2015 Conviction

I haven’t had a definitive new year’s resolution in a long time. I, like many people, have often felt that setting an unrealistic goal for the year is futile. In thinking about resolutions, I decided to look more broadly at beliefs or convictions and how they have the power to affect change in one’s life. With that in mind, my guiding conviction for 2015 has to do with how I perceive success: (insert overused graphic)


I’ve been working quite diligently at a few personal projects and beating myself down when I stumble. Mentally I can see the progress I’ve made, but I find it difficult to overcome a self-inflicted setback. I’m aware that we are all human and we make mistakes, but no matter how much progress I make, or how many times I tell myself I’m trending positive, I can’t help but feel like a failure when I screw up. It’s always as if I’ve derailed the entire train. My mission for 2015 is to stop feeling that way. I want to see the lesson in all my failures and be more intentional about forgiving myself. More importantly, I want to appreciate that I am closer to where I want to be. The final outcome is a direct result of both my successes and failures. What matters is continued, deliberate effort.

I enjoyed this TEDx talk by Mel Robbins. She emphasizes the need for us to parent ourselves into getting what we want out of life and being the people we want to be. I love what she says about never “feeling like it.” This could not be more true. Doing the hard work necessary all the time, but especially after we screw up, is so important.

I hope to maintain this approach throughout the rest of the year. As I move into my mid-20s (oh lawd), self love and forgiveness seem more and more important. I truly believe they light the path to success in all forms.


African Hairdressers and the Axes of Evil

I am officially ready to embrace the cold, folks. Black girls, you know what this means. For everyone else, loose translation: my winter hair has arrived!



If you are about to say something to the effect of “oh, but I thought you were going natural?” save it. Natural means no chemical straighteners. All naturals know the value of protective styling, especially on this godforsaken continent. When temperatures plummet far below zero, my ‘fro needs to hibernate. Fret not, she’ll be back in the spring.

Getting this done was a mission and a half. It always is – CAN I GET A AMEN? Over the years, I have had the pleasure of interacting with many different hairdressers. Due to the styles I prefer, I tend to require the services of mainly African hairstylists (predominantly braiders). In my experience they’ve been at least 70% West African. My years of research in the field have led me to the following conclusion:

An African hairdresser may be one or two, but NEVER all three of the following dimensions:

  1. Friendly
  2. Conveniently-located
  3. Good at her job

Scenario A: Friendly + conveniently-located = a terrible braider


I am beyond unimpessed

Scenario B: An awful person + lives/works at least an hour away from you = an exceptional braider


Hair looks tight..as does something else in this picture

Scenario C: Friendly + good at her job = lives in an entirely different city/country


Would it be crazy to move back to England for a hairdresser?

More often than not, I have equated a good hair braider with a terrible personality. I am sorry, but it’s just always worked out this way. When I have had braiders who were nice, offered me food and took breaks, the quality of their work wasn’t that great over time.

My most recent experience conformed to these expectations. I trekked an hour and 45 mins to the house of a Senegalese woman who literally said no more than 15 words to me all day. May I remind you this braiding experience took six hours? Exactly. She just wouldn’t talk. Trust me, I am not at the hairdressers to make friends. Something else that can be irritating is a hairdresser who doesn’t stop talking for six hours straight. But this woman was watching her Nigerian movies and yapping nonstop on her cellphone (at the same time), yet failed to acknowledge my presence as more than a floating head in need of attention. I loved the end result, but couldn’t be more pleased to get the hell out of there.

Anyone else find themselves bolting at the speed of light to get away from their hairdresser? How do you reconcile not connecting on a personal level with someone who has the ability to craft such an integral part of your physical appearance?

The struggle is real.

I Wish I Were White


I vividly recall having this thought for the first time at the age of seven. I had fallen in love with a popular white boy in my Grade 2 class. As the months progressed and my friends and I shared our crushes, it became apparent who everyone thought should marry whom.

Whitestone School prided itself on being a model for post-colonial Zimbabwe. Black, Indian, coloured and (mainly) white children all attended school together, united by their mutual respect and shared values of nondiscrimination. As we sat side by side in our favourite tunnel in the playground, we reflected on our chosen soulmates:

“Mandi and Nicholas

Chantal and Jonathan

Megan and Jack

Susan and…Nyasha”

“Nyasha?” I asked the ring leader. “I love Jonathan, not Nyasha. I want to marry Jonathan,” I announced defiantly. “Well you can’t because you’re black,” she said matter-of-factly. “You can marry Nyasha instead.” That was it.

It wasn’t as if I didn’t know I was black before then. However, the incident was the first time I became aware that this thing, this “blackness” could prevent me from being equally considered for opportunities. As the years went on, this disconnect manifested itself through fantasy and child’s play. My sister and I donned brightly coloured head scarves that we called our “hair” and fought over who got to play with the blonde, blue-eyed barbie. My parents responded calmly and began buying different kinds of dolls. When my dad returned from a work trip with one black and one brown barbie, my sister and I spent the night fighting over who got the lighter-skinned one. As the younger sibling, I won and named my “Indian” barbie Monique. Although she was not white, she was lighter than me, and I knew that meant she was better.

I started having dreams about the older version of myself. She was smart, successful, tall and…white. Back up a second, what child dreams about growing up to be white? Perhaps one who had been obsessed with Michael Jackson and thought people could magically grow up to be a different race. One day, puzzled by this repetitive dream in which I took centre stage at the MTV Music Awards, my long brunette hair flowing down my back, a twinkle in my (blue) eyes and a firmly gripped microphone ready to serenade the audience, I asked my mother if I could be like Michael Jackson. She laughed enthusiastically and said luckily, I would be black forever.

token 2

I’ll give you $10 if you can spot me in this photo

Somewhere along the line I moved to Toronto: a hub of multiculturalism. A city as diverse as sugar is sweet. I became much more comfortable in my blackness and began to believe it was more than okay.  I noticed in Canada an excessive politeness where the topic of race was concerned (read: “I don’t see race, I just see people” and other pathetic arguments). I saw a willful ignorance about race politics and a need to make comparisons to its failing neighbour, the US. Meanwhile, similar injustices are happening on our very own Canadian soil.

When the grand jury delivered its verdict in Ferguson, many in my social circle expressed their dissatisfaction with the decision not to indict Darren Wilson for killing Mike Brown. Many ask us not to focus on race, but rather class when examining issues like the militarization of the police. Whatever the case, it reified the sentiment that many of us have been fighting not to internalize all our lives: black isn’t good, therefore black lives don’t matter. 

Earlier, I read a powerful piece on Medium about white supremacy and the privileges afforded to white people. While I am not an advocate of “white guilt”, I believe white people being involved in meaningful racial dialogue is crucial. I have many friends and acquaintances who do not engage on these issues, not because they don’t have opinions, but for fear of being branded racist at the extreme or horribly misinformed at the very least. To that, I say we welcome and need your participation. If you are worried about how to begin, try THIS APPROACH before choosing not to share your views.

Most days I love being black. I love my dark skin and my newly natural hair. I am proud of the short, afro-haired, black woman I have become. When society shows us we are not worthy and the system meant to protect fails us miserably, it can be hard to believe in our worth. In times like these, I call on a personal favourite and I rise


It’s Nov. 6th, which means my favourite time of year is fast-approaching. With that said, I know it’s important to be inclusive. Who am I to assume everyone celebrates my favourite holiday as religiously as I do? Regardless, I can’t help but count down to………..NOV. 15th: the first Love Actually viewing of the year!! 

**FAVE SCENE** #younginterraciallove #biased

Every Nov. 15th,  I begin regularly watching Love Actually to ring in the festive season. This means from Nov. 15th onwards, I watch the film (bi?) weekly until Christmas. It’s crucial to begin this marathon in mid-November lest one suffer Hugh Grant/Colin Firth-fatigue before Christmas Eve (AS IF). Also, can we talk about how Thomas Sangster aka Jojen Reed from Game of Thrones still looks EXACTLY THE SAME? Christmas Eve is the pinnacle of the W network’s Love Actually showings. I always know I can count on them. It is also the day when other people are most likely to want to watch the film with me, validating its essential place in our lives.

In anticipation of this event, I have loaded up on rhubarb chai and will be listening to this mashup, which I think you should all check out:




The Hairy Truth

Hair is an integral part of every woman’s life. However, as most women know, the standards of beauty set by the media often aren’t realistic. When it comes to hair, black women are particularly affected as our hair is anything but “straight and silky.” As a result, we tackle a variety of styles. Allow me to take you on my hair journey:

Washing woes

grade 2     fro

There is no time in a young black girl’s life more feared than washing her hair. I cannot explain the crippling anxiety, pain, and tears I experienced. It is not the washing, but rather the detangling that strikes fear in the hearts of black girls everywhere. My mother would chase me through the house, eventually dragging me to the bathroom, where my fate was sealed. Twenty minutes later, I would emerge red-eyed and raw-scalped. “Beauty is pain, my dear,” she’d always say.

The relaxer diaries

relaxer   relaxer

Getting my hair relaxed for the first time was incredible. I’ll never forget running my fingers through my hair without them getting stuck or tangled. I was struck by how much more manageable my hair was. This was soon replaced by anxiety about when my next appointment to tame the natural growth would be.


stjamespark1    bob    weave

Over the past few years, I’ve experimented with weaves. Weaves are carefree and fun, but at the three-week mark, your scalp begins to itch like no other: pat your weave, ladies. While weaves added variety to my look, they were financial headaches that deepened my insecurities about my natural hair.

Au naturel

current fro 2     current fro

In May of this year, I decided I’d had enough of the obsession with relaxers, weaves and long, straight hair. One day, I asked my sister to do the big chop. While it was terrifying, I instantly felt closer to my truth as a black woman.

Black Women and Identity: What’s Hair Got To Do With it by Cheryl Thompson, is a great read for anyone wanting to learn more.

I Hope You Dance

This post is half a joke and half a legit revelation. After a less-than-kind weekend/start to the week, i found myself cruising the interwebz and landing on this gem:

This video is awful. The song is also irritatingly repetitive. However, on closer listen, and trust me it shocked me too, you will note that Lee Ann is kind of an inspirational life coach.

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance

Never settle for the path of least resistance

Livin’ might mean takin’ chances but they’re worth takin’

AND the best line: And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance…I HOPE YOU DANCE!

Yes, this is horribly cheesy and off-putting, but goddammit I need some real sap to get through this week.


This lovely specimen of a grade 7 Neha and myself comes to you courtesy of my living room in Zimbabwe circa 2002, where I know we were dancin’ up a storm. Be still my <3.


On Expectations

A week ago, I turned 24 and didn’t have a major crisis about it. Those of you who know me are probably rolling your eyes and wagging your fingers thinking that is a complete lie, but I’ll tell you why it isn’t. In previous years, I’d spent half of my birthday trying to freeze time and the other half mourning the time I’d wasted. Why am I not Gabby Douglas? Is it too late to be the youngest, greatest, Tanzanian tennis player of all time? Will I have at least 50K facebook/twitter followers by 25 (or 27) ? Just kidding – no one (except me) wants to be internet famous.

The truth is, it’s incredibly self-involved and one-dimensional to lament the failure to reach a set of unrealistic expectations. Not only are we blessed with opportunities to succeed and the capabilities to reach our goals, we are fortunate to have a skill much less utilised. This is the ability to love ourselves. I used to proudly declare myself a lifelong pessimist. I inherently believed this was an unshakeable fact of life. Then I realised something glaringly obvious to almost everyone (or so it seemed): Feeling shitty makes you feel shittier. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how many times you hear it. It takes a while to sink in.


As much as I like to think otherwise, I highly doubt I am wiser at 24 than I was at 21 or 18. The difference this year is I am choosing to love and accept myself. This year, I am setting goals and holding myself accountable to them with the expectation that if I fail, I will still love and be kind to myself. I will make new goals and continue to buy myself a celebratory KitKat when I’ve walked the two blocks home from Bathurst station, instead of taking the 511 streetcar – BECAUSE I AM WONDERFUL! If I can use half the energy necessary for self-criticism to nurture a healthy relationship with myself, I will be much better off.

So here’s to KitKats, 10,000 steps and daily affirmations!

P.S. Welcome to soojourner 🙂 Hope you stick around!