Serwa is a twenty-something year old teacher in Toronto struggling to maintain her identity as a black woman while realizing that dating white guys is not helping that image! All her Ghanaian friends tell her she needs to fatten up – black guys want something to hold on to for crying out loud. How is she going to nab that elusive Ghanaian man and when she does, will he be totally worth it?
Excerpt from Serwa’s Diary –
September 15th…The Outdooring
I’m going to make up for not writing in my diary for a couple of days.
So diary, I have to explain that the concept of Outdooring is so different from the Christenings I’ve been to but they are technically the same thing. First off, there weren’t as many people at Keira’s baby’s Christening. Keira is my other best friend – the white one- who I went to high school with. You remember her don’t you? She’s the one that filled up almost my entire high school diary! Well, she’s married and has a baby. Yes…even Keira is married and that is so annoying ‘cos she’s not that pretty and she knits. Maybe her baby can appreciate that but for crying out loud who else knits apart from octogenarians in a nursing home? But I digress and the point I was trying to make was that at Keira’s, there were just five people at the Christening – Keira, her husband Bob, her baby Beulah, Me and Father Michael O’Hanlan. At the Ghanaian Outdooring today, I counted one hundred people and then had to stop ‘cos suddenly, all the Ghanaians started blending into one another and it seemed everyone had a twin. I must admit my cousin Gyasiwa looked gorgeous and she’s been able to tone down that tummy that nagged her all through high school…or maybe she’s wearing a tummy tucker of some sort….or maybe she’s had staples put in her stomach? I will make it my mission to find out her secret. I was at her wedding to Prince and even then, I didn’t think she looked like a princess but today, girlfriend had it going on big time. Um, who else was there? Patricia came with a GORGEOUS black man and my jaw was left hanging when they stepped out of their Mercedes S Class with him opening the door for her. I spied her shoes – Blahnicks but 2007 model – not impressed. Her purse was a Coach knockoff and that fat belt she had on the midriff of her knee low silk dress was a Calvin Klein for sure. And I think it was real. I tried hard not to drool over her date but diary, I was in love. He must have been at least six feet tall, had smooth, blemish-free skin, lovely cut hair – not too much and not too little – he just had the lithe, taut body of a Michael Jordan or something. Papa come to me! I quickly composed myself and continued carrying around that tray of terrible hors d’oeuvres that Auntie Pink, Gyasiwa’s mom had made for her granddaughter’s christening. Auntie Pink still wears pink by the way and now, my eyes are immune to the outrageously garish colours she assaults everyone with. I guess when you’re so cuddly and warm and fun to be around, you can get away with such fashion faux pas but the rest of them mere mortals should just stick to grey and black.
I didn’t mind the hors d’oeuvres sweat-shop-like job at all because it got me around the throng and I played a little game of trying to spot knockoffs. You know the most common knockoffs I saw? Louis Vuitton scarves! Ghanaians love scarves and they put them everywhere – head, neck, arms, waists, purses –yes purses! I have to find out where to get these knockoffs ‘cos knowing this crowd, they couldn’t cost more than five bucks and yours truly could certainly do with cheap gifts to give away to unsuspecting victims!
Of course the ceremony didn’t start on time. This many black people, oohming and aahhmin and eiiing all over the place and regaling each other with stories of immigration, which airline gives the most baggage allowance to Ghana, whose funeral is next week and where you can do your taxes so you get a charitable donation of $5000 when your reported annual income is $12,000…how could the ceremony start on time? Besides, the pastor didn’t arrive till three so people just kept eating and eating and I dodged question after question about my lack of a companion. I could have brought Kris and he would have loved this immersion in African culture but I was not in the mood to follow him around to make sure he didn’t eat anything too spicy before he starts breaking out in some sort of an allergic reaction. I finally escaped from the throng and sought refuge in the one washroom at this church basement where the Outdooring was being held. As I breathed deeply – and this was scary since the small washroom was dingy and smelled like a washroom shouldn’t smell – where was the air refresher anyway and why wasn’t there toilet paper? – I took a moment to compose myself. And then I heard voices outside.
“But didn’t she know he was sleeping with her?”
I know – this was juicy stuff but I couldn’t place the voices. Definitely two women but who were they and whom were they talking about? I reached for my cell phone and muted it. Didn’t want to give away my presence.
“Look, Tunde can be with anyone. Have you seen his body? Why do you think he wants to be with Janelle?”
Nooooooooooooo!!!! My Janelle? Tunde the Bastard! I knew he was no good. The convo continued and on and on about Tunde’s misdemeanours. Apparently, he is an illegal immigrant and is on the verge of being deported. This is big news since Tunde told Janelle he was born in Kingston, Ontario. I have to tell her. No, I can’t. But I must. What if she is so hurt she kills herself? And then it’ll all be my fault. But she’s my best friend! I cupped my face in my hands. My fingers did look good today –had it done at my little Korean place just behind Clark street. I’ve told no one about that place because I don’t want anyone to have nails like mine but every time I go there, I get a discount because Kim-Kim, the girl who does my nails thinks every black person who walks in must have been recommended by me. Apparently, all black people look the same so almost every four weeks, I get free nails. I have no idea who these black people are who know about Nice Nice Nails on Clark Street but I pretend I do so I can get the discount. I digress. I had had enough of the traitorous Tunde so once the voices left my vicinity, I gently flushed and I mean that. The handle looked like if I gave it a normal flush, I would be left with it in my hand! I straightened my lovely baby blue Vivienne Westwood silk dress, looked down at my six inch Blahnicks with pure pleasure and run my hands through my Rappers Delight thirteen inch weave. Satisfied I looked better than everyone I’d seen so far, I stepped out of the toilet only to be seen by Auntie Pink who was holding a roll of toilet paper. She ripped off a few squares and passed it to me and said:
‘Sorry ohhhhh – we run out – I just remember”. I mentally corrected her English.
I murmured thanks and looked at the plywood in my hands. Who uses toilet paper this hard that feels like it was just sliced off the side of a large oak tree? Has anyone heard of Charmin? What about Baby Soft? For crying out loud, the process of expelling unwanted things from your body is disgusting as it is and you don’t have to make it an even more arduous process by using wood to clean up!
I was so tired by evening but I had thoroughly enjoyed myself even at the annoying bits. Ghanaians can be so loud but maybe it’s an African thing. Whenever I have an event like this, it hits me how Africans are really quite full of life…everything is raucous, worthy of laughter and joy – even church which in a typical Canadian sort of way is quite solemn, can be turned over on its head when there are Africans in it. Sometimes I wonder how Ghanaian I am because I can only handle the ‘life’ so much and then I need some quiet. But I don’t like quiet either.
I’m messed.
Goodnight diary.
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