A decade ago I used to come in twenty shades of grey. I hadn’t mastered the fifty shades stuff nor had the trilogy been penned back then but I was in the twenties brackets I believe. Not too macho, sexy and definitely not rich but I had my moments of greatness. It is said that no woman is without drama in this world. On a scale of 0-10 the least dramatic woman is a 3. Dudes think they’ve been in relationships with drama queens but am on a different level, I’ve ever been with the mother of drama herself. The one that makes real drama queens seem like trainees. When she raised a ruckus you would think she had been on attachment in Lucifer’s parlour. Her tirade was on a level 15 and beyond let alone a 10. For purposes of this post I’ll call her X.
When adolescence hits it’s crescendo, you tend to have an inexplicable way to turn insanely sane things look sanely insane or vice versa. So those many years back I had that uncanny ability and I used to go out with X. Me and X had our moments in the sun and anyway when your young stupidity is tattooed on your chest so you wouldn’t really know when a relationship is sapping common sense out of you. Both of you usually traverse in a love bubble without a care in the world whether you walk naked or sleep hungry. When you got each other everything seems like a breeze. X and I used to have a cute flat where we had our moments and unfortunately I think the devil used to holiday there every so often. The guest room was like his VIP suite and a drama simulation room for X. I couldn’t understand how one moment you’re exchanging sweet nothings and the next you’re exchanging nothing close to anything sweetened. Back then I also possessed an itch on my behind that I do possess to this date. My behind itch is very predictable. During morning hours am a good nigger. I can couch potato with a mama and watch movies and basically do those idiotic niceties that take them to utopia and beyond. They call it cuddling and I usually find it quite impractical for I’ve never understood what’s good about just lying on a couch together as your woman fantasizes of improbabilities. Anyway I can do that from 6 am to noon. From noon I get an itch on behind. The sofa becomes uncomfortable and I become restless. I feel confined and to sate the itch I have to step out. Try confining me and I’ll make your afternoon very unpleasant. Its something I’ve never got rid off to date. Plus back then I still loved amber colored intoxicants and a cold one is just heavenly from noon onwards. X never used to understand what was so good out there more than her and so most of the days I obeyed my itch I would be a man under siege.
I think X attended Para military nursery or she attended the elite Reece squad drills in Close Quarter Combat while I was out obeying my itch for when I came home I never used to find X but a wannabe mujahideen. I don’t know why it is so hard for women to understand that when you hang out with the boys you have no idea of time. No matter how many times you glimpse at your watch, it always seems to be 7pm.
Since I have a natural dislike for indoors & couches, am usually the last person to leave the boy’s barazas. Of course that is usually not time you find hawkers on streets. I had over time mastered the stealth mode act so immediately after the main gate as approached the flat I used to automatically go into this mode. I would slowly turn the key and once inside would tiptoe to hit the light switch. Nothing! Blackout! X had also mastered the fuse box and how to manipulate it. Blackout meant Beirut and immediately I would engage combat mode. Milliseconds later, a shrill war cry accompanied by the f word would shatter the silence and with it came all sorts of missiles. Plates, cups, chopping board, bar soaps, tissue and an a collection of heels. The fridge was spared for it was too heavy for her, the cooker for she was an enemy of hunger, the TV and DVD for obvious reasons. So for the next hour I would be engaged with a Jihadi girlfriend who had the advantage of cutlery ammunition and Para military techniques while the neighbors took notes. I was a man under siege. A hostage in my own place and X the terrorist. After X exhausting her cutlery grenades and I my dodging energy we would engage the adulterous make up mode and life would move on. Being young and stupid has its perks. By the way why do women scream while assaulting you? Its usually so well staged even the gate soldier doesn’t buy your story that you’re actually the one under siege.
The Paris terrorist act is despicable no matter the angle you try looking it. There is absolutely no joy in killing or getting killed. No religion on earth or other planets gives reason or justification to take away another person’s life through terrorist Acts. Again there is no human of more importance than the other. A life is a life. Period! We should rise above our hypocrisy and condemn all acts of terrorism whether they occur in Somali, in Syria itself or even Lebanon. They are in no way less human. They also bear the scars and pain.
If you have to hide it, it’s bullshit. If you have to defend it, it’s bullshit. If you have to convince yourself that the good outweighs the bad, its bullshit. If you have to tell people that they just don’t understand, it’s bullshit. And every terrorist knows that.