La Dulce Vida - Da Soul Hip Blog Queen

"If you're nice to them, they give you extra time", and it was only when I was typing a message to the Prisoner Locating Service (no information can be given over the phone) wondering whether I should sound aggressive on Babyfather's behalf, that I realised that Dani meant the people at the internet cafe - not the prison guardians.

Now I have to wait ten working days to know whether Babyfather will give his consent or not. If he's locked up, that is. I may be wrong - my logic has failed me before, but I think I'll get some answers regardless, because either

- he will consent and I get to see him.
- he will not consent and no information will be given to me. At least I'll know where he is.
- they have no record of Babyfather and I will have to rule out my favourite theory.

Distance makes heart grow fonder, but so does a court sentence, I think. Right now I'm missing Babyfather so much that if he only comes back, I'm willing to play the 1950s and answer to his "I'm home, honey!" in high heels, with a freshly baked cake and slippers that I've warmed for him between my manicured hands. If he only came back.

I thought I was making a rational argument.
“I know this seems far fetched now, but you’re barely 20. In a year or two I may be wanting different things... Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“I understand that. What I don’t understand is that you have an issue with me being younger than you and that that might get on the way when you want to have a baby, but then you don’t have an issue with sleeping with these dickheads who don’t look after the babies they already have.”

He thinks I’m a typical, stupid mixed race girl – the kind he can’t stand – who thinks she is too fine and lets guys take advantage of her not knowing that there is a better way to go. He can see where this is going. It’s just a matter of time that I will be impregnated by a sexist dog who should be in prison.

How dares he.

I spent most of the 1990s entertaining suicidal thoughts because my thighs and bum were big. Now in my twenties I’m enjoying my life for the very same reason, and sometimes let a few selected males appreciate the fact that despite some serious attempts I never managed to starve myself to death. The way I see this is that one day I may become a baby mother to one of the selected males and then we live happily ever after until he tells me that
a) there is another baby mama or
b) he’s going to jail or
c) a + b.



And then he does all the Usher moves. (But doesn’t look like him – although what do I care at this point?) That experience will make me very strong inside and give me the spark I need to become an artist. It will make me vegetarian, I'll grow dreads and start wearing a big headscarf. I will perform spoken word in my local community centre to other single mothers – can you feel the pain? – while my mother babysits for Jamal and Lakeesha. And still I rise...
“You seem to have a very low opinion of me and my judgement.”
“I didn’t mean to sound that harsh. It’s just that I want to show you the right way. I want to make you feel better about yourself.”
“I don’t feel bad about myself…”

I was taken aback. All those times he had been in my house and never tried it on! How was I supposed to know that he liked me in the first place?
“Because I respected you! I thought I was doing the right thing! Or is it that you expect every guy who likes you to jump on you?
“Well. Basically. Yeah.”
He thinks I’ve been corrupted by Jamaicans. His Caribbean granddad had warned him – never ever let a Jamaican near your girlfriend or sister.
“It’s not just me! All my friends were also wondering why you weren’t making a move.”
“Yeah, but all your friends are strippers!”
“Only two of them. And one of them has quit stripping because she got pregnant by this guy who by the way is Asian, and who f***ed off to India to promote his music career, and then she found a photo of a man that looked like him doing it doggy style with this next white woman in his phone, and he says it’s not him.
“What?”
“He says it’s his friend.”
“Bullshit. Men wouldn’t have photos of their friends having sex.
“That’s what I was saying. Anyway, that’s the kind of guys I’m used to.”
He said he didn't really feel sorry for my friend, because (and this was directed at me) if you sleep with dogs you catch fleas… Well, I guess there are worse things out there one can catch.

It was all a bit hard to take. Afterwards I texted Best Friend: “OMG! He says he loves me but thinks I’m a slut!” I was brushing my teeth when my phone rang. I thought it was Best Friend wanting some detail. It was him.
“Can we keep this between us?”
“Sure.”
“I mean, you’re not gonna go and chat to you friends and all that?”
“Of course not.”
“Ok. Just making sure.”

I sat down to think this through. How was I supposed to know he liked me like that? He hadn’t as much as held my hand! That was a bit too Victorian for me. Even if we forget the past, he had a plenty of opportunity to grope me last night when we were having this discussion. That would have saved us so much hassle. We could have had this conversation afterwards, like when I’m asking for money for the pill. That’s what normal people do. First you party, then you have a hang-over - not the other way round, because being hung-over first would put you off partying.

Is it the age thing? Is it because he’s so young? Nah, it can’t be that. Remember Andre? Andre, who turned out to be Michael’s former classmate? I haven’t seen him in a while, because he’s busy with his court case, but he was the dirtiest, freakiest thing I’ve ever shared a bed with!
So I can rule out the age factor.
Unless…
Unless he’s a V*****!

After that conclusion, I started writing, because that’s not chatting, is it?

But just in case – can we keep this between us?

PS. Seriously.
PPS. Best Friend found this tune for me (she keeps finding them - she should do my soundtrack). Pay special attention to the last verse.

The Truth
(Anthony Hamilton)


You must be safe when you fall in love
People need, the time you and I share together,
compromise, try and see eye to eye, cause love's not blind,
it knows when you care
Always kiss ya lady, tell her that you love her,
prayin make a baby that was made in love, show her
she's important, bring flowers for her,
and build on the truth

If you take a little walk with me girl
i'll lead you to the truth and if you never give up on me,
girl i'll share it all with you,
show directions when I lost my way,
I'll be around to stay, to show you the truth

If you trust me, I'll make sure to build you up,
through all your dreams, you and I will grow
together, forget your past,
the love you had that never last,
God knew your heart and I was made for you

Girl I won't mistreat you,
always make love to you,
go to church together, even get baptised too,
we can read the bible,
play mommas, fathers,
this marriage is true

At the MHV event we took some pictures, and then Jada wanted to get a 'boys only' shot, so that she could send it to her friends in America. Apparently, the sistahs are crazy about the British accent. The boys posed like they were shooting for a Bride catalogue.
“Jada, I can’t really say that I agree with what you’re doing,” I interfered. “You are going to export the few educated black males we have here to America, where there are enough men as it is?”
“No there isn’t! They are all in prison,” she protested.
“Oh yeah? Why do you think Cameron wants to build more prisons in England? Eh?”
Let’s look at some facts:
- Black British prisoners make up 12 per cent of the prison population although they make only two per cent of the general population. A Black British male is more likely to enter prison than university.
-If the current trends continues, every third Black man in the United States will go to prison.

Doesn’t look great in either side of the Atlantic. I got a bit worried. All my life I’ve been planning an exile to the US as a romantic refugee. Now my chances look quite grim. But then there’s Shihan.
I found Shihan in Russell Simmons’ Def Poetry and ever since losing my heart to him I’ve been spying on him in MySpace (I love it!). He’s not in prison but technically not free either as he is married and has a daughter. (I can’t see any other reason why he wouldn’t have added me as a friend.)



Life is so unfair. All the good things happen in America. And what do we get? Flipping bird flu.

PS. Best Friend was taken on a date by a nice man who she’s not attracted to (She’s so out of order – leading those poor men on and then slamming the door on their face!). She had time to text me: “I know you’d like it here, good looking men (I think - I haven’t got my glasses) good music, proper ghetto boys. Shame I’m not with you x.” Can you hear me sigh?

Obviously, when I said 'nothing is going to happen tonight' – I didn’t consider that this would expire in the morning. Well, it was all over before Akon sang his last ‘I wanna f*** you’, but don’t be too hard on Darryl! He didn’t get much sleep. He had to get up early to drive up to Leicester to see his brother in prison.
“It’s not a nice place.”
“Have you been in jail?”
“Yeah.” (I’ve found my match!)
“You can’t get to the States then.”
“Is it? ‘Cause I got a driving offence?”
“Dunno…I just know they don’t give you a visa if you got a record. What – you got parking tickets?”
“Nah. I assaulted a police.”
“That’s not a driving offence, Darryl.”
“I know.”
He straightened his hat. “You ever been locked up?”
“Of course. I killed my gran.”
“For real?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, baby, I’m gonn phone you later, still. I really enjoyed myself.” He kissed me. A man with lips like chocolate mousse can get away with a murder. Or maybe not.
“Ok.”
Can’t wait.



Five hours earlier:

“Are you sleeping?”
“No.”
“Do you mind if I take my jeans off.”
“No.”
“I don’t really sleep with my clothes on.”
“Make yourself comfortable.”
I watched as he stripped out of his jeans and jumper, but left his hat on. “You know nothing’s gonna happen tonight.”
“That’s cool.”
“Just letting you know, ok?”


Five hours earlier:

I didn’t want to go the cinema. Watching a film on a first date is so lame. By the end of it you know more about James Bond than the person you sat next to. You spend three hours together without saying a word to each other.
Which is exactly why we should have gone to the cinema. We went for a drink instead. It was the first time Darryl had taken a girl for a drink. Usually he takes a girl to the cinema. He had hard time trying to convince me he’s 26.

Because it snowed on Thursday, Birmingham was a ghost town last night. The music was loud and sounded metallic in the empty bar. There was more communication going on between me and Archers and lemonade than me and Darryl.
“Have you got any kids?” he then asked me. The icebreaker question.
“No. Why?”
“Just aksing.”
“You saying that, because you think I’m old?”
“Nah, you’re not old, baby! It’s just dat usually gyals your age have babies, you get me?”
“Well. I haven’t. Have you?”
Why did I ask?
“Yeah. I got a son, still.”
“Oh yeah? How old is he?
“One. But I ain’t seen him for three months. I don’t get on with the baby mama, you get me.”
“That’s sad. What you gonna do about it?” I was thinking about a long custody case and repeated visits to the court.
“Nutting. He’ll find me, you get me.”
“He’ll find you? He’s a baby!”
“The baby mama will find me.”
“It sounds like she don’t wanna find you, though.”
“She will, though, because I’m gonn’ be the P Diddy of England.”
Of course – there’s always that.
“Bad boy...” I said and played with the ice cubes in my glass.
“P Diddy ain’t no bad boy really. It’s just his label.”
“Well, what’s yours?”
“United Ghettos.”
“United Ghettos?”
“You’re laughing?”
“I swear I’m not.”
He’s just finished writing a hit single. He told me about his plan to conquer the States. He’s getting bigger. He’s got connections, you get me?
“So yeah, baby. But I have to do some paper work every now and then.”
“Paper work?”
“’419’. You know. Fraud." He smiled and his gold teeth flashed in the disco light and mesmerized me. "But I’m an honest guy. You get me. I always tell the truth. Even when I lie.”
Having a Cuban connection means that I’m in a special debt to Scarface for having every guy I go out with audition for me as Tony Montana. Here’s a confession: I haven’t seen Scarface to the end. Am I letting my country down? Say goodnight to the bad guy.



“So what drives you? Do you sing?”
“No.”
“You don’t wanna be a singer?”
“No.”
“What you wanna be, baby?”
A lesbian.
“Writer.”
“For real? You write songs and dat?”
“No. Stories and stuff.”
“For real? Yeah. That’s heavy, ma’. You gonn be a writer and all dat.”
“And all dat.”
“Can you sing for me though?”
“No.”
“So where do you get your stories, baby?”