorically sink their hands into the thousands of whorls sprouting up and out. It is a tacit sisterhood, and speaking as a black girl who loves to see herself in the surrounding culture as much as the next person, it is quietly thrilling.

For the first time in my life, I am confident that I could recognise my hair in a line up – I can see a shed hair in the bathroom sink and almost always pinpoint where on my head it fell from. I know my hair in a way I never knew about it before, and I care for it in a way that I never cared for it before. Women trying to conceive sometimes talk about suddenly seeing pregnant women everywhere; I feel the same about seeing women with natural hair. It’s not better to have natural hair, of course. It’s just nice to actually be able to wear it that way, is all. Several months ago I read a tweet that captured how it feels to walk in London these days and I nodded at my laptop with a stereotypical and emphatic, “Girl, yes!” at the time: “Going natural,” wrote Andrea, “has allowed us to be open to smiling, complimenting and approaching one another. It’s the best thing about having natural hair.”

For the first six to nine months of being natural, I used four products exclusively: shea butter, coconut oil, gel and water. It was enough for me, as it is for most naturals. But who wants merely ‘enough’? ‘Enough’ means blue boilersuits and a nutritionally sound but colourless thin gruel; life is filet mignon, fashion and books. When I talk to my sister and other ‘reverts’ (there are so many of us now!) about hair, we inevitably turn to ‘product junkyism’, an affliction common in but not limited to new naturals, who want to try all the things because somebody on the internet (probably paid, but not always) said it was the magical elixir of growth, curl definition, moisture, or a combination of all these things and more. Growing up, the products that I used on my hair looked a certain way, and they did not look like the products my non-black friends used. For one thing, we had photos on our tubs and jars. I remember a container of Dax hair grease with an image of a smiling black woman with a tight, spherical half-afro on one side of her head, and a sleek, pressed curtain of hair on the other. “Dax,” the jar was pretty much saying. “For however the hell you’re wearing that hair!” Back then, we had a rotation of hair greases: Dax, of course, but also Morgan’s Pomade, Blue Magic, and of course, Sulfur-8. Let’s talk about those products.

Nowadays, having graduated with honours from The University of Internet Knowledge and Speculation with a degree in ‘What Black Hair Needs!’ I know what these things contained: dimethicones, parabens, alcohol, sulfates, mineral oil. Now, these things are not categorically bad for your hair, but they’re not necessarily good either. We put this stuff onto our hair and scalps with gay abandon for all those years, absolutely sure that we were caring for our hair as nature intended (let’s not even talk about the tools or techniques we were using in conjunction). We know so much more about what goes into these products these days, and more of us are making slightly more informed decisions about them. In a chicken and egg scenario, all this natural hair reclamation has had a massive impact on this trend of seeking knowledge about what we consume: did we start caring about what we put in our hair before we went pescetarian? Or vice versa? Either way, it opened up  an interesting avenue of consumption – black women started mixing their own stuff. In the course of learning what our hair wanted and needed, we began to discover – in big enough numbers to matter – what we could do ourselves. “I could buy that whipped shea butter concoction, or I could try making it in my kitchen and see how I’m fixed.”

The economics of this move is very interesting, and one that I want to consider in another piece. But let’s talk about the products that made it out of the kitchen-factories: fluffy shea butter mixes, fragrant oil blends, rich deep conditioners, gels, lotions, mud shampoos, strengthening protein rinses. YouTubers would say things like, “I’m actually mixing some stuff and trying it out at the moment, and when I have my results in a couple of weeks, I’ll be sharing it on here.” Some began selling their stuff on sites like Etsy and BigCartel – we all signed up for PayPal accounts and started asking about shipping costs. The products arrived in beautifully-wrapped boxes, sometimes with a little note of thanks for buying from a little kitchen somewhere in Michigan or Birmingham or Reading. We opened the jars and inhaled deeply – and they smelled heavenly. That is what this piece is about. The smell of the new generation of products for black hair. They never smelled like this when I was coming up.

“Go on, open it. Smells great.”

The products I mentioned up above did not often go out of their way to smell nice. You opened up a tub of Blue Magic, you knew that there were chemicals in there. The smells did not evoke memories of cotton candy, crisp linens, fresh fruit and summer. No, even the ‘sweet’ smelling products had the peculiar and persistent sense of ‘masking’ the odour of the chemicals therein, the type of synthetic quality you find in “cheese-flavoured slices”. And that’s when they smelled ‘nice’. Other times, they just had that medicinal, antiseptic smell. They might as well have been called Effective Goodness™ or Unvarnished Reality™”, not Indulgent Treat-Time!™ which is what you got when you opened up bottles of Timotei and Herbal Essences in Sainsbury’s and sniffed hungrily. The worst offender was Sulfur-8, which as a dry-scalped girl, was a childhood constant. It didn’t even smell like medicine, but as my sister has it, “like boiled farts, in a sealed jar, for a hundred years”. My memories are haunted by the spectre of the Sulfur-8 monster, a made up bogeyman consisting entirely of stink. You could not touch him, or catch him – he just lingered, marking you out for scorn and ridicule wherever you went. In the supermarket of hair products, the aisles were marked: “for you” and “NOT FOR YOU”. Guess which one black girls walked down.

I think about those metaphorical aisles now and can only ask, “why?” Why did our hair products smell so bad? Hair, despite all outward appearances, is just still hair – it is essentially the same across the spectrum. Whatever parfums were being put into the other bottles could just as easily made their way in the formulations in ours. And the conclusion I have come to makes me sad and angry: it just didn’t occur to anyone to make our stuff smell nice. No one will admit to such a thing, obviously, but if challenged, they may couch it in gentle words like, “The technology wasn’t up to scratch.” My healthy opinion is that this is just waffly bollocks. Benign or malignant in intent, little brown girls just didn’t factor into the equation. It took black women sitting at home, mixing stuff up and intentionally making them smell nice, clean, attractive, to rectify this. When you see those vloggers raving about the scent of a new product, do you understand the years of nasal scarring they have endured? Do you finally understand their enthusiasm, their joy at having a product which will not cause a lover to recoil in a state of mixed arousal and terror? I don’t mean to come across all butthurt and bitter, but shit, I am. I wanted boys to reel off lists of why they loved me, like I’d seen in the romcoms I still love so much, and list my fragrant hair too:

Girl, running hands through wheat-coloured hair: “When did you first realise that you loved me?”
Guy, holding Girl’s face in his warm, big, work-roughened hands: “When you got on that bus for that job in another city that I could totally commute to if I really wanted this relationship to work and I thought I’d never see you again.”
Girl, shaking head prettily, so shampoo scent wafts over in gentle waves: “Oh, Guy! I love you.”
They kiss for an uncomfortably long time, with tongues.
Guy, sniffing the air unconsciously: “Girl, I still can’t believe we’re together - I love you so much! Let me give you an unsolicited lists of all the things I love. I love the way you wrinkle your nose in the first few pollen-heavy days of spring. I love how you grate your cheese in an anti-clockwise manner. I love that you wear socks in summer because maybe you have a circulatory issue? I don’t know. I love how your hair smells first thing in the morning…”
Bim, swearing under her breath: *gets up and walks out of cinema, scalp emitting Sulfur-8 cloud*

These things matter.

Those kitchen mixtresses (Nia, Umoja and Ujamaa, sisters!) helped to change the game. May your wooden spoons never splinter, may your arms never get weary while whipping that shea butter. May your success continue to be as sweet as the rich, moisturising lotions you prepare so lovingly. I – and my sweet-smelling hair – thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Happy Friday. How’ve you been? Has it been a productive week, full of kicking ass and taking names? Hope so. But still, thank goodness it’s over, eh? I like work, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t ‘like like’ it, not the way I do the contours of John Cho’s face, or the specific hardness of Taye Digg’s abs, ya dig? Sho nuff. Enough preamble. You know why you’re here. Whether you had a nice easy week of work serendipity, or a tough, bruising week of everything going wrong, this is for you. Unclench, friends – it’s The Friday Pretty!

Let’s begin with this anonymous hottie, found via the indefatigable Tumblr, which always hunts out and presents hotties for TFP. What is your name, Unknown Handsome Person? We like the cut of your jib. From the effortless denim-on-denim to the trendy but-not-too-trendy frames of your spectacles, from your sideswept hair to your no frills tin coffee cup, from the insouciant expression on your beardy face to your awful leather bracelets – we like it all. Hey, boo. Hey.

Next up, a chap who began his life on this feature as an Unknown Handsome Person several weeks back. Dedicated internet sleuthing (actually, just dumb luck via the Curlbox Instagram account) provided a name, so he is no longer unnamed! He is successful American model Taj Reed, and TFP is still kinda marveling at the curious symmetry of his face, as well as losing itself in the dark pools of his eyes. On Instagram, Taj has showcased a previously banging wash and go hair do, gym sessions, and pics of his girlfriend, and TFP is cool with all that – natural hair, fitness and mutual monogamy are all hot. Almost as hot as Mr Reed, even.

Our third entry (fnar) this week is an old hand at TFP. It’s Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who you may remember went from being your cute sensitive boyfriend to your cute sensitive boyfriend with very nice arms, seemingly overnight. During a discussion on Twitter about the casting of a possible Y: The Last Man project, his name came up and suddenly a choir of angels took up song… What a great idea! Imagine him alongside Danai Gurira as Agent 355 and Gong Li as Dr Allison Mann. Better yet, don’t imagine at all. Look at this delicious cutie pie:

This next chap is a new addition to TFP‘s very important Perv Agenda™ and requires some preamble. If you know TFP even a little bit, you’ll know it is a great big unashamed fan of Gilmore Girls. What’s not to love?! Well, there was Logan Huntzberger, the douchiest of rich lacrosse-playing pop culture dudebros, who TFP always felt was way below Rory’s intelligence, elegance, poise and style. But listen – daddy issues will affect even the best of dames, so, anyway. The actor who played Logan so douchily was one Matt Czuchry, and TFP faithfully carried the animosity over to his next big show, The Good Wife. In Cary Agos – years of excellent character work, superb writing and a subtle chemistry with Imani (Nicole Beharie), Kalinda (Archie Panjabi) and every actress of colour in a 50-mile radius - TFP is forced to admit an attraction. DAMMIT. It’s his gravel-growly voice, TFP reckons. Also, the way he can really wear a suit and tie and black leather gloves, or a black cashmere hoody. It’s all good. PS: You should totes be watching The Good Wife.

We wrap things up with a shot in the arm, required in this less-than-stellar springtime. Some Young Harrison Ford. UNF. ‘Nuff said.

See you next time, you lovely pervs! Rave safe this weekend.

Ahem. I’m just feeling emotional about this coming to an end, I guess. Day 7 below the jump; lord alone knows when next I’ll blog. Goodbye, Cameroon – it’s been real.

Day 7

Here we are, my last day here. We’re back the Bamenda hotel, and I want to kiss everything in the room. Last night, I discovered a stowaway roach in my bag and was forced to kill it. Poor roach; travelled all this way only to die in another hotel room. I set my alarm for a lie-in, but still woke up pretty early, probably influenced by all the early starts this week. So I took my time, taking time to exfoliate and moisturise in slow motion like those women in telly ads do – you know, one leg on the edge of the bed, palms cupping the calves like a lover would, stopping to smile and point the lotion at the non-existent camera… Everything I learned, I learned from the telly. I have a cereal bar and half a litre of water and zip up my little suitcase. Adios, lovely hotel!

Before the drive back to Bamenda, I ask if I can quickly pop into the arts and crafts store we spotted on the drive in earlier in the week. The driver, H, takes us all (the others will walk back, as they want to get to know the town even a little before they leave next week). We arrive at the Presbytarian Craft outlet and wander around. There are beautiful things everywhere – wooden puzzles the mums of Crouch End and Primrose would jizz about, and baskets and dinner sets and mats and boxes and dolls. I’d wanted a doll like the one I saw on the desk of the female deputy mayor in Kumbo, but in the end went for a beautiful jug and teacup set for my sister. For, like, a fiver. I know I could not get them for a fiver at home.

We begin the journey back to Yaounde, and like a baby, the combination of a breeze and the smooth motion of the car proves too potent and I drift in and out of light dozes, which I’m sure delights H. Sorry, man. We chat, we listen to music, we test my crap French, I explain the difference between UK and England, and also our lack of a president. This is a real cultural exchange. In a moment of kindness, he puts in my favourite CD of the week only to realise there’s already a disc in the machine. He panics, the way certain men do when anything happens to their car. We pull over to try and remove the extra CD from a machine now making sounds like a cat producing a hairball. My library card makes an appearance, as do two bobby pins, to no avail. Finally, after fifteen minutes of trying, I liberate my nail clipper from my suitcase in the back and we use the hooked nail file extension to get the CD out. H almost cries with happiness. I can’t stop grinning. This is a triumph of the human spirit! We drive on.

At Makénéné, I decline the offer of lunch, as all I want is Irish and nobody really sells that at this time of day. I can handle it, I think. A quick sidenote on food service on this trip: I have never seen such slow service in my life. People wait 45 minutes to an hour for a plate of chips, and for anything more complex, we’re talking the time for a football match and above. It’s remarkable, and universal to all but one of the places we visit for food. I compare it to the other West African country I’ve been to, and in my Nigerian way, admit that we beat Cameroon hands down on this issue. Look into that, President Biya.

At one of the tollgates, H buys some plantain crisps for us, but they turn out to be greasy and bland. Three hours to Yaounde, I realise I need to pee, but decide to ‘mind over matter’ it. My memories of paper cuts and elephant grass means I will not go in the tall grass along the highway, I don’t care how urgent my need. I go to my zen place and just pretend like I do not on a urethra. I can be an OG when I need to be. A massive dark cloud has been following us for about 60km, and with it, petrichor. And then just before we get into Yaounde, the heavens open. I hate travelling by road in the rain. Hate it. It scares me, which makes me edgy and irritable. I have to fight not to snap at H, who has just taken a call. It turns out his fiancee is in hospital, and I thank God I wasn’t a cow about the phone call. In Yaounde, we stop to see if I get some chicken at a rotisserie – they say 45 minutes (see above). I look at my watch, and just say to H, let’s just go to the airport, yeah? I mean, who knows what drama awaits us there? Ah, prescience!

Below is an angry rant I wrote on my phone’s memo pad at Yaounde airport:

I hate everything. You spend a marvellous week meeting really interesting people and then the whole ruddy experience is soiled by shitty airport bollocks on the way out. I was already in a shitty mood because we’d been caught in the rain en route to Yaounde, and I hadn’t eaten in hours, then add traffic, and a relentlessly cheerful driver and I was ready to punch a kitten. I get to the airport, hungrier #dinnamug, bursting for the loo. They’re down three flights of stairs, and filthy. In the course of maneuvering myself into position while touching as few surfaces as possible, I almost wet myself. Then I lug my luggage back up the stairs, and go to check in. No one speaks to you to tell you what they’re doing, so a chap takes my passport and ticket and deposits it at another desk, with another dude. I join the queue and keep an eagle eye on my passport. Then I get to the desk, and the guy is all, “You. You are from London? What’s your name?” I give him my first and last names. He raises a brow and says my middle name with a question mark at the end. “Yes,” I say. “That is my middle name.” Then he stares at me for a few seconds, and then at the passport photo. “Would you like me to take my glasses off?” I ask. No, no need. He waves me through with a smile. I grimace back. I put my suitcase on the belt, the woman at the counter takes my passport. She swipes, she types, a boarding pass is produced. She hands it all over, as well as a little white card to be filled in and given “to the police on the other side.” Sure. Then she says, “Okay, now just pay the airport tax and you can go.” *record scratch* Wait, WHAT? ” I tell her I have no money. She says, ” I don’t know what you can do. But you must pay this.” There was literally *no* mention of this airport tax in any of the travel documents. Do they take debit cards? No, just cash. Wait! There’s a cashpoint just outside; she points vaguely. “You MUST pay!” she says again. Yeah, okay. I feel like Count Rugen in The Princess Bride; she is my Inigo Montoya. I leave the check in area to find the machine and am accosted by the young guard at the entrance. I speak no French, he speaks no English. We repeat whatever we are saying in our respective languages over and over again. Finally, he says, “come,” and beckons. He walks me over the tension barrier and takes me to the ATM, housed in a tiny glasshouse with frosted windows. I could kiss this stranger, even as I am still mad about this surprise tax. I withdraw the 10,000 CFA and stalk back to the check-in area. I pay the tax grumpily. And then I realise that I have somehow made the decision to let this series of events ruin an otherwise near-perfect week in Cameroon. Ugh. This is deeply silly.

I am still evolving into an adult, I guess.

There are more annoyances at the border control queue, as well as even more foolishness at the security check – after we go through the body scanner, and our hand luggage x-rayed, we then have to queue to have our bags searched my hand and have an electronic wand waved over our bodies. There is literally one guy doing this, for the entire passenger list. I feel like fighting the air. The Belgian woman behind me keeps muttering in angry French, the airport personnel keep bland expressions throughout, like, this sucks, but what are you gonna do, huh? We board the flight and eventually take off 45 minutes later than scheduled. Amen, ashe. Au revior, Cameroon.

Postscript: This is the last of the Cameroon Diary. My week in Cameroon was great. I spoke to people – women, mostly – who are committed to changing their lives for the better, who want to make their part of the world more female-friendly. I spoke to people on the ground, who are dedicated to fighting harmful behaviour from within, and who will not be fatigued by the obstacles that are repeatedly thrown up. I hope I get the chance to come back to Cameroon, and West Africa in general. I can’t believe how lucky I was to get there in the first place.

Day 6 after the jump.

Day 6

Another day, another co– GOTCHA! The water in the shower is lukewarm today and I am so grateful that I am momentarily tempted to tear off my shower cap and let my twists take part in the proceedings. I restrain myself, but dawdle an extra three minutes before my brain confirms that it’s not actually that warm. Today is our last day in Kumbo, so we check out. Breakfast is in the market, an ‘omelette’ with bread (everyone here just calls them ‘eggs’, which is what we call them in my Nigerian house, even in London). Then we head off to the council because we are interviewing a female deputy mayor – one of a handful – who is going to talk to us about her work. We drive over to the building and wait – it’s pre-9am, but she’s already been at another meeting this morning. She arrives with a smile and by the time she’s shaken all our hands, you can tell she’s a proper politician: she makes you feel like you’re the most important person in the room, and her attention is yours alone. She’s a great talker, too, which is unsurprising, when you consider she started her political career in her early 20s, and is still here twenty-something years later. I feel the urge to bump fists, but I don’t think she’d appreciate it.

From her office, we go over to the mayor’s. Everywhere we’ve been this past week we’ve heard everyone – especially women – sing the praises of the Kumbo council and mayor. He’s fantastic, we were told. He delegates and isn’t afraid to share power, they said. And now we get to meet him before he leaves his office for another meeting. He has a serious face, but a voice that is friendly and thoughtful. He is a dream to interview: more women in politics, get women involved at grassroots, introduce quotas if that will help an initial groundswell of female politicians, education, education, education. It’s very clear why everyone spoke so highly of him – he seems a decent fellow, and one who walks the talk he talks so effectively.

We travel on to a small enclave of Kumbo called Bamkikaay, which has a majority population of Muslims. Muslims are a minority in Cameroon, and a lot of the people here aren’t afforded the luxury of equality. Education in the system is lower (but improving) here, and the bulk of those who are hurt by these ways are – SURPRISE! – girl children and women. We arrive at a recently constructed multi-purpose hall and meet a woman named A who is looking to stand in the next council elections. She has gathered a few of the three biggest women’s groups and a classroom of tiny people (the hall acts as their school too) and we are sung a welcome tune – one by the women, one by the children, who are literally the cutest - and then the women talk to us about registering to vote for the first time, of encouraging other women to register, and having a voice that they are prepared to use, from their homes and into political life. It’s marvellous to hear.

Afterwards, we visit the school for girls that A is building off her own back: it’s all donations and goodwill and her own determination. She shows us around the low-ceilinged building site: here will be the computer lab, she says, and here the room with sewing machines. It will be a vocational training school, opening this September. A feels strongly about it because she was married young and her schooling stopped, and all she ever wanted to be was a medical doctor. “Many women are dying silently,” she says. “I was one of them.” A is a straight up badass.

We leave the site and go to the workplace of another woman, M, who is all about empowerment in her community. She makes soap and skin lotion and tries to teach other women about financial independence through work. She is also a big advocate for women in politics, and is keen to mentor young women in politics. She hasn’t decided on whether or not to stand herself, but she is optimistic that even more women will do so this time around. She is friends with bar-owner JF (who joined us at the school building site) and A, and together they chat for hours until someone mentions “Item 11″, which is Cameroonian code for “time for lunch!” I love it. We eat kiban and nyosagie with our fingers and it is exquisite. Time to leave Kumbo and head back to Bamenda. We get back in the car and wave until they disappear in the rearview mirror. With that goodbye, I mark the beginning of the end of my time in Cameroon.

The drive back to Bamenda is largely uneventful and we can see road-building taking place for huge chunks of our journey. It’s cheering to see, and we’re told that it’s probably Chinese money doing this, as it has been in other parts of the northwest. The roads they’ve built elsewhere have been sturdy and hard-wearing, so this bodes well for these new roads as well. Yay. It’s my last night in Cameroon, so we’re all having dinner with the NGO workers somewhere in town. There’s a guy in town who makes the best grilled fish ever; his stand is outside the off-licence where we can get drinks and have a seat and watch Bamenda wind down for the weekend; do we want to go there? You only need to ask me once.

The fish is oh-my-god spectacular. It is mackerel, grilled just right, and served with thin julienne carrots and onions as well as a mystery ‘green sauce’ and chilli. Someone grabs a bag of ‘Irish’ from a nearby stall, and we dig in. Mr Griller-man is a chap named Peter and he is lovely – genuinely pleased that we love his deliciously cooked fish. We finish up drinks and the NGO workers ask if we want to come for a drink at their local. We are travel-dirty, so can we go to the hotel and change and freshen up first? At the bar, I meet the most sour-faced barmaid ever and watch as she scowls through every single interaction. The music is loud and good, although it’s turned down a bit by the time D’banj comes on. Haba, why now? That’s my countryman! The NGO workers ask us what we’ve seen and done this past week, tell us tales of working in Cameroon, what they miss about home. It’s a proper ace night.

To bed then, for tomorrow is my last day in Cameroon. I don’t think I’m ready to leave just yet.

*Days 1 and 2 entires here; Days 3 and 4 here; Day 5 here.

Days 1 and 2 entries are here, and Day 3 and 4 right here. Today’s entry is after the jump.

Day 5
Might be a different hotel, but it’s the same damn cold shower, and I don’t even flinch as I step under the spray today. I discover that I did not pack any soap or face moisturiser – Foolish Bim – so I rub extra-vigorously and apply anti-perspirant generously. Mmm. Breakfast is in a little cafe in the town centre. The decor is brilliant: posters of African-American rappers and singers – and Barack Obama – on two walls, and on the other, football stars, the biggest of which features Messi, Drogba, Ronaldo and Eto’o (we were told on our first night in Yaounde that he owns a nightclub in the city). The cafe-owner is away, leaving her sons – lovely, I’m sure – to run the place. They seem overwhelmed even though they had been told to expect a party of eight today. In the end, one of our party, F, gets up and offers to help them. She brings over the bread and slices it for the table, and then takes the executive decision that to speed things up, only the drivers will get their eggs – the rest of us will make do with just bread. They boys are relieved, and we can be sure we’ll leave sometime before noon. One of the boys has his school uniform on and after clearing a nearby table, runs out so he’s not late for class.

We start the journey into Ndu, an even more rural area further up the map. We’re told the roads are even worse than yesterday’s. My upper lip barely wobbles on the outside, but I am mewling like a kitten on the inside. Why must I cry, Cameroon? I gird my loins and stiffen my spine but it’s no use, because the road is just hellish. The red dust flies as we bump along. At one point, we think we spy a stretch of tarred road up ahead and once we discern it’s not a hallucination brought on by our clenched jaws, we burst into a spontaneous cheer. The road lasts for all of two minutes, and then it’s back to the more usual rocky road. I curse bitterly. The bruise I sustained on my hip when I came out of the shower in flipflops and slid on the polished tile throbs. This is worse than every bad thing, ever.

Luckily, what the road to Ndu lacks in infrastructure, it more than makes up for in views. Oh, God. Every day reveals a more beautiful landscape than the previous day. The northwest of Cameroon is breathtaking; the mountains are majestic, the valleys lush-looking with maize and potatoes and unnamed fruit trees. This land is all tilled by entirely by hand, and usually by women. The farmers of the Northwest region are overwhelmingly women, and they are hardy people. They have their farms and then their kitchen gardens, from which they take to market and feed their families. I cannot think of a way of saying this without being a condescending so-and-so or like I’m re-making human beings’ lives as inspiration porn, but I mean it when I say: these women are essentially superheroes, making gold out of shit.

There seems to be lots of logging in this area, everywhere we look there are bundles of firewood, planks and other assorted timber products. Non-indigenous eucalyptus trees (fast-growing, hardy and durable) are grown here and bring attendant problems – they suck up all the water and leave precious little for the other crops in the area, and also poison the soil beneath their roots as a survival tactic. We hear the people of Ndu talk almost incessantly of needing better water and irrigation systems, and this is a big part of why. Further along, we drive past a massive tea estate, and the smell is heady. The green is overwhelming.

A quick note on goats: there are shitloads here. Every twenty or thirty metres, there’s one tethered to a post driven into the ground. There are black ones, spotted ones, white ones, cute ones, ugly ones, tiny kids, big dadas. They are one of my favourite animals and I am delighted. I love everything about them – their ornery natures, the way they eat everything, they way they kick, their little faces, their mischievous sounding bleats, the fact that they provide milk, cheese and an interesting flavour of meat, even their neat little poos – so their presence is wholly and entirely welcome on an otherwise torturous journey.

We go to the village of an aspirant councillor; she has invited us. Her women’s group is there to welcome us with song. They harmonise effortlessly and then hug us close to say hello. It is like meeting an entire village of my mum and my much-missed grandma and I can’t stop smiling. Our aspirant councillor shows us around, tells us of the women’s problems re: water and bad roads and the lack of a hospital to carry the load of illness in the community. We do some interviews, we take some photographs. A band of young men make some music with drums, a bottle, some small shekeres (I don’t know what the Cameroonians call them) and best of all, a box instrument that makes a gorgeous sound when plucked, a lung. I ask its name and the player tells me “na country guitar, nah”, and looks at me like I’m simple. Fair enough, guy. It’s really quite obvious when I think about it. I ask to take a photo, he nods magnanimously, I snap.

I go to observe the training session being delivered to a group of women interested in local political careers. The trainer is amazing. Unflagging energy, and enthusiasm for her subject. They cover what the women will need to be nominated, the electoral code, how to campaign and so on. A chunk of the day is given over to public speaking, which the women had identified as a problem area for them. For many, engaging in local politics is a brand new experience, despite being active in their credit unions and co-operatives. I talk to a 30 year old woman who wants to stand in the next election, because she’s sick of her kids having to drink water she calls ‘not good’. Then I chat to the council’s lone female councillor, who got the post with none of the training she has observed today. I was told she was worried about her English, but her interview is pretty much word-perfect. Of course it is. We eat lunch and with ominous thunder roiling in the background, start the journey back to Kumbo for a second night. As soon as we arrive at the hotel, the electricity goes out. It’s cool. I didn’t need light anyway, Kumbo.

I borrow a face cleanser from a companion, it’s Eve Lom and wash my face my torchlight. I am the fanciest person in the world. The generator does a stint so I charge all the things. When the light comes back properly, I play some Frank Ocean from off my laptop. I sing along to the swearwords on Novocane with relish. Missed you, Frank.

My nail varnish finally chipped today. Best £1 nail polish ever.

Day 6 entry is here.

More after the jump, if that’s right up your rue.

Day 3
Another cold shower. I cannot get used to this, dammit.

We go to the offices of a local charity who have partnered with an NGO to address the issue of widowhood rites. We are offered some gently spiced ginger tea, which reminds me of my grandmother, who used to buy koko – pap with ginger, near as I can remember it – from the Hausa families who worked around her shop. I discover later that F, who makes us the tea, is Fulani. I try my incredibly rusty Hausa. She laughs and nods, which confirms how bad it is.

Today we go into the fondom of Chomba, which falls under Bamenda, and meet the fon, who is large and welcoming. We talk about the widows of Chomba and the advocacy groups that now exist to help them. We talk about what it means that he has signed the agreement to free women of the rites which are often humiliating and dehumanising, not to mention expensive and exploitative. After our interview, we take a tour of the palace and he tells us about the four components: the multiple reception areas, the female part, the male part and his own private residence. He shows us shrines to his ancestors, the stones which represent all previous nine fons. He asks where I’m from. I hate this question, but never seem to mind when I am asked by Africans. The fon tells me I look like his daughter, who now lives with her husband in the UK. Later he shows me a photo – I can see no obvious similarities, but I allow for a father’s loveblindness. Maybe my accent and the colour of my skin are enough to trigger a ‘missing you’ reaction. I smile and say “yes! There’s definitely a resemblance.”

Time to talk to the widows, some of whom have become community advocates themselves and are trying to get rid of the rites. They have sobering tales. Then we have lunch, sign the fon’s visitors’ book and drive on out of Chomba. My dictaphone battery shows the first signs of weakness. Hang in there, soldier. We’ve a ways to go yet.

Later that afternoon, after trying and failing to take a nap and get on the internet, we attend a discussion between female politicians in the Bamenda region. They are from the two parties, and they have a lot to say. How to get women in leadership positions? How not to play dirty in politics but still run with the big boys? How to improve the numbers at grassroots level? Their tales of the everyday sexism they face are nothing new – we have equivalent stories in the UK, I tell them. They talk about men trying to bully them out of proceedings, and then turn around and blame the timidity of women when there are none present at later stages. The men who expect a woman to get up from her chair if there’s a shortage of seats, and the ones who accuse them of coming into politics so they can  get’ a powerful man. It goes on. After a few hours of chat, we have dinner: ndole, yam, chicken, tomato stew, plantains. It’s great, as I’ve come to expect.

Back at the hotel, I re-pack my luggage into smaller bags for the next couple of days away from Bamenda, while watching a bit of Interview With A Vampire and marveling at how old Kirsten Dunst was when she cuddled Brad Pitt in a coffin. Then I watch most of The Recruit and luxuriate in the familiarity of Al Pacino chewing scenery without reserve. Before drifting off, I have a look at the itinerary: Baba I in the morning, then further north to Kumbo, which is a lovely word to say. Try it. Koom-beau.

Day 4
I have been let down again – despite the promise of the lovely receptionist the night before, the hot water is nowhere to be found this morning. I still hate cold showers. On the telly, Roger Moore engages in mild old-fashioned punning and remarkably modern interracial sex in Live And Let Die. I was only trying to catch some BBC news channel, man.

We drive to Baba I today. The road to this fondom is worse than yesterday’s. I only offer two words of advice and urge you to hold them close to your heart: supportive bra. Seriously. We meet the fon, younger than yesterday’s but more formal, definitely. I have my first taste of guava juice in a can,and am pleased to note it is the ‘closest to the actual fruit’ pop I’ve ever tasted. Bravo, Cameroon.

I break out my pidgin, rusty from lack of use, to speak to the widows and community advocates who have come to share their stories. One woman breaks down and cries as she tells me of the terrible way she has been treated by her deceased husband’s family. I can only pat and squeeze her hand and tell her how sorry I am. One woman has remarried and is pregnant. She is wearing a stunning gold hijab and smiling. I meet a lovely 6-month old, the biggest 6-month old I have ever seen. He has a toothless gummy smile that he shares often, and with little encouragement. I ask his mum if I can hold him and she hands him over with no preamble. He is as dense as dark matter. He likes my braids and also my yellow ring, which he tries to put in his mouth, natch. We babble good-naturedly at one another until he starts to root around my chest. Mate, there’s nothing for you there. Soon we eat lunch and are offered fancy French wine by the fon’s people, but we decline, much to the disappointment of our driver who assures us he can hold his drink. We make gently dismayed faces and ask him to promise not to drink and drive any more. Afterwards we head on into Kumbo, which is a lot more rural, with not-very-good roads, apparently. Oh. BRB, hugging my chest.

The drive is… challenging. The potholes are huge, and the roads are untarred and incredibly rough. I feel like a rag doll and even the tight seatbelt is doing little to keep me and the other car-dwellers in place. My neck hurts from narrowly avoided whiplash, my back hurts from clenching so hard, and I have a headache after a few hours of it. I am a wuss, which is reassuring in its own way, as I hadn’t checked in a few years and was beginning to wonder. Our driver has a selection of music he plays to make the drive more pleasant. It’s a mix of African pop – and I know how that sounds,and I hate ‘Africa is a country-isms’ as much as the next woman, but the one thing I have learned (not just on this trip) is that Africans tend to listen to music from across the continent with no qualms. Like, Sweet Mother is played at pretty much every African party I go to. As for azonto, well, you know. Anyway, one CD is a soulful house mix that is just the chillest and that’s how I come to be listening to a remix of Adele’s Someone Like You on a rocky road in northwest Cameroon.

Our hotel is cheap and cheerful, and set in possibly the most beautiful landscape I have seen since I’ve had eyes: mountains, and trees and big, blue sky. I could cry – and not just from the car-ache. I ask if there is internet access and am told with a winning smile, “No!” My room is a mishmash of things – clashing wallpaper prints, floral bedclothes with a swirly bedspread, a metal chair, a wooden one, and a chintzy armchair. There are red carpet off-cuts around the bed and chairs, and a lime green wardrobe. The en suite bathroom is dormitory-style: long and all tiles, with low walls separating the shower stall, the sink and the loo. We freshen up, and it’s back out to a local bar (owned by a woman who is thinking of standing in the next election) to talk women and politics in the northwest.

It’s a public holiday (Workers’/Labour Day/May Day) and the bar is full of people who are only to happy to talk. The bar-owner, JF, takes everyone’s order: I ask for a grenadine-flavoured ‘Top’, which stains my lips and tongue and is so sweet it makes my teeth itch. JF tells me about her political dreams and why she’s confident she can deliver as a councillor. She rattles off her – impressive – achievements and then points out a woman that she encouraged to go back to school so she could also one day stand as a local councillor. I have no cynicism left in me. I genuinely mean it when I wish her all the best in her campaign. Later, when talk has died down a bit, JF offers us pepper soup. Ambassador, you are really spoiling us. The soup comes, less spicy than my mum’s alas, with boiled plantain and beef (the others get intestine, which I am glad to have avoided). It is delicious. More interviews, more chat, a call of nature answered in nature, and then with a surreptitious antibacterial hand wipe, we hug and leave.

Back at the hotel, I brush my teeth and watch a family of witches get delivered at a mega-church on a grainy evangelical TV station and fall asleep fairly easily, even though I spy a spider’s nest right next to the bed. Mountain air is good for you, especially when you’ve had a long day.

*Days 1 & 2 entries are here; Day 5 is here, and Day 6 is here

Anyway. Internet is spotty at best, so why not give you a quick, unsolicited semi-diary of our time here so far? I know. You’re welcome.

Ramblings below the jump.

Day 1
The cab came at four. I hadn’t slept at all by the time the cab arrived, figuring I’d sleep on the plane. I checked in at Terminal 1, bought a padlock, met S & J my travelling companions, and set off. First to Brussels, for our transfer. Then we waited an hour (and another security check) before we boarded for Yaounde via Douala. My plane companion looks like Varys from Game of Thrones, bald and large, and over the course of our six-and-a-half hour flight, drinks about six glasses of wine and a couple of G&Ts. He doesn’t even stagger when he gets up to go to the loo. Amazing. We are fed so often, it feels like a playdate where the other mum is over-compensating: pretzels, tea, coffee, water, soft drinks, a main meal, more snacks, more tea and coffee, dessert, more drinks. If they’d burped us and tucked us in, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Or minded, to be honest. I watched an episode of White Collar, some Friends, Valentine’s Day (OH MY GOD), bits of (500) Days of Summer (I don’t care, I like this damn movie), The Family Stone (ditto), Wreck-It Ralph (eh) Silver Linings Playbook in its entirety (I loved the dance at the end, but really? Oscar? Okay, I guess).

At Yaounde, they check for our yellow fever vaccinations at ‘Sanitary Control’ which sounds uncomfortably like the Period Police. After baggage claim, we are in turn claimed by a small party from the NGO who is hosting us. They’re smiling, even though they’ve given up their Sunday evening to pick up a bunch of foreign strangers.The crickets are loud and perfectly rhythmic, like the ones of my secondary school years, and it feels briefly like I’ve gone deaf and can only hear my heartbeat. It starts to rain, a heavy , no bullshit Rainy Season™ downpour, about ten minutes after we pull out of the airport car park. The rain ebbs and flows, but the roads fill up and soon many cars are tyres-deep. The drainage has improved a lot since the president’s car got stuck some months back, one of our party tells us. Fair enough. When the powerful people care, shit gets done.

We arrive at the hotel and check in. Cockroaches (little and non-flying, ergo manageable) scatter when I turn on the lights in my room. They are on the bed, on the table and the chair, on the floor. In the bathroom, they are in the sink, in the bath. I am so tired I can’t bring myself to care. I have spent more than 12 hours travelling and I am shattered. I zip everything up and hope not to find any stowaways the next day. We eat banana chips and thin frites brought by a friendly waitress, try the internet (it’s slow and rage-making in the way pointless things are) and go to bed.

Day 2
I oversleep, because my alarm did not work. Turns out you need your SIM card in there if you want to turn off your phone and still have the alarm clock do its job. Drat. We were supposed to leave at 6am, which is more or less when I woke up, completely by accident. No time for a shower, which I really, really wanted and more importantly needed. Just time to brush my teeth and take a quick whore bath, a change of clothes and a short, sharp scream when I discover a roach nestling in the loo roll.

The drive to Bamenda is beautiful. The scenery whizzing by us is breathtaking in parts, and merely impressive in others. It is verdant, oppressively so, with every shade of green present and accounted for. There are lots of people too, early as we are. School kids in the uniforms, men and women in light suits, market men and women. The roads are clear but get increasingly worse as we drive on, and our driver H tells us car ownership in Cameroon is still below 50%. Ah, okay. We keep seeing these yellow flowers growing by the motorway. They are weeds. “Still beautiful,” I say. Our driver, clearly an unsentimental man, says, ” The only good flowers are the ones we have planted.” This feels very profound in the moment. But I still think he’s wrong.

We drive on – we all have naps in fits and starts – and make a stop for coffee a few hours at Makénéné, which is kind of like a service station. All the buses travelling through to Yaounde or Bamenda stop here for a rest stop, refresh and move on, H tells us. We get out for a coffee/breakfast at what I would call a buka if we were in Nigeria. It’s run by a couple of guys. Our server doesn’t speak English or French, so communication involves gentle annoyance and gesticulation. Our driver says, quietly: “He is Muslim.” I bristle. What’s that got to do with the price of fish? He ‘explains’ further: “Many of the people around here are Muslims. They are not often educated.They only just started sending their children to school,” he continues, shrugging. It’s gentle bigotry, is what it is. But I am a stranger, so I smile extra-bright at our inefficient server and drink my too sweet coffee while nibbling on a breakfast bar (yes, I am that person who brings power bars on foreign trips. Ugh.).

We arrive in Bamenda. Our hotel is beautiful. AND WE HAVE BETTER INTERNET. I do the awkward dance but eventually end up under the spray of a cold shower, my first since last summer – and that one was the first in years. Lunch. I have rice and stew, and vow: next time ndole and Irish. Off we go to work. I interview, I record, I take shorthand. We get to visit the Leader of the Opposition, who is friendly. I introduce myself. “Bim?” I smile and nod. Bim Adewunmi. “Ah, omo Yoruba! Mo gbo Yoruba die-die.” That’s just enough, I say. Everyone laughs, even though they just had some pretty bad results from the senatorial seats. We are offered suya and soft drinks (minerals!) in glass bottles. I interview more people – including a journalist from the local paper – I record, take more shorthand. We are invited to stay for dinner. It is fufu and ogbono (Irvingia nut soup in case you wanted to know). I wash my hands and eat with my fingers. It is delicious. More interviews. Home time, aka back to the hotel. Beowulf is on a TV channel with Arabic subtitles. I listen to Ray Winstone say “I’ve come to kill your monsta.” Time for bed. We start at 8am tomorrow, going to Chomba to talk to the Fon, and some widows changing things in their village and beyond.

Days 3 and 4 entries are here

Day 5 is here; and Day 6, here.

My thoughts on these things:

But also this:

What does it all mean?

Who even knows, man? But I am glad I get to blog here. I’m glad (most of) you seem to like what I write, from the silly to the pervy to the ‘this-is-all-in-her-head’ stuff. I’m really happy that you’re still clicking to read about cute men I bump into at the Southbank Centre, or my thoughts on tokenism and the representation of black people on television, or feminism, or books, or that one time that strange dude kicked me in the street… I’m so pleased you don’t (seem to) mind it when I plug my paying, ‘real’ job on here. I am tickled pink that you comment (you should do that more!) and send emails. I am overwhelmed by what is essentially the support and encouragement of strangers. I am… verklempt.

Thanks for reading. For liking, and capital ‘L’ Liking. Thanks for tweeting and tumbling. You’re the greatest, and I appreciate you very, very much. How much? GOSLING MUCH:

You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you. You complete me. You had me at hello. I wanted it to be you. You can be my wingman any time. I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her. I wrote you every day for a year. Love is too weak a word for what I feel – I luuurve you, you know, I loave you, I luff you. Kiss me, kiss me as if it were the last time. As you wish*.

Four more years? FOUR MORE YEARS. And a movie, dammit.

*If you can name all the movies these come from without Google, then you should email me. Then my dad will ask your dad, and you will give my family a ham, and we will be wed†.

†That’s from a TV show. Name that without Googling, and we will name our firstborn ‘Wolfgang Owolabi Tiberius’ and dare the naysayers to bully him/her.

Almost a year ago, Jay Smooth posted this oddly poignant short story on his Tumblr.

Last week, I went to Rotterdam on a work trip. I was in the city for literally 24 hours, and took a couple of tram rides while there. This is a small selection of the various wifi network names I came across while on tram journey from Marconiplein to Rotterdam Centraal. I wrote them down as my phone refreshed connection data, and they appear verbatim: caps, spacing and punctuation remain intact. Me, I love Kauri the best – he or she just does not want to share that wifi. You get a separate network, you bastard guest; suck up the hospitality. Meanwhile, Robin? Because I cannot determine tone in a wifi network name, I’m going to go ahead and hope those ‘bitches’ punch you in the throat.

List below:

• Nubian Q
• Daylight
• FRITZ!
• Robin&Bitches
• Kauri
• Kauri_Guest
• Peanuts
• Longevity
• Cello & Violin
• Pas IP virus!

This has been a post.

Anyway, last night was also momentous for the meet-cute that almost happened between me and this cute dude on the street. Yeah, me. Stay focused and stop laughing. I broke it down over on my Twitter at the time and received so many @-replies that I reckoned I’d just screengrab my tweets and put them on here (with a little commentary). Prepare yourself for The Greatest Love Story That (Almost) Was.

Preamble tweet:

Next, since we’re higher animals,  a set up tweet:

A standard breakdown of how I’m looking, just so we understand the context of what was to unfold in subsequent tweets. PS: I wasn’t going bare-legged – this spring is the harshest spring since records began. No, I was wearing tights and pink brogues beneath my jersey miniskirt.

A re-iteration: this was not bragging. Just stating facts, innit. Still:

Anyway. Time to introduce the hero of our little saga. He was in green jeans. Wore glasses (my Kryptonite!). He had a hat and scarf  on. It did not hurt my eyes to gaze upon his face. PS: I meant to write ‘blipster‘. DAMN YOU, AUTOCORRECT!

An obstacle presents itself. Small, but oh-so-fundamental:

We carry on with our lives. Me, I rush to change trains at Oxford Circus, get off at Waterloo, race past the Mandela steps, rush into the Royal Festival Hall, all the while hoping they’ll still let me in as I am now about 15 minutes late. I am at the lift, when suddenly…

IT’S A MIRACLE, Y’ALL. *sprays holy water at you over the internet* You excited? Me too. Time for a break.

We’ve reached that part in the movie where the protagonists meet. I may have discreetly rubbed my tongue over my teeth to eliminate possible lipstick smear. I can neither confirm nor deny that:

CONTACT! AT this point, my brain went into Deep Romcom Mode™. What would ____ do? Who? You know who. The genre’s undisputed (black) queen. You know who it is:

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?, I hear you cry. Settle down. Here you are, and please – no gifts. Just give to a children’s charity in our names.

Wait, for real?

 Yeah, no.

Welp. But! There’s always hope, right? RIGHT?

No airport dash, no charming misunderstanding about the nature of my relationship with my hunky-but-gay neighbour, no Hollywood Alzheimer’s. Just a plain ol’ missed connection. Sigh.

A few final thoughts a la Jerry Springer:

• What did he mean when he said he “thought you were coming to this!”? Are there so few places a black girl in pink brogues and red lipstick could be going to on a Sunday evening? Ugh, London. I NEED TO MOVE TO MAGICAL BLACK BROOKLYN, YOU GUYS.
• Green jeans? Yeah, okay. I can dig it.
• Who/where is the next Sanaa Lathan? Why the hell are my black romcom references damn near ten years old?
• All joking aside, Pinterest is totally a cool website for decor inspiration. Etsy too.
• Have you read Open City by Teju Cole? You should, man. It’s great.
• My favourite red lipstick? This bad boy. The shade is called ‘Bring It’, and it’s just everything.
• This is totally the beginning of a screenplay, right? Twitter casting suggestions so far: Wyatt Cenac ( alumnus of Medicine For Melancholy) and Nick Mutuma (Kenyan, cute).  Any advances?
• Taiye Selasi’s cheekbones, though. Damn.

Or, for freelancers, another Friday, but one where the banks are closed.

But no matter, because for all the things that a Friday can be, on this here blog, we are only ever concerned about one element: healthy, handsome hunks, hanging out hunkily. So. Pause the daytime Bank Holiday movie, put down the remote and take a lust break – it’s The Friday Pretty!

We start with this guy, whose name TFP does not know, as he arrived in the Perv Space via a tag-less Tumblr reblog. TFP is a fan of his vaguely 70s look, the perfect blue on blue on blue of his slim cut suit. Also, he deserves top marks for his facial hair and what looks like Type 4b hair to match. From your sartorial choices to your symmetrical face, TFP wants to say: congratulations on your existence, stranger!

We advance along the path of perving, to encounter another Unknown Handsome Person, also liberated from the wilds of Tumblr, for your viewing pleasure. Like his predecessor above, he’s also got that 70s vibe down pat, no doubt thanks to his exceptionally busy jumper of many colours; it has hypnotised TFP quite utterly. Note the suspenders, the mustard trousers, the quilted jacket, the jaunty scarf and the piercing eyes of a BBC period drama hero. He could get it:

Next up, a very rare two-for-one on The Friday Pretty, so brace yourselves and gird your loins accordingly. Do you ever find yourself looking at a photograph, just staring at it, and then you look up at the clock and the day is over, and your kids haven’t been picked up from school, and the cat’s tummy is rumbling and it won’t stop miaowing, and your tea has grown cold and the pie in the oven is burned beyond carbon and you don’t even care, because got-damn, look at these two handsome men just looking all fine and dandy in this here photo? No? Uh, TFP neither. It’s Jesse Williams and Michael Ealy, captured in a candid moment at the annual ‘Handsome Black Men Symposium’. Get your tickets for next year, y’hear?

We conclude this holy festival of hotness with a stone fox. The Mindy Project finally made it onto these shores and brought with it something old-fashionedly hot: Chris Messina. TFP is a very big fan of his angry eyes, the humorous quirk to his upper lip and the rough charm of his New York accent. As Dr Danny Castellano, he is everything TFP never even knew it wanted.

Okay. That’s it. Enjoy a hot cross bun or two, and rave safe, kids. Adios!

A few months back ago I watched part of a documentary on BBC Three called Make Me A Muslim. It was following four British women who were either in the process of or had recently converted to Islam (I mean, technically, they’re called ‘reverts’ based on the idea that we are all born Muslim… but I digress). I watched only the beginning, so about 15 minutes? and in between shaking my head a little at some of the voiceover… I found it surprisingly interesting.

I was born into a Muslim household. My father’s family is very much Muslim – several of his siblings go by their Arabic names and we have several families deeply involved in the daily Islamic life of my dad’s hometown. An uncle is the current chief imam, okay? We’re pretty damn Muslim. My mum’s family is less overtly Muslim. In the holidays, we would go and visit my grandmother, who I remember as tiny and strong, and we would see her performing ablution before prayer. At Eid, she would wake extra early to go to the prayer ground in town to attend the special prayer before returning home to oversee the slaughter of the ram. My grandmother was a badass, yes.

We grew up fairly loose about religion. We were aware of it – of its place in our communal family history, in our home, and in society as a whole. We attended a Catholic school, a place where we observed the Stations of The Cross every month, and where I attended catechism classes and received communion. It wasn’t nearly as confusing as you might think. Anyway. I am a Muslim. I’m 30 years old and I am a British-Nigerian and a journalist and a Muslim. I don’t wear a hijab – never have, cannot ever see a time when I would, to be honest – and I suppose you could call my dressing ‘modest’, but I mostly wear what I think looks good on me. I reckon my legs are my best feature, followed closely by my arse, so a fair amount of my wardrobe is pretty short, I suppose. I say this only to paint a picture, to give context, you understand.

Watching Safiya, one of the new converts on BBC Three, the voiceover relayed to us that she was only a few weeks into her Islamic journey. Safiya bashfully told us that the dawn prayer was an issue, because she “love[d] prayer, but I also love my sleep!” which made me think of another conversation I’d had with a friend in the last year or so. My friend, also born and raised Muslim, said that while she was… relaxed about a lot of things when it came practising her religion, there were lines that she could never bring herself to cross.

For example, she was happy drinking alcohol. She was a fan of vodka, not least because of its uncanny resemblance to fresh still water. I asked her how she felt about non-halal meat consumption. She looked horrified. “I would never eat non-halal food,” she said. Me? I eat non-halal meat. But I never touch pork. No bacon for me, ta. A hotdog? Nah, you’re all right. Meltingly tender pork belly? You know, I’m cool with this turkey breast, thank you very much. Pork is my absolute line, you see. The one I won’t cross. It’s arbitrary, yes. Why pork, of all the haram things? I can’t explain it. I just know – the way my vodka-swilling friend knows – somewhere in the deepest part of my gut, that I cannot partake in it. Once, I was at work attending a morning screening in a fancy central London cinema. I bit into a complimentary croissant which contained ham. I did the most unladylike gag-and-spit I have ever done in public, much to the horror of the assembled audience who’d noticed. I then spent a full five minutes in the bathroom, rinsing my mouth over and over, and scrubbing my tongue with wadded up tissues. Was it insane? Yes, probably. But I know I am not alone in this ridiculous dance: I have other Muslim friends who have a similar line with things, from pre-marital sex to the ethics of wearing batty-riders to porn to booze.

What are you gonna do?

Everyone has their thing.

Nobody knows what the FRICK is going on with this weather in the UK at the moment. It’s sunny and bitterly cold. It’s snowing. It’s raining. It’s icy. It’s bloody mid-March, FFS! It’s enought to drive a person up the wall. Can we live, random weather fronts? CAN WE LIVE? Thankfully, today is also Friday, and there is a bright spot on the horizon, quite a few actually. Some are topless, all are buff, and most definitely welcome. Grab a seat, loosen your tie, and chillax. It’s The Friday Pretty!

We open with Joseph Gordon-Levitt. No special reason. He just re-appeared at the fringes of TFP’s mind earlier in the week and like a cute stray dog, lingered. TFP has always had a soft spot for him, but some mild research revealed there ain’t nothin’ soft about him. Look at this (SFW, don’t worry) photo. WHO KNEW? Well, TFP did. Because deep down, TFP knows all when it comes to hot dudes. PS: inevitably, he’s a great hugger too.

Next, more hotness. For this, we look to the form of Danish model Tobias Sorenson. Did you know his girlfriend is American model Jasmine Tookes? Together, they take sickeningly hot photos and then post them on the internet, so that we may gain a glimpse into their (probably) fabulous lives and envy them from afar. TFP ain’t even mad, though. If TFP looked like that and had a partner that attractive, TFP would go a step further and post only nude pics, in which TFP was grinning and flipping the bird at the world. So. Tobias – with your scars and your cheekbones and your ridiculously cut abs, you are really spoiling us:

Our third guest star this week is playing one of the dumbest FBI agents TFP has ever had the good fortune to lust after. If brains were air, Agent Will Moreno in NBC’s Deception would probably die in an oxygen tank. Luckily, he is played by Cuban-American actor Laz Alonso, who is both very lovely to look at, and reassuringly smart: Howard University alumnus, former investment banker. He is both marvellously broad and ridiculously hot, you guys:

To really thaw the black ice built up over the last few days of Shit Spring™, we’re going to need a proper hot flush of air. What’s that? There’s a man in the TFP archives who can deliver that much-needed injection (fnar) of hotness? Yes, there is. He is Tiger JK, and TFP just doesn’t know what to do with itself when it looks upon generosity of this heft. What even is air? Sir. Stop that at once:

We end, as usual, with a flourish. It’s Echo Kellum, alumnus of Fox comedy-cut-down-in-its-prime, Ben & Kate. Have you watched Ben & Kate? It is one of the warmest, most assured sitcoms in recent years, and for its audacity, was rewarded with the boot. TFP will never understand network TV people. But what TFP does get is Echo Kellum. He plays goofy, adorable Tommy, and his smile and charm and afro sends TFP into an extended daydream where TFP and Echo go on a shea butter-buying expedition before settling in to watch Annie Hall all snuggled up on the sofa. He’s super-cute. AND HE’S CALLED ECHO, FFS.

All right, push off. See you next time for more lols and perving. Have a lovely weekend!

Rediscovered Jessie Ware’s record earlier this week, and have been unable to stop playing my favourite track off it, Sweet Talk. It’s Sade 2.0, basically, and I AM HERE FOR IT. Inevitably, I went and watched the video again, and was charmed anew by its cuteness. Little Jessie, making all the faces of older Jessie, despite not fully grasping the meaning of the lyrics! Tiny Julio, looking at the camera askance! I love mini-me pop videos, because I am a sucker for miniature versions of things; I also like puppies and mini-pigs. Sue me.

And so, on this whimsical Wednesday, here are three little examples of mini-me music videos, designed to lift your spirits just a little. All cute, all necessary to combat the sub-zero temperatures sweeping the British isles this week. Thank me later, yeah?

I hope mini-Danny Brown grows up and finds out how cool he was. His face at 1:06 is just about everything:

Baby Kelis and baby Andre 3000 are sweet, sure. But the supporting cast is just as excellent: I especially love Cereal Boy at 0:56, the kissy meet-and-greet outside the church from 1:16 onwards and of course, Dancing Girl at 2:32. It’s such a joyful video, with the correct tinge of melancholy that often accompanies childhood. I love it:

And of course, Biggie et al, in a concept allegedly from the mind of Sofia Coppola and directed by Spike Jonze. Check out Mini-Busta on the telly, and baby-Diddy being as creepy (and bad at dancing) as his grown-up counterpart! And tiny 112 are ridiculously cute, as is the blonde-wigged miniature Lil’ Kim. Do I like the little brown girls dancing by the pool in their gold swimsuits? No. But then I don’t much like it when they’re grown up brown girls dancing in gold swimsuits… I do think the video is extra-poignant because of Biggie’s untimely death; he never got to live exactly what he was rapping about.