Once upon I was a woman who was capable of doing things herself. These days I have given up on my independence and have become part of a larger mechanism called society in which every person has its role. So don’t even think about doing someone else’s job, but give it to that person for a certain price. It’s a class system in a way, but since it helps people to make money I can’t be bothered that much. Gender roles are very clear in this system.
Last night my car broke down. The clutch was not responding at all and there I was, on the slope outside a supermarket, helpless and all. As a damsel in distress I beckoned some guy over (yes, beckoning was new for me too!) and in a bit of a helpless tone I said “it’s not working” and The Man took over. Before I knew it I was taken to the mechanic. My saviour negotiated with me shielded off by a hedge (since my skin colour would be bad for negotiations) and we returned to my car together with two (!) mechanics. My saviour accepted no money for his help (although I did give him, of course; I’m not THAT cruel) but we soon learned that some spare parts were needed urgently. Thank God, I thought, because here people tell you to drive with your car falling apart (a normal occupation of drivers on the road) whereas I actually prefer to drive in a car with working clutch and brakes. Call me old-fashioned.
Anyway, I decided to call on a friend to help me, and saviour no 1 took off. My friend then took over and added a capital letter to Saviour. Driving about finding spare parts, negotiating in several languages, keeping me company, explaining what exactly was wrong with my car (men are never more pleased than when they can impress us poor women with technical knowhow), pushing my car to a place where it could be fixed, etc etc. All that while I was there, the fraudster, the damsel in distress who was tired after a long day of work and way too happy that other people took over while she was looking helpless and just a tad more stupid than she actually was.
I felt it was like Adam & Eve all over, confirming gender stereotypes I never supported in the first place. Why? Because it was easy. Because it makes men so happy if women seem helpless and let them feel All Important. Because people like to operate from the pidgin holes they think they are (put) in.
My car works again and I feel I should do something really feminist today. I don’t know, like telling all these women here that men might get married for their own comfort, for being cooked for for the rest of their lives, but that women should do the same. Think of themselves. Funnily, by thinking of myself and by doing nothing, by thinking that the damsel-in-distress act could give me a functioning car without much trouble on my own part, I actually reinforced the ancient-old system.
Perhaps it’s just a bit of a comfort that the person cleaning my house and doing my laundry (and especially ironing it!) is, in fact, a man.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Ga toch boeven vangen
One of the main comments “the white” get (apart from being power-hungry descendants of Sodom & Gomorra of course!) is that they are individualists & selfish; we put our elders in retirement homes, don’t even know the name of our neighbours, and have discarded God in the search for personal wealth and glory.
Now, I believe all that, but isn’t that the same everywhere? Okay, in Africa the elders are cared for by their families and you are often only too aware of your neighbour’s name. But the fastest-growing Pentecostal churches are those that promise wealth to their members. And aren’t individualism and selfishness some of the most essential ingredients for corruption?
Then again, perhaps does corruption only exist because the fight against it is not well-implemented… Arriving at my office this morning I saw several policemen practicing stunts on their motorcycles. It was quite a sight, but surely they would have better things to do?
Now, I believe all that, but isn’t that the same everywhere? Okay, in Africa the elders are cared for by their families and you are often only too aware of your neighbour’s name. But the fastest-growing Pentecostal churches are those that promise wealth to their members. And aren’t individualism and selfishness some of the most essential ingredients for corruption?
Then again, perhaps does corruption only exist because the fight against it is not well-implemented… Arriving at my office this morning I saw several policemen practicing stunts on their motorcycles. It was quite a sight, but surely they would have better things to do?
Monday, September 1, 2008
How I became a chief
A while back I received an unexpected letter; the Eze (King) of Umuaga Nguru, Ngor Okpala, Imo State had decided to give me a chieftaincy title during the celebration of his 30 years on the throne. It seems that his son, who I met while working as a volunteer in Kubwa, was so awed by my life as a volunteer and my joy in living among the people (and my 5 words in Igbo language) that he decided to tell his father about me*. To make a long story short: on Saturday the 30th of August I was to be made a chief in Imo State.
That was the beginning of the story, but as always in Nigeria it was not nearly the beginning.
A the beginning there was the journey. By big bus this time, slow but safe. Slow became an understatement when we needed over 2 hrs to pass a truck that had fallen in an inconvenient corner of a muddy road. The entire journey lasted over 13 hrs as a result, but “luckily” there was the entertainment of the onboard pastors/ stand-up comedians/ miracle doctors who were educating the masses hoping to sell their particular products. Number 1 declared that honey was the answer to everything and is used by oyibos to put on their breasts, number 2 said that drinking crude oil helps against all ailments, and number 3 insisted that 1. Israel is the only country without hospitals and that 2. the quality of sperm could only be improved with the help of Jesus (and of course some strange-looking medicine sold by the man).
When I finally reached Owerri the prince put me in a guesthouse and exhausted I went to sleep. After all, I had to be ready by 8 the following morning.
8.00 I am ready
8.15 a phone call: “no traffic before 10am so we’ll come to pick you up after that.”
10.15 departure to the village, or actually...
10.30 at the market to buy a crown
11.00 back at the hotel. Reason for this not clear.
11.30 departure to the village.
12.00 official start of the ceremony
12.20 arrival in the village and entrance in the palace. While passing the venue ground it is clear that nothing will happen there soon and that this is clearly a typical Africa Time event.
At the palace I meet the King who is 80 yrs old and as fit as a fiddle. A nice man who speaks fluent English, who has the eyes of someone who enjoys life, and who is catholic –special because most traditional rulers still have traditional beliefs. Having that said: “they” will make sure it won’t rain that afternoon. Juju is still very much part of tradition! Anyway, I give my gifts, meet some people I know from Kubwa, wait in the throne room together with some ancient chiefs, have friends join me, get food when the waiting is taking centuries, see the rain fall, and keep waiting. Africa Time. By about 3pm it finally starts though.
In the palace we first have the ceremony with the cola nut. Especially the Igbos have many ceremonies around the cola nut and luckily my friend translates since “the cola only speaks Igbo”. I eat the bitter nut, hoping it will keep me awake during the rest of the day. We then move in convoy to the ceremonial ground, in the centre of the village. Because the day coincides with the annual women’s meeting, all the women are dressed the same which is quite a sight. All the Eze’s take place on sofas, the lesser chiefs and everyone else sits on plastic chairs and the programme full of speeches starts. Everything is in Igbo language, but since I have attended many official events by now, I understand more or less what they are saying.
When the other candidates for a title and myself stand up, we have to sit down within a minute again; the car with the ceremonial artefacts has gone missing. So we look a little bit less dignified the second time we stand in line, but despite all the Africa Time, wahala and general chaos, I feel more honoured than I anticipated. The king places a necklace around my neck, the queen puts a bracelet over my wrist and it’s topped with a crown placed by the king. All the while he speaks of how I am now one of them, a Nigerian, one of the family. As tacky as the crown may be, I do feel a bit emotional about it all. Afterwards I shake hands with the other chiefs in a special way, a sort of special handshake, which makes me feel even more part of this beautiful bunch of people.
Later that evening I have champagne with my friend who had flown over from Lagos and we are sitting in a luxurious hotel bar in Owerri. I would almost forget the events of the day because of this completely different scene until the barman, seeing my necklace and bracelet, calls out “you are a chief!” in utter disbelief.
The next day another 13-hour journey awaits me. This time because of a flat tire and a “small mechanical problem” (the journey should last 9 hrs normally). The entertainment this time consists of Nollywood movies. The entire bus comments on the events in the film and especially the women shout their disgust when the “oyibo wife” in a film called “the spirit of love” refuses to cook for her man. If my bus were a small version of society, it is clear that women stop all change and that the men are not concerned as long as they are fed. Meanwhile I sit there knowing that the same society can honour a woman for being just herself. And for those of you who were wondering: I did not pay one single naira for the honour.
It was a weekend I will not easily forget and while I look at my crown that is too tacky to be true, I can only think “thank you”.
With regards,
Chief Thessa :-)
*because I always ended my texts to the prince with “ciao, Thessa” the letter was addressed to “ciao thessa” thereby making me and my friends believe i would become “chief ciao”. Not everybody knows Italian, clearly...
That was the beginning of the story, but as always in Nigeria it was not nearly the beginning.
A the beginning there was the journey. By big bus this time, slow but safe. Slow became an understatement when we needed over 2 hrs to pass a truck that had fallen in an inconvenient corner of a muddy road. The entire journey lasted over 13 hrs as a result, but “luckily” there was the entertainment of the onboard pastors/ stand-up comedians/ miracle doctors who were educating the masses hoping to sell their particular products. Number 1 declared that honey was the answer to everything and is used by oyibos to put on their breasts, number 2 said that drinking crude oil helps against all ailments, and number 3 insisted that 1. Israel is the only country without hospitals and that 2. the quality of sperm could only be improved with the help of Jesus (and of course some strange-looking medicine sold by the man).
When I finally reached Owerri the prince put me in a guesthouse and exhausted I went to sleep. After all, I had to be ready by 8 the following morning.
8.00 I am ready
8.15 a phone call: “no traffic before 10am so we’ll come to pick you up after that.”
10.15 departure to the village, or actually...
10.30 at the market to buy a crown
11.00 back at the hotel. Reason for this not clear.
11.30 departure to the village.
12.00 official start of the ceremony
12.20 arrival in the village and entrance in the palace. While passing the venue ground it is clear that nothing will happen there soon and that this is clearly a typical Africa Time event.
At the palace I meet the King who is 80 yrs old and as fit as a fiddle. A nice man who speaks fluent English, who has the eyes of someone who enjoys life, and who is catholic –special because most traditional rulers still have traditional beliefs. Having that said: “they” will make sure it won’t rain that afternoon. Juju is still very much part of tradition! Anyway, I give my gifts, meet some people I know from Kubwa, wait in the throne room together with some ancient chiefs, have friends join me, get food when the waiting is taking centuries, see the rain fall, and keep waiting. Africa Time. By about 3pm it finally starts though.
In the palace we first have the ceremony with the cola nut. Especially the Igbos have many ceremonies around the cola nut and luckily my friend translates since “the cola only speaks Igbo”. I eat the bitter nut, hoping it will keep me awake during the rest of the day. We then move in convoy to the ceremonial ground, in the centre of the village. Because the day coincides with the annual women’s meeting, all the women are dressed the same which is quite a sight. All the Eze’s take place on sofas, the lesser chiefs and everyone else sits on plastic chairs and the programme full of speeches starts. Everything is in Igbo language, but since I have attended many official events by now, I understand more or less what they are saying.
When the other candidates for a title and myself stand up, we have to sit down within a minute again; the car with the ceremonial artefacts has gone missing. So we look a little bit less dignified the second time we stand in line, but despite all the Africa Time, wahala and general chaos, I feel more honoured than I anticipated. The king places a necklace around my neck, the queen puts a bracelet over my wrist and it’s topped with a crown placed by the king. All the while he speaks of how I am now one of them, a Nigerian, one of the family. As tacky as the crown may be, I do feel a bit emotional about it all. Afterwards I shake hands with the other chiefs in a special way, a sort of special handshake, which makes me feel even more part of this beautiful bunch of people.
Later that evening I have champagne with my friend who had flown over from Lagos and we are sitting in a luxurious hotel bar in Owerri. I would almost forget the events of the day because of this completely different scene until the barman, seeing my necklace and bracelet, calls out “you are a chief!” in utter disbelief.
The next day another 13-hour journey awaits me. This time because of a flat tire and a “small mechanical problem” (the journey should last 9 hrs normally). The entertainment this time consists of Nollywood movies. The entire bus comments on the events in the film and especially the women shout their disgust when the “oyibo wife” in a film called “the spirit of love” refuses to cook for her man. If my bus were a small version of society, it is clear that women stop all change and that the men are not concerned as long as they are fed. Meanwhile I sit there knowing that the same society can honour a woman for being just herself. And for those of you who were wondering: I did not pay one single naira for the honour.
It was a weekend I will not easily forget and while I look at my crown that is too tacky to be true, I can only think “thank you”.
With regards,
Chief Thessa :-)
*because I always ended my texts to the prince with “ciao, Thessa” the letter was addressed to “ciao thessa” thereby making me and my friends believe i would become “chief ciao”. Not everybody knows Italian, clearly...
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Living in two worlds?
Nearly 2 years in Nigeria have gone by without a trip to my motherland and my holiday these last few weeks was a celebration of friendship that survives time and distance. What a fantastic, rich feeling to know so many good people!
Apart from that the holiday was, of course, a comparative study.
Often I got the question whether it was a culture shock to be back home. And yes, I did feel estranged from the way everything is organised, the paternalistic attitude of the government, the complaints about the “economic hardship” in a country that is actually so rich… And it was also in the little things, like how it took me 2 weeks before I could drink water without wanting to spit it out because of a fear of typhoid, or like how I kept asking people whether I could charge my phone or whether they had drinking water in their houses. But also in how the scenery was so different: the herds of cows without a Fulani shepherd to go with it, the green meticulously trimmed, the traffic signs at every 2 meters, or the apparent uniformity of cars and buildings without the immense poor-rich divide seen in a place like Abuja.
Still, at the same time, it was as it had always been, like I had left yesterday. At a certain stage it became a vague concept, even to me, to be living so far away, in Nigeria. Nigeria is also home, and feels like just a train ride away. Like when I was a student in Maastricht and going to my family’s home for the weekend. Feeling at home is the direct result of adaptation. And the easiest way to adapt is not to see ‘the other’ as ‘the other’ but as a different version of the same thing. The longer I am away, or the longer I live in Nigeria, the more I realise that everywhere is basically the same.
Of course the layer on top of this basic sameness can be quite thick. When I first arrived in Nigeria I wanted to write a blog entry 10 times a day because everything was so spectacularly new and different. Now it seems so normal that I often have to remind myself of the fact that I am living on a different continent. After hundreds of photos taken in the first months, I am now never with my camera. I started off living in another world, and now it’s part of the same world.
Globalisation instead of emigration. And no, it’s not just that things have become normal. The more you focus on the basic sameness of the human race and not on the cultural layer, you find yourself part of the human race. I know that the “us them distinction” is crucial to forming a cultural identity, but how great if you don’t try to label yourself as part of your own people, but as part of everybody else.
Having that said: the layer is thick. People may have the same emotions but express themselves so utterly different that I often get either a laughing fit or the urge to hit something. And putting all the pseudo philosophy on similarities aside: I still believe I have put a curse on myself –from now on, in whichever world I am, I will always miss something from the other world…
Apart from that the holiday was, of course, a comparative study.
Often I got the question whether it was a culture shock to be back home. And yes, I did feel estranged from the way everything is organised, the paternalistic attitude of the government, the complaints about the “economic hardship” in a country that is actually so rich… And it was also in the little things, like how it took me 2 weeks before I could drink water without wanting to spit it out because of a fear of typhoid, or like how I kept asking people whether I could charge my phone or whether they had drinking water in their houses. But also in how the scenery was so different: the herds of cows without a Fulani shepherd to go with it, the green meticulously trimmed, the traffic signs at every 2 meters, or the apparent uniformity of cars and buildings without the immense poor-rich divide seen in a place like Abuja.
Still, at the same time, it was as it had always been, like I had left yesterday. At a certain stage it became a vague concept, even to me, to be living so far away, in Nigeria. Nigeria is also home, and feels like just a train ride away. Like when I was a student in Maastricht and going to my family’s home for the weekend. Feeling at home is the direct result of adaptation. And the easiest way to adapt is not to see ‘the other’ as ‘the other’ but as a different version of the same thing. The longer I am away, or the longer I live in Nigeria, the more I realise that everywhere is basically the same.
Of course the layer on top of this basic sameness can be quite thick. When I first arrived in Nigeria I wanted to write a blog entry 10 times a day because everything was so spectacularly new and different. Now it seems so normal that I often have to remind myself of the fact that I am living on a different continent. After hundreds of photos taken in the first months, I am now never with my camera. I started off living in another world, and now it’s part of the same world.
Globalisation instead of emigration. And no, it’s not just that things have become normal. The more you focus on the basic sameness of the human race and not on the cultural layer, you find yourself part of the human race. I know that the “us them distinction” is crucial to forming a cultural identity, but how great if you don’t try to label yourself as part of your own people, but as part of everybody else.
Having that said: the layer is thick. People may have the same emotions but express themselves so utterly different that I often get either a laughing fit or the urge to hit something. And putting all the pseudo philosophy on similarities aside: I still believe I have put a curse on myself –from now on, in whichever world I am, I will always miss something from the other world…
Monday, July 28, 2008
There will be blood
It was interesting to see a film set in the United States during the oil rush, around the year 1910 –and to be constantly reminded of Nigeria.
The way communities were just set aside by the big men, while at the same time struggling among themselves. The oil spilling into nature, damaging the beautiful surroundings. Struggling, poor families who are desperate to believe that the oil will bring new wealth and development to their area. Only to be disappointed. And of course also the church, keeping the people awake at night and focussing more on a new church building than on better houses for the people. But above all: greed. The greed of only a few, killing the hopes of many.
That was the US a hundred years ago. Irrespective of my opinion of the contemporary US society, they have come a long way since then. If you put on your glasses with the best shade of pink available, you might believe that all the fighting over blood oil here is just a stage in history leading to prosperity for all in the nearby future. However, considering human nature it’s easier to just get reminded of the film’s title. There will be blood.
The way communities were just set aside by the big men, while at the same time struggling among themselves. The oil spilling into nature, damaging the beautiful surroundings. Struggling, poor families who are desperate to believe that the oil will bring new wealth and development to their area. Only to be disappointed. And of course also the church, keeping the people awake at night and focussing more on a new church building than on better houses for the people. But above all: greed. The greed of only a few, killing the hopes of many.
That was the US a hundred years ago. Irrespective of my opinion of the contemporary US society, they have come a long way since then. If you put on your glasses with the best shade of pink available, you might believe that all the fighting over blood oil here is just a stage in history leading to prosperity for all in the nearby future. However, considering human nature it’s easier to just get reminded of the film’s title. There will be blood.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Inbreeding
One oyibo to the other: “I have met this fantastic man! We have been going out for some time now, and he is just so interesting, caring, interested in me and open minded –it’s just fantastic! I am so happy to have found him!”
“Is he Nigerian?”
“Uh, yes. Why?”
“oh...”
And it’s all in this “oh”. Despite the wonderful experience of the first oyibo, the fact that this ‘fantastic’ man is Nigerian clearly indicates that this is Not True and at one stage or another, the oyibo-in-love will find this out. After all, ALL Nigerian men are to be avoided. (Of course, Nigerian women needn’t be avoided. They make excellent, young and attractive, second wives. It’s pathetic, everyone agrees, to see an old ugly oyibo with a beautiful young Nigerian, but no, what else can you expect –they are men...) It is one of the signs of ‘integration’. The poor oyibo who loves this Nigerian is ‘naive’ or just ‘stupid’, but that she might have met a fantastic man who truly loves her, is simply not an option.
I always have to laugh over the Integration Debate in Europe (and yes, it’s written with capitals these days) and the anger that “those immigrants” stick to their own culture. I have learned that it’s not about integration at all: it’s about the dominant culture that has to be obeyed, it’s about assimilation. “The West” is the dominator and thus everyone should adapt to “us”. We can go abroad on holiday, eat our own food (“you can never trust the local food”) and walk half-naked into mosques, but an immigrant in our own country HAS to abide by our rules.
In Nigeria there is not much integration between oyibos and Nigerians. With of course the many exceptions, but in general... In Lagos it’s much worse than in Abuja or in other parts I have been. Perhaps because people here are a bit rough due to living in this ant heap, or because of the security situation. The other day I was cruising on an okada to meet up with a friend. When I was on the bike I got many hilarious comments –and shocked reactions from other oyibos who probably thought I was suicidal. Fair enough. However, when I met up with that friend (not even a lover), I got many weary looks and even looks of disapproval. Because my friend was Nigerian?
In Nigeria you have people EVERYWHERE since about 20% of the sub-Saharan population happens to live in this country. It’s quite a challenge to try and avoid all those people, but quite a lot of the oyibos succeed with their fenced houses and cars with tinted windows. And these people would then tell me “I have to go home every 3 months or so, or else I would go mad here!”
–but possibly they have gone mad long ago due to the inbreeding in their own circles?
“Is he Nigerian?”
“Uh, yes. Why?”
“oh...”
And it’s all in this “oh”. Despite the wonderful experience of the first oyibo, the fact that this ‘fantastic’ man is Nigerian clearly indicates that this is Not True and at one stage or another, the oyibo-in-love will find this out. After all, ALL Nigerian men are to be avoided. (Of course, Nigerian women needn’t be avoided. They make excellent, young and attractive, second wives. It’s pathetic, everyone agrees, to see an old ugly oyibo with a beautiful young Nigerian, but no, what else can you expect –they are men...) It is one of the signs of ‘integration’. The poor oyibo who loves this Nigerian is ‘naive’ or just ‘stupid’, but that she might have met a fantastic man who truly loves her, is simply not an option.
I always have to laugh over the Integration Debate in Europe (and yes, it’s written with capitals these days) and the anger that “those immigrants” stick to their own culture. I have learned that it’s not about integration at all: it’s about the dominant culture that has to be obeyed, it’s about assimilation. “The West” is the dominator and thus everyone should adapt to “us”. We can go abroad on holiday, eat our own food (“you can never trust the local food”) and walk half-naked into mosques, but an immigrant in our own country HAS to abide by our rules.
In Nigeria there is not much integration between oyibos and Nigerians. With of course the many exceptions, but in general... In Lagos it’s much worse than in Abuja or in other parts I have been. Perhaps because people here are a bit rough due to living in this ant heap, or because of the security situation. The other day I was cruising on an okada to meet up with a friend. When I was on the bike I got many hilarious comments –and shocked reactions from other oyibos who probably thought I was suicidal. Fair enough. However, when I met up with that friend (not even a lover), I got many weary looks and even looks of disapproval. Because my friend was Nigerian?
In Nigeria you have people EVERYWHERE since about 20% of the sub-Saharan population happens to live in this country. It’s quite a challenge to try and avoid all those people, but quite a lot of the oyibos succeed with their fenced houses and cars with tinted windows. And these people would then tell me “I have to go home every 3 months or so, or else I would go mad here!”
–but possibly they have gone mad long ago due to the inbreeding in their own circles?
Friday, July 18, 2008
Romance...
There are great, gorgeous men here who are really interesting and could be great friends. There are also other men… The type that thinks that love & a relationship can be created out of thin air, and that women can only be persuaded with extreme declarations… You can buy books with “the 100 best romantic text messages” which include the most flowery examples of fake romanticism –including spelling mistakes like “sweaty” instead of “sweetie”.
A typical text conversation that can take place if you know each other for about 5, maximum 10, minutes:
Guy:
Ow i wish i culd hold u so close2myself..caress yr feminine body durin ds drizzlin..bet u r goin2luv it huh!!Hop u r enjoyin yr sleep.Thinkin abt u PAPI!I KIA..
Guy again next day (after no reply to previous one):
Ow’s yr nyt?U r d only woman4me.pls still consider me n let’s c ds wknd. Let me kno ASAP!!av a nice day
Me:
Sorry but since ur txt yday im not interested in going anywhere with you.
Guy:
Its no biggie..its a free world,freedom if speech but dere is no crime in xpressin maself d bst way I culd.Its gud2b original!enjoy da rst of ya wkd.PEACE n LUV
Me (knowing better, but laughing too much for not to reply):
Im just tired of all dose men like u who act like they luv me –so it wasnt original.Expressin urself is gr8, faking emotions isn’t.Bye.
Guy:
I’ve alwys bin original n I aint gat fake emotns4u..pls dnt address me like1of dem.Born natural n ril so I won’t pretend I like u..d blunt truth is dt I like u n I dnt mind u!!Y cnt u take me4ma words n stp doubtin me.Consider me gud enof4a trial n lets cee ow it goes.I stil kia
This is why, on the whole, you should not give out your phone number. Although… giving out your number certainly leads to a lot of hilarious situations!
A typical text conversation that can take place if you know each other for about 5, maximum 10, minutes:
Guy:
Ow i wish i culd hold u so close2myself..caress yr feminine body durin ds drizzlin..bet u r goin2luv it huh!!Hop u r enjoyin yr sleep.Thinkin abt u PAPI!I KIA..
Guy again next day (after no reply to previous one):
Ow’s yr nyt?U r d only woman4me.pls still consider me n let’s c ds wknd. Let me kno ASAP!!av a nice day
Me:
Sorry but since ur txt yday im not interested in going anywhere with you.
Guy:
Its no biggie..its a free world,freedom if speech but dere is no crime in xpressin maself d bst way I culd.Its gud2b original!enjoy da rst of ya wkd.PEACE n LUV
Me (knowing better, but laughing too much for not to reply):
Im just tired of all dose men like u who act like they luv me –so it wasnt original.Expressin urself is gr8, faking emotions isn’t.Bye.
Guy:
I’ve alwys bin original n I aint gat fake emotns4u..pls dnt address me like1of dem.Born natural n ril so I won’t pretend I like u..d blunt truth is dt I like u n I dnt mind u!!Y cnt u take me4ma words n stp doubtin me.Consider me gud enof4a trial n lets cee ow it goes.I stil kia
This is why, on the whole, you should not give out your phone number. Although… giving out your number certainly leads to a lot of hilarious situations!
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