Autobiography - Books - The Journey - My Life as a Woman

madu

When I came into my world I was a baby girl. My mother knew this because the doctor told her so. My father knew this because my mother told him so. The doctor knew this, because, according to him, he just knew. Of course, no one thought it necessary to question the doctor. So, it was accepted that I would be a baby girl, but, by the time anyone told me what it meant to be a baby girl, I had already come to believe, after two years of carefully observing my older brother, that my brother and I were exactly the same, except that he had a strange and unfortunate growth between his legs, which made him a male child and I was a female child. Males were called boys and females were called girls. In the years to come I would convince myself, with some help from the miseducation, the media, various societies and several suspicious individuals that I was either a lady, a woman, a man or a female man, before understanding the wisdom of my innocence. I am female.

amisha

I knew another female child. She lived in Angaru where everyone had a car and everyone had a TV set. This girl was like any other girl from Angaru except that she had very short toes, except, for the big toe on her left foot, which was twice as long as any other toe. When she stood still her big toe rested sluggishly to the left, which made it appear useless, but as soon as she took a step it came alive like a snake out of a charmer's basket.

Long before I ever spoke a word to this girl I spent many hours watching her toe, fascinated by its movements. The way it move when it was happy, excited, nervous, sad and scared. Eventually the toe became more important than the girl so that I was now looking at an unusually long toe with a little girl attached to it, but after I met her I realized that she was a lot more interesting than a toe, no matter how long and how odd that toe may be. She had long legs, which was probably the reason she won all the school races. She had the deepest dimples I had ever seen. Her hair was shiny, curly, and it was always plaited in two and tied with pink ribbons with small white roses embroidered on them. She had a funny voice that sounded like she was singing the scales for our music teacher every time she spoke, and it sounded even funnier when she said my name. She would softly, almost like a loud whisper, call out "Merr Duu", and I would always correct her by saying "Madu, Madu. MAA DOO. M. A. D. U." in a voice that tried desperately to mimic hers. This word play became the usual greeting between us. She would say my name, I would correct her, and then we would both laugh. She was my friend.

Her name was Amisha. Amisha always smelled of baby powder. On Sundays, Amisha always wore patent leather shoes with little tassels, and had a freshly showered appearance no matter what time of day it was. Amisha always did well in class. Amisha always said "please" and "thank you." When I knew Amisha, I knew no one else. I did not want to know anyone else. It did not matter to me whether I liked Amisha or not because Amisha liked me. She would boast to her other friends about me. "Merr Duu can climb the pomme-rac tree. Merr Duu can play pitch." She would say with an air of superiority and I would look at her a little confused. I couldn't understand what was so special about climbing trees or playing pitch. To look at Amisha was just like looking at the pictures. Amisha's life resembled pretty pictures from a storybook. Everyday after school and early on Saturdays Amisha would hold me by the hand, and like a little girl running with a balloon she would pull me into her storybook land. In there voices floated around with a life of their own, everyone wore clothes made from fine fabrics, that looked liked cotton candy, and music could be heard everywhere. At the end of the day, we would walk out of the storybook and magically appear at my front door, Amisha would hug me, kiss me on my forehead and with a great big smile on her lips she would turn and walk slowly back into her book with a her big toe wagging like a dog's tail. From my window I watched her fade into the book as the pages disappeared behind a familiar hard exterior. There was no way to enter into storybook land without Amisha. It was simply beyond my reach.

Inside my world my mother would make me wash off all the cotton candy stuck to my body. Then she would rub me down with coconut oil to take away the smell, which she said reminded her of a time she had long forgotten "until that Amisha came prancing into my life with her toe. She doesn't know yet," my mother would say, "but everyone on Amadilla knows what that toe means." Then she would shake her head and say, "you be careful in storybook land. Don't eat anything, don't drink anything. You are Madu. Don't ever forget that.

At the kitchen table, looking at my father, my mother and the food in front of me, and then at the food in front of my father, I wondered if the food had anything to do with how I would look when I got older. I liked the way my mother looked but somehow inside I wanted to look like my father because my father never complained about storybook land.

Girls played make believe games, boys played rough games. Since I liked being rough, whilst playing games I made up myself, I naturally had come to understand that I was different. I could beat any boy at any game whether it was ancient or I had just made it up right there on the spot, but now I like playing with Amisha, who enjoyed playing jacks and morals. I was a boy, without a tingy, who liked girls, much unlike the other boys, who, for some reason, which I could never understand, wanted nothing to do with girls. I also thought that since I did not have a tingy, I was not a male boy but I was in fact a female boy, which should mean that I would grow to be a man, a female man, but a man nonetheless. This thought excited me because as a man I would be able to be with a woman and so I could marry Amisha, live in storybook land, and Amisha would never complain about me climbing trees, or playing rough, because Amisha was proud of me, and, of course, I would get to play with her toe all the time.

the dream

There I am sitting next to a very old man in a park. The park is filled with people from a circus. There are jugglers, fire eaters, acrobats and clowns. A band marches by led by a very tiny man playing a gigantic tuba, which has to be held up for him by six even smaller men. There is a recurring laughter skipping around the park. Sometimes it gets really close to me so that I could feel it tickling my neck, but when I reach out to touch it, it hops away to the other side of the park like a scared rabbit. Sometimes the laughter is loud and sometimes it sputters and dies before it really begins to be immediately replaced by another. The old man pays no attention to any of this. He just sits there looking at the sky. It is an unusual reddish color, the sky that is. The clouds are wild like balls of cotton in a whirlwind. They misbehave themselves in the oddest way. Moving against the wind, across the wind, standing still, then bursting away, making swooshing noises like aero planes. A flock of birds circle the park then fly swiftly down to the roof of one of the huts, which is directly behind the old man and me. I turn to look at the birds and see that there are a few people sitting not too far from the old man and me. They are completely motionless except for their eyes. What strange eyes they have, very bright and very dark, like black diamonds. "Those are the kind of eyes which see everything," says the old man and I feel a slight pain in my stomach, which makes me shiver and turn away. A snow-cone vendor passing by sings an old Shango song. The song is a popular song. I have heard it many times in the village.

I have seen the devil

his face is as clean as a whistle

Look 'e dey

look 'e dey

I begin to sing along with the snow cone man, but I soon stop to wipe the tears from my eyes. I miss my home. I want to go home, but I do not know the way home. In fact I do not know where I am. I am lost. I look up at the old man. I wonder where he lives, and with whom does he live. Does he have a name, a wife, children? He looks as if he has not been home for some time. His clothes are tattered and his fingers are filthy, large and bruised on the finger tips like a man that has been digging in the dirt with his hands. He wears an old straw hat, which has begun to unravel at the back and has a large hole on its crown. His feet are bare and swollen. His right ankle has an open sore, which is clearly infected. A very shy and lonely dog lies at his feet licking the sore every now and then. His hands rest lifelessly on his lap. I feel very sorry for the old man and I smile at him. It is an awkward smile and right after I do it I realize that it is the kind of smile, which can easily be misunderstood, but it is too late to take it back. The smile sticks out like a picture taken when you were not ready. I want to put on a more understanding face, a more sincere face, but I cannot. Now the old man will carry around my awkward smile in his memory like a Polaroid and every now then he will take it out of his memory bank and think, what an awkward smile this female boy has.

Everyone is looking at me with my ridiculous smile on my face. The snow cone man stops singing. The acrobats stop performing. The jugglers stop juggling. The people with the remarkable eyes blink twice in unison and then stare directly at me. Oh God! It is awful. I am about to scream. I close my eyes and hold my hand over my ears. The silence is too much. The old man chuckles. He chuckles, and then he mumbles, then chuckles again. I open my eyes and everyone has disappeared. The dog is gone. The old man's bruises have healed. His clothes are no longer tattered. His face does not look so aged. He unclasps his hands, stands up, looks up at the red sky, and laughs:

"My father always spoke to himself." The old man said then turned to face me and continued. "Now I do the same. In fact," he pauses and looks down at me with a very grave expression, "I have no life without understanding that I am alive and so often have to remind myself. Funny, huh?" and he laughs again. Then the old man disappears.

I am four days old and my aunt Paulita is seeing me for the very first time. She comes bustling through the door, her face an astonishing mixture of neon pink and cardinal red. She pinches and kisses her way across the floor moving ominously towards me. She mows down every person between the door and me, greedily devouring every "hello" and every "how do you do" like a social monster, just returned from exile. When Aunty Paulita finally arrives at my side, she smothers me in a fireworks display of affection. I am then called every thing but my name and kissed on every part of my tiny body. Satisfied with that part of her ritual, Aunty Paulita ceremoniously opens her bag and pulls out the dress. The dress is held high like a sacrificial offering and then she slowly turns towards me and covers me with the large pink and white dress. "This is for the lady." She beams and in a flash of blinding white light she is gone.

Someone tugs hard at my hand. It is the old man pulling me towards him, shouting at me, but I cannot hear him. The words are drowned out by the rushing of water. My hand is slipping. I am falling. I do not want to fall. My hand slips. I am going to fall. I close my eyes, but I do not fall. When I open my eyes I am standing at the edge of the Dry River. The river bed is filled with litter, mud and mosquito infested pools, and my dress. There is my dress lying half embedded in the mud. The old man stands next to me. He bends low and whispers in my ear, "You must remember that the way to find home is to follow the person inside, and be aware of your father, he is not going home."

then came the summer of silence

Silence befriended me one summer. Silence held me close and kept me cool. Buried deep in the safety of its huge bosom I shyly peeped at the world I knew and absorb that which I saw, then snuggled again in the warmth of detachment and sleep, for I had committed murder.

I could not believe what I had done. During the night, while everyone else slept, I had gone mad and in my madness, I had murdered the one who did not speak. The bloody sheets were witness to this most horrible deed. Quick, hide the sheets! I hid the sheets. Scrub the mattress you fool. I did. Wash your hands! I did. Wash them again! I did. But the blood. the blood never stopped. The blood flowed from the scene of the crime. It flowed from me. Oh lord what have I done.

I was twelve years old and was going to hell for something I had done while I was sleeping. What was this bloody business. So I hid myself. I was ashamed. Then I was angry. Anger became hatred. I hated the world. It was cruel. I was cruel. It was bad. I was bad. Prayer brought little conciliation. Apparently, there was no redemption for such a sin. I would do anything to bring back what I had killed. I would go to the church's summer camp. I would wear those ugly dresses my mother wanted me to wear. I would stop talking back to my elders. I was willing to do anything. I was even willing to stop talking all together. I was always told that I should not speak so I wouldn't. I made a deal with God. I would not say a single word, unless absolutely necessary. Not one word until I was forgiven.

At the Abikiki Missionary Camp, no one bothered to talk to the timid girl, and so I was left alone to pray, take long walks, and to help in the kitchen and garden. Summer had come rolling in like an enormous beach ball. Summer fruits filled the basket of every home and the persistent wind created a pelau of flavours and then drove this well loved aroma around the country telling everyone, summer is here, summer has arrived. Up in the mountain, where I was, we lived directly under the avalanche of summer. The mountain was home tomore fruit trees than I knew, and even more plants and flowers. The summer rain, like a concerned gardener, would spray the mountain every now and then, just enough to keep the dry away. The flowers were plentiful and beautiful and the night time would bring out the summer choir of insects and animals. No one was permitted out alone after dark, which was okay because no one wanted to go out into the dark. That would disturb the rhythm. It was all very beautiful, and I was still very sad.

On the second Wednesday of my stay at the camp we were all called to a meeting. We were told that a woman, a very important woman, was going to speak to us. Ms. Attaman, from the Ministry of Better Family Affairs, had come to the camp to speak to us about something very important. She had come to the camp to talk to us about family planning. Ms. Attaman stood up in front of us. "I understand that you are all between the ages of eleven and fourteen. It is safe to presume then that some of you have already experienced your first monthly bleeding. Those who have, please raise your hands." I watched amazed by how many girls around me rose their hands. For a while I heard nothing else as the word "bleeding" echoed in my mind. It was everywhere I looked. All of these girls had bled. Oh my god, I thought, we are all murderers.

Ms. Attaman continued. "You should not be afraid. This is a very normal and necessary process. All it means is that you are no longer girls but you are now young ladies. It also means that you now have the ability to become mothers. This ability is the most important part of your development, and it is this I wish to speak to about." I was sure that I must have fallen down. I was dizzy. I felt weak. I could not believe what I was hearing. Lady! I was going to be a lady! This was necessary! Murder was necessary! Girls became ladies. I was a girl! I thought I was a female boy. Nature had committed murder so that I could be a lady. I listened through my confused state of mind to Ms. Attaman as she continued to explain.

That day I learned of menstruation, pregnancy, abortion. I heard of the menstrual cycle, symptoms of pre-menstrual syndrome, and about a certain hormone called oestrogen. After Ms. Attaman had left, the girls all gathered around to talk about their first experiences. I listened, amazed that no one else had any thoughts of murder. I walked silently away and sat by myself thinking. I still believed that something had died that day. I must be different. I told no one what I thought. I told no one anything. I had resolved myself, even more than before, to be silent, except that, when I was alone, I sang. The days grew long and the nights even longer. Without the interruption of the spoken word my mind became creative. I had crawled through a tunnel of silence and entered into a mental world which previously did not exist. The rest of my days at the camp consisted of a relentless search, in this mental world, for shelter from the guilt of a deed my mind had convinced itself it had committed.

June faded into July, July reluctantly gave way to August, and August escorted in the rains. The constant night time rainfall provided a trance like rhythm which hypnotised me and further stimulated my search. Lost in an endless city of thought, I became oblivious to my surroundings. I would sit alone on the roof of the shed in the garden by the park and watch the river, and the cows as they drank. I sat and enjoyed my alone-ness. In my secret world I had found many answers to unknown questions. This had excited me and had somehow eased the pain and the grief. My whole being began to be an extension of my mind, and I realised that the body I saw in the mirror only existed through my thoughts.

Summer was almost over. I had gotten used to the blood but not the explanation. I still remembered my promise to God and I still hoped for a miracle. I just could not believe that I had no choice in this physical development. I did not want to be a lady. I did not want to be a girl. And I was certainly not ready to become a woman.

anjana

I once had a friend who was as beautiful as beautiful could be. From the first time I saw her I stopped what I was doing and I did not continue to do what I was doing until I never saw her again.

Anjana Butler was three years older than I was. She was not from Amadila. She was from Awasi, an island about two days by boat from Amadila. Anjana had come to Amadila to attend The School of Improving Relations. Her parents lived on the mainland and she would be going to meet them as soon as she was finished with school. Anjana's eyes looked like jumbie beads. Her hair was short, almost bald. She had a broad smile which revealed teeth as white as coconut jelly. She was not very muscular but she was very strong. She played football, tennis and ran on the school track team. There was a warmth about her which, accompanied by her rich, pure and sweet voice, made me feel welcomed. Whenever Anjana said something that was very important she would end the statement with a serious sounding, "yah. You are a beautiful woman, yah," was the first thing she ever said to me. My eyes smiled at her and my body trembled, jiggling my thoughts and making them difficult to translate. So I stood there staring at her unable to say anything. Never had anyone used the word woman to describe me. I thought about that for a while and came to the conclusion that I liked the sound of it.

The Autumn rains had washed the island with fruits, rain flies, sweet flies, house flies and many different scents blended in the early afternoon sun to an indistinguishable mood that was the precursor to the dry season. Anjana and I sat under the mocoa tree behind the old school and inhaled deeply. Anjana lived her life like a dream, or so I believed. Although she liked sports a lot, literature was her true love. She often spoke to me in dreamy poetic rhythms, telling me stories, which were so fantastic. She would say that these are the stories that exist on the other side of reality. She told me that every now and then she would stand on her toes and peep over the wall that bordered reality. She enjoyed these moments, I'm sure, as they were many, and I was always eager to listen. Her stories filled me with images, which would keep my mind busy for days.

Anjana loved the bush. She never wanted to be in the open air. We would walk under the trees and talk. Our hands held together by a feverish feeling of freedom. My eyes would never leave her. Every movement became a moment, a picture pasted on my inside, which, eventually, made my inside look like a bulletin board of devotion. No matter, I was happy. I was Anjana. She was me. Everything she said to me, stuck to me like picka. I listened intensely to every story and waited beside her like an eager dog panting at the table. One evening she told me a story I can never forget.

"Can you smell it Madu?"

"Yeah."

"That's Mother Nature. Let me tell you a story about the Mother, the Male and the Female."

Judas had no sex

Mama was not ready to give understanding. Looking deep into the future she smiled. The males were nowhere to be seen. But they must be, she mused, for without them manipulation becomes purposeless. She stretched her sight. Nothing.

Fire ravished her heart and the heat came as a million voices screaming in ecstasy. Earth, the silent guard of Mama, played host, as the all of all spoke. "The Earth is for you." Then she rested. The males were unafraid and the females were not hostile.

Her rest lasted these cycles. The cycle of time, where the mystery of it unfolded. The cycle of invention, born from idleness, curiosity and desire. Then came the cycle of masculinity and femininity. Males being as such chanted the untrue "We are man!" "You are women, wo-men, wo-men." The answer came with the incredible speed of anger. "Female!" Then the Earth intervened and said, "Mama creates consistently. We can only mimic her wishes. We are the fruits, which shall never rot. Our heat is at one with the core. Were it not for these things there would be no laughter."

Laugh they did, but the heavens quieted. Wild angels, who had ran off long ago, who now lived in conflict, mistrust, and greed, sped to Earth and hovered above the laughter, spellbound. The Females were laughing. All were laughing and the heavens were unsure of the meaning. Even the eldest angel, the one who had lost all colour, merely shook his head and ambled away. One heard him mutter as he left, "the future has embedded itself in the now so that everything in between can be guilt free." The Males sat at the edge of their universe in wordless contemplation. Mama had issued a threat. Only understood by a few, it was quickly related from one soul to another:

Beware you kill the fruit that is and

the seed of this fruit becomes dust!

Beware, males, that you so sting the pride of 'she' that the waves no longer frolic and

the river never dances with the sea!

Beware that this so shocks the heavens that the stars, in disgust, leave and the moon bleeds darkness for many cycles!

Be very aware of the possibility that comedy will not vanquish all emotions, and

that laughter an ailment becomes!

Then Mama slept again. The laughter ended with the threat. The females flocked to the centre and wept. Their tears created the pool of purity, which had been dry since before the cycles. The males indulged their anger and shook their fist defiantly at the Earth and Mama. For many nights they danced and stomped and jeered but no one heeded their strange theatrics. When time had lost all recognition and many men laid un-alive at the edge of the ever widening circle of frenzy, a female came unto them. "A wanderer", they whispered and she nodded. She rose her voice to match her intent and said; "Stop all and heed my words. Never have I seen a more invaluable search. The Earth moans with every non-accomplished intention. Yes, Mama has slept for long, far too long. Her slumber has become artificial. We all fear that she may never rise again. Maybe she dreams of an imminent future filled with a world we can never see. Still, can we not placate our prejudices by allowing our intellect to elope with our desires? Shall we allow our souls to chart the undulations of our misunderstood emotions? How I have dreamt of a time, when us and them are replaced by we and our, only to have the morning discard my dreams with hollow sighs of despair. Enough!" Her voice rose yet higher and fashioned itself like a spear hovering above the males so that they shrunk in awe. "I am man and so are you. We are linked by miracle or sorcery but undeniably linked. Bounded to each other in places yet unexplored. Open your eyes! Give the clouds a signal to leave. Let the sun dry the tears of timeless years. Come!" She beckoned and the males followed. She led the males triumphantly into the pool of purity. As they walked subtle sighs escaped from Mama's bosom. "She awakens," someone said. They still followed obediently. Mama yawned and a deep bellowing sound rose from the core and with it the water in the pool flew into the sky to kiss the stars then fell unto each and every male, dragging them down into the womb of Mama.

The females stood motionlessly at the side of the now empty pool and laughed. They laughed until they cried. Mama said, "Your tears are your virtue, your pain is your wisdom and your dreams are your strength." then she belched. The females of man laughed again.

Although Anjana had finished telling the story it could not stop for me. I continued the story in my mind. I wanted answers to the females and the males. Did the males come back? Did the females keep laughing forever? What was Mama exactly? Anjana pulled me back from these thoughts. "Madu! Do you understand what this story is saying?" She asked. "No" I answered and we never spoke of it again, until the day before Anjana left. We were sitting in the backyard, under the calabash tree, as usual. Anjana was holding my hand. Her grip on my hand slowly tightened. Her thumb caressed my wrist gently while her grip tightened even more. The trees around us became wavy and grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared, shrouded behind a thick veil of tears. The tears rolled slowly from behind my now closed eyes, meandered across my face and fell onto the ground. One by one the tear drops dotted the ground, while Anjana's grip still tightened. I wanted to say something, I wanted to shout it out. I tried many times but the voice never left my lungs. This caused my lungs to inflate, making my heart beat faster and raising my pulse. I felt so energised that I was afraid to move. If I had moved my body would have given way to the speed of my thought. I opened my eyes and saw that Anjana was also crying. We sat like that for a whole year and even after that we would return and sit under the calabash tree and cry, and after we cried I would listen to what Anjana said. She said, in between large gulps of air, "Madu, I don't really know what that story means, but I do know that whatever you come to believe it means shall dictate the way you live. You may find different meanings to it at different times in your life but there'll be a time when one meaning will make more sense than all the others."

S E X

From the very first time I had sex I liked it. From the very first time I had sex I hated it. From the very first time I had sex, I said to myself, so this is what we do. From the very first time I had sex I understood a lot more of what it meant to be a male, a female, a woman and a man. I think.

What is sex? Is it something shared, something given, something received? Is it an extension of emotions or is it simply the origin of mixed emotions? Is it animalistic, is it life? Most animals have sex. Humans enjoy it, get addicted to it, live for it and die by it. I entered the world of sex sometime between looking at girls and looking at boys.

It was the dry season. All the wet weather fruits were gone and the plantations were getting ready to harvest. The grass had shed its green raincoat and now wore a dingy shade of brown. We had lost night's cacaphonic chorus. The deep quiet of midnight was a testament to the annual exodus. Our mighty wind was gone and morning's chill retreated to the top of mountains where it brooded under a thick mist every day. Heat was everywhere. One could run away from the sun's hurtful gaze but there was nowhere to go to escape the heat but at the river. At the river under the cover of empty mango trees the water was clear, clean and cold. It was at the river that I discovered sex.

There had been a time when going to the river meant a quick decision with a few other girls and their brothers, and a short walk. Everybody left there clothes on a rock and entered the pool naked. Bathing naked was fun, it was free, but, now, at my age, it was gone. Going to the river was no longer the carefree fun it had been. It was now laden with the formalities of a social event. You had to prepare yourself. It was important to find out who was going and which river they were going to. You had to wear the right clothing, for even though the boys still bathe naked, bathing naked for the girls was a thing of the past. The river was no longer a place to get away from January's heat, catch and roast fish, and bathe oneself. It was a place to meet boys.

I had noticed that boys were different than most girls much in the same way that I was different from most females. Being around girls began to frustrate me. I didn't like their games and I found their conversations boring. So most times I was by myself. At the same time I noticed that the body of a boy was different. Their muscles were bigger, their hands were bigger and their penis, their penis were . . . . . they were . . . . . they were nice to look at. All the girls found that part of the body interesting, and in that respect, I was no different. I wondered what it felt like to have a penis. At that time I could barely understand my vagina. I had gotten use to the monthly bleeding but I was unable to understand the connection between that and my moods. Mother had tried to explain this experience but she had failed. It was not her fault, I just could not believe that there was a connection. So, I wondered how the penis affected the mood of the boy and what sort of monthly change did they go through. Seeing the penis had also begun to excite me. I would stare at it and then stare at the boy. I realised that some boys created more excitement than others and some boys just made your whole body tingle, like Amban.

Amban made me feel a little weak just by looking at him and when we went to the river and he took his clothes off, I would feel giddy, literally. Amban was not very tall. He was not very muscular, but Amban was good at everything he did and the best at most. Everyone knew Amban. Amban the athlete. Amban the class brain. Amban the one who caught the most fish. He had a beautiful smile and he was funny. I liked Amban. I Liked Amban a lot. One day at the river, early on a Saturday morning, I finally spoke to Amban. He was catching fish with a long bamboo rod with a net at the end. He had not noticed that I was there. I watched as he stood completely still his eyes on the fish he was trying to catch. He was naked. His hair wet, his shoulders tense as he held the rod, his legs bent and his penis hung between his legs. After a quick movement Amban pulled the rod out of the water with a mullet in the net. I ran over to him to congratulate him and he insisted that we should roast the fish before others got there. It was our prize for coming out so early he said and at that point I couldn't care less if anyone else ever showed up. I helped with the fire. "Good fire," he said and gave me a kiss on my forehead. I know he didn't mean anything by it. We all knew that Amban and Akasha were together, but the kiss burnt its way straight to my heart. I was in love.

That night I laid in my bed thinking about how good it felt to feel his body against mine and I was shocked by the way the thought seemed to take on a life of its own, caressing me. A moisture develop between my thighs and I reach down to wipe it away and awoke something that both excited and bewildered me. I touched myself again and again playing with the inside, then the soft fleshy part just at the top. This part became hard and very sensitive to my touch, but it felt really good. With my other hand I began to touch my body. I squeezed my bottom, pinched my nipple, all the time gently rubbing the hardened top. My breathing became heavier and shorter. It felt so good. It felt incredible. Just when I was thinking that this could not go on for long, I felt a stabbing pain in my stomach, which rippled into a feeling of pleasure. I shivered, then I collapsed. I stared at the ceiling for a while not knowing exactly what had just taken place. I had no understanding of what I had done, but it felt good and I wanted to do it again. The whole event had lasted ten minutes. Ten minutes earlier I had known nothing of sex.

After that night, sex was on my mind, but It was still, however, a personal experience, something I did when I was alone in the house, in my bedroom late at night or early in the morning. I would touch myself in all different places to see what happened. I began to listen a lot more to references about sex. From what I heard, I realised that sex usually meant a man and a woman. A boy and a girl. I soon realised that sex actually occupied most of the world I lived in. It was something that men did to women, boys and even to other men. Everyone seemed to know about it, but me. Sex was everywhere.

I stood looking at my breast in front of the bathroom window. Were they big, small or too small? I had never thought about it before. A boy had mentioned that he liked my breast. My breast, I thought. What breast? I had an idea that it was a good thing for boys to like the way you looked and especially liked the idea of a boy looking at me. I imagined Amban looking at me, but sex was not what came to my mind. I thought of kissing and hugging. I thought of catching fish together, and playing together. I had not connected sexual intercourse with boys, or with emotions. Boys made me think of sex but I never thought about involving them and if I ever did, it was only to show them what I did and how I did it. This all changed when I read a poem from a book I found in my father's closet. The poem was very abstract and a little incomprehensible, but I never forgot what it said and how it made me feel.

a poem about doing it

Only if we could. Is it that we shall always want, but dare not? Shall we pass each other in a game of musical beds waiting for the song to stop? Does it matter? I mean, is it relevant? When night becomes day only to yield once again to darkness' inevitability, where we shall touch hearts shamelessly, trying desperately to reach a hidden truth, to explore what is unknown . . . a pleasure point masked by make believe tales of doing it, our season nears its end.

It does not come with a mascot. It has no reliable source. There is no one who can draw a diagram, give a formulae or give freely of any long earned knowledge. When rain falls and dreams cover you so that symbols remain dry, it would be better if the dreams were real. The bird sings, and awareness saddens me with an undeniable pleasure. Then I can stand and see the horizon.

My life lies not in the heart but my mind's understanding. What was surreal is real as the days fluctuate between short hours of sun and long undulating nights. Let us reveal acceptance. Male has imposed upon me the truth and I in turn have engulfed him. All that was imposing has become a silent demand for my attention. Oh how simple living becomes when the art of pleasure has been experienced. Oh how simple living then becomes when the pleasure of sex is shared.

I did not fully understand the poem very well at first, but I had an idea that it spoke about something more than I had experienced so far. The poem tugged at my femininity and the comfort of youth began to unravel. Sex was something wonderful, something to enjoy together. I thought of how Amban made me feel and wondered how it would feel if he was to touch the fleshly top of my vagina. The thought excited me like never before. I wanted badly to experience this 'sex' with Amban, but it would be a year or so before sex with a male happened and when it did, it was not with Amban, it was not with anybody I care to remember.

when i first had sex, i liked it. when i first had sex i hated it.

I did not want to open my legs any further but he forced them out. He was heavy, and the smell of his penis made me nauseous. His breathing was unbearably loud and sounded like a rabid animal. I didn't want to kiss him, which he did not mind because he never tried to kiss me. A pain ripped into my stomach. The pain was almost intolerable and it made me drunk, and with every thrust the pain increased. I closed my eyes and I prayed. I was too shocked to cry, I was too frightened to cry. I was too hurt to cry. Why was he doing this? Oh God, I thought, it cannot be so. I was pushed and pulled, fondled and squeezed. I was tortured for five minutes. Five minutes is all it took to bring destruction. Then he was gone. I laid on the bed still choked with fear. I watched the bedroom door hoping that it would disappear, for as long as the door was there he may come back. "Oh God! Oh God!" I felt the blood between my legs and the pain in my stomach grew. I could not move. His last words rang in my ears. "Don't tell mommy." With those words he was gone. My father had left me and I would never be able to see him again. I swore that I would never do that again for as long as I lived. I would rather die.

That was how my sex life ended, for the first time. It would be a long time before sex ever meant anything to me but the death of my father.

Aviana

Womanhood was like a splash of black paint thrown across a flowery mural. No more school. No more regulations. Time presented an empty picture and there were no dots to connect. My mother could not understand, and apparently it did not matter to her.

While most of my former school friends seemed to be busy enjoying their first love. I brooded over what a future, which could not be envisioned, looked like. I would have no part in courtship. Every boy who spoke to me went through a strange and repulsive metamorphosis at the beginning of the conversation, which transformed them all into a talking, walking, dagger like, roach infested, rotted and blurred memory that by the end of the conversation, which would be ended by me with a curt excuse of having something else of utter importance to do, I had become completely numbed. My first love was a dream, my first relationship was far away.

That year was spent searching in between the pages of books for an answer to my question of what to do. The result was a tidal wave of information, which overwhelmed me but got me no further to an answer. The answer was not to be found in books, not to be found at the cinema and not to be found in the many daydreams, which occupied my restless mind. The answer was found in me, and I got into me by first realising that I could, and then by actually doing it. I did have a little help. I had help from Avianna. Avianna was a woman. A woman of a different colour.

Summer had long disappeared behind October's veil of showers. Autumn scents gave way under dry-winter's arrogant breeze. The subtle chill, which teased early dawn enough to engage her in playful tropical arguments, resulted in bright sunny days and clear frosty nights. The winter fruit basket had become a symbolic representation of this equinoctial debate, as it was filled with fruits like guanaya, which had a hard green shell but a soft, fleshy, juicy inside.

The guanaya was ripe. I could tell by the deep dark green colour of its shell. I had to have it. But I could not reach it. I could not hit it with a small stone and I did not want to use a bigger one for fear of ruining the fruit. I had been trying for half an hour when a figure brushed by me, hurled a stone at the fruit easily cutting it from the branch and reappeared by my side magically to catch the fruit before it could hit the ground. The figure then presented the fruit to me with a smile, a kiss on my forehead and a few sweet and biting words. The figure said, "Here you go little girl." Then disappeared into the house behind the guanaya tree. I was happy for the fruit, amazed by the figure, confused by the figure, lulled by the sweetness of the voice and mad at the words. I was not a girl. I was a woman. I was a female woman. I stood and looked long and hard at the house, which was apparently home to some god, goddess or devil. Nothing. No one came out. No movement within. That was my first encounter with Avianna.

It was not until mother nature had laid out her spring carpet of fallen flowers and pollen petals that I had the chance of meeting Avianna for the second time. I was walking home from the parlour, overlain with two heavy bags when the same sweet voice said, "It seems that I can be of assistance again." I turned to the voice to look upon a person of obvious female gender, but with an appearance, which was not only asexual but also immortal. She was like no other person I had ever seen. Our standards of beauty and attraction seemed to be too insufficient and inadequate to describe the person I faced. Her skin appeared unnaturally dark. As dark as used oil, as dark as molasses. Shiny and sweet. Her eyes were wide and round, her lips thick and brown. She had no hair. Her head was completely bald. When she smiled there was a warmth, a beguiling feeling of comfort and honesty. She was not very tall but she towered over everything. I did not know how to reply. My heart had already set in action certain movements, which I had no control over. I heard myself as if I were on the other side of the street looking on. "Sure" I said and slowly handed a bag to her. She took the bag in her left hand and held my freed hand with her right hand.

We walked towards my house. My head trying to read the meaning of my feelings in the dirt, my eyes were partly shut. When we got to my gate, she bent over and kissed me on the forehead again. "Good - bye little girl," she said then left. I struggled to say something but it was not until I was in my room that I finally got the words to my voice, "I'm not a little girl, I am a woman."

The third encounter would be the last time I ever saw Aviana. It is a moment in my life, which helped to erase insecurities, but created doubts, which revealed hidden openings and pathways leading away from the enclosed garden I had been living in. I thank Aviana for her time. I thank her for her presence. It is a moment that I have written about many times and in some ways it is the body of my purpose. In some ways it is the story of my life.

Rainflies covered the air, and everyone was forced to search for an open space just to breath. I waded in from the bus stop, taking deep breaths of air, each time my arms would reach out to make a path for me. In the motion of a swimmer I bobbed up and down, trying to manoeuvre my way through this endless seasonal ocean. Exasperated and on the edge of surrender, I ducked into the swarm, held my breath and dashed madly for home. Unable to see clearly, I wrongly surfaced at the home of another. The door opened a little, a hand reached out and gently pulled me inside. Beyond the door, between gasps of air, and a frenzied approach to ridding myself of dead rainflies stuck to my clothing, I managed to take in my unfamiliar surroundings.

Where was my hero? The one who had saved me from the flies. Why had he not shown? The room I sat in was empty and had a hollow, narrow feel to it, much like a tunnel leading away from prison. I noted the lack of the usual household trophies. You know, pictures, medals. books . . . I became aware of the true difference between my home and the one I sat in. Slowly I got up, took my coat off and smiled. The difference was in the mood. My body grew lighter. I felt a rhythm teasing me to dance. The energy of my surroundings was like an orchestra and then suddenly I became scared and my eyes filled with water.

As I tried tounderstand what was happening, my saviour appeared. Her arms outstretched, her smile as radiant as I had felt, she danced her way through the growing pile of my clothes scattered around the room, as I became less and less inhibited, and more and more free. I was naked dancing with my heroine, laughing at the space, when her arms drew me in close and her lips covered mine. Her tongue skilfully teased my tongue. My eyes were open, so it could not be a dream. Besides I could never dream about this because I could never imagine that such a thing was possible. A heat held me tightly and a madness drove me, as I undressed my hero. Our eyes locked and remained so. Every movement from then on dangled from the feeling by a thin thread of reality as we engaged ourselves in two unique experiences of love, satisfying the body and the soul. Heartbeats quickened and grew louder. Two decades of dreams spun into a tornado of reflection uprooting every standard and purpose, leaving nought in my path but will. The caresses, kisses, touches, climaxed in the brain and the brain was well satisfied.

Beyond the door, where I now stood, the sun had been waiting. The flies were all gone. The door would be opened again, but the dreams would never be the same. I floated home for one more look, then raised myself and floated away to the west. I was running away from a love I could not understand. I was running away from a world I never knew. I was leaving behind a life, which could no longer make sense. Somewhere in the west a land awaited me with a welcome gift of experiences. I never looked back, but I felt the heavy gaze of a closed door, the jealous look of nameless boys and the stern and shocked look of two people who never knew me and now will never get the chance to.

Aviana had called me a little girl, but I had made love to a woman and I was not a man, not a woman, not a girl not a boy I wasn't even sure that I was female anymore, but I was going to find out.

a new world

There was always some one named Harry

Sitting in my kitchen drinking coffee

looking over his shoulder

telling you what to write.

The photographer was a Harry

trying to paint the skies around you

"Oh, you are so beautiful"

The title of his favourite song,

which would always make me cry

or vomit

or run away

to sit by the river to wait for the cows to cross.

Never did anything so exciting happen,

but sometimes they, the Harry brigade,

would cut their arms off and tape it to the wall.

The critics really loved that.

They would stand on their heads and stroke their beards.

"Hmm, we like that." They cooed.

Back in the kitchen Harry had three more coffees

and 29 cigarettes and glasses of wine,

lining the glasses up against the red light.

'Oh, you are so funky." He wrote

on snot stained napkins.

I would read the notes as

I hid under the painting of stars, waiting for one to fall,

but the baby would cry and Harry was nowhere to be found.

He had gone out to get cigarettes or coffee or the paper.

So I ran to look for the baby, but it had already died

a victim of a my deceased fantasy,

at least so the girl said, "Harry's dead." She said.

then held me close, and whispered in my ear

that she knew the way to the secret chamber.

The secret chamber was a big secret,

everybody knew of it.

We ran off together taking a glass of wine on the way

And then we ran back for the cheese and crackers,

but we got lost and ended up by the river waiting for the cows to cross.

We waited for a very long time, at least until dark, then we slept

until the girl said, "Oh, you are so sexy."

Then I left to go look for Harry.

On the way I picked up a paper.

The headlines read, HARRY'S DEAD.

My baby, My baby.

I had lost my baby. The rain fell,

the dam broke, the river disappeared,

and the cows crossed and I crossed over.

To the other side.

Just me.

anna-ada

It ceased to surprise me. Everyday I placed the key into the keyhole and the door actually opened. As the door swung slowly open I would hold my breath in like a little girl waiting for a gift on her birthday. I stood in the doorway and gripped the door knob to stop myself from sinking into the fear filled moat surrounding my life, all the time focusing on the interior, waiting for the smokey gloom of unease to settle. I had to be certain that I had indeed come home. There it was, all forty square meters of it. Home.

My bag hung at my elbow, the scarf, which had been neatly wrapped around my neck when I left work, now hung loosely around my shoulders. In my left hand I held the day's mail, in my right I still held the door knob tightly. I was tired, nothing new. I was nervous, as usual. I was still scared. It had been a while since I had run madly into the storm chasing sanity across a worn bridge, through unknown streets, finally herding what was left of it, into this tiny space, fencing it in behind everything I owned, and my soul. My intention was to somehow adopt, through intimate contact, the similitude of peace.

During the last five years I had ridden the wildebeest as far and as fast as anyone could, searching for an end to a jungle, which had grown up around me. Struggling to understand these new feelings, I had left a small town and travelled to a very big city. I had lived two life times, and destroyed a third, then with cold, calculative selfishness, I had used the blood of this destruction to pay my debts. It was this payment, I am ashamed to say, which set me free, and allowed my freedom to take me to a town called Abrada, and another female called Anna-Ada.

Anna-Ada had grown up in an orphan-home. She was left there by her parents, because, according to them, they just didn't have the time in their lives for a baby girl. She had, however, no memories of the orphan home, since her memories had suddenly caught fire one day, like ancient rolls of film did, disappearing, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of murky soot where her childhood experiences ought to have been. An empty space in time, a black hole in her mind. But in spite of this, Anna-Ada grew. She did well in school, she did well in college. At a surprisingly young age she entered Andforall University of Medical Science, and, a few years later, became the youngest neuroscientist, in Abrada.

It was May. The sun had slackened her daily pace to a crawl, while the moon sprinted across starry nights. The earth had cracked the hard shell of winter, spilling spring colours unto everything, and everyone, in a brilliant dramatisation of a rebellion au natural. I was not to be left out of this May fiesta. My week-ends were filled with sunny retreats to the park, where I watched as the atmosphere slipped quickly through winter's bony fingers. It was at one of my sun day musings that I met Anna-Ada.

There was nothing special about our meeting. We just happened to be both sitting on the same bench, in the same park, and we both sighed at the same time, looked at each other and laughed. All I really remember is her laughter. A deep growling sound like someone who had not had much practice with their laugh, and she confessed to that. "I rarely laugh." She said. "I always laugh, though at the wrong times and at the wrong things." I answered. Then we both look at each other, the way dogs look at each other before they smell each other to determine sex, and then we laughed again.

That night Anna-Ada walked with me back to my apartment. I had felt a strange sense of peace around her and when she said good-bye to me I could feel that although she had taken some of that feeling with her, enough had remained so that that night the door to my home did not feel so heavy, and the gloom did not appear as thick as it usually did, but I could feel the moat's icy waters around my ankles, still.

Anna-Ada loved to talk about her work and I loved to listen. She worked at a neurological research centre on the edge of the town. There, It was her intention to find the answer to how the brain influenced the difference in gender behavioural patterns. It was something she felt very passionate about. Once she started talking about this subject, there was no stopping her. Her voice would consume my tiny apartment. It lifted her up and held me down. I would lay, tranceliked, starry-eyed, grasping onto her words, as they fell unto me one after the other like a golden rope leading to some special place beyond this anxiety, afraid that if I let go, I would be devoured by my tiny box. I was the young eagle, feeding, yet unable to be satisfied. She was the mother who fed as if it were her duty.

She spoke of the sexing of the brain, the hormonal imprinting of the gender, and the words male and female bounced around the room like a perpetual ball, which the players are unable to hit. My past circled her words like the mighty king Cobeau, but I never dizzied my gaze. Anna-Ada continued to unravel her speech, wrapping it around me until she had succeeded in embalming me with knowledge. At the end of the summer, after many more sessions such as this, I broke out of this cocoon of enlightenment, refreshed and ready for flight. I held my arms before me like wings and whispered to myself, "I am a female." Anna-Ada heard my quiet confirmation and rushed towards me her arms outstretched as well. I felt a joy like never before and as she came closer, the joy flowed over me, giving me strength. "I heard you, now you must hear me." I shouted and opened my arms. "I do," said she.

I had found the missing piece. That Autumn, I had found a new voice, a different voice. I had also found a friend that would not disappear beyond the range of that voice. My reward was my sanity, and in return I gave all I had to give.

the female melody

I am the music, when I am on stage. No, not only on stage, but everywhere, for the music lives my deepest desires, thrives on every anguish, and makes me one with myself. The music and I are aware of the atrocities, the inequalities, the oppression. The music is strong like my defiance, it is open like my heart, it is real, as real as reality is not. On stage everyone knows me, through the music.

All of my past has been defined by a word, which is relevant only because of what it gives relevance to. The word is, 'before' and it gives relevance to, 'now.' Before I was lonely. My loneliness was the child with an inability to understand any part of her soul, fed by false dreams, or the imposition of other people's dreams. This loneliness grew strong in the before, but it has died of starvation in the now. In the before I was scared. I was afraid of the future, afraid to look at the past, afraid of the dark and frightened by the light. My fright had no name, nor a place of origin. It was not something to be seen, or heard. My fright was simply felt. I could feel it deep inside me. Through the years it had sunk into me and rested in a cavern where I could never hope to reach. There it fed and there it grew like a tumour preventing any mental growth. Fear would have me remain an ignorant child, daddy's little girl.

On top of this monstrous anxiety perched my pain, enormous and horrible, like a vulture. The before is contaminated with this pain. An un-definable pain. Pure pain. Pain without purpose. Pain, which intensified with recognition of it. It blinded me, so that I could not even reflect upon the cause of it. This pain gave birth to hate. I hated the before. The pain, the fright, the loneliness was in me, and so in the before I hated me. In the before I tried, oh how I tried, to kill me. I used all the weapons of a man's world, without, once, thinking about how accessible these weapons were made to me, without, once, asking who it was that had provided these weapons. I used drugs, sex, greed, deceit, revenge, lust, and money. But destruction is never so easy, for, even in the rubble are the materials for reconstruction to be found. All of this evil existed in the before, but in the now I have music, and the music has no room for evil.

The music came to me softly. It held me close, and supported me. the music fed me with hope, truth, knowledge and love. It taught me how to speak to my soul in a language I could not have known of in the before. My fear was transformed into curiosity, loneliness into insight, pain into experience. Most importantly, that hate which had been so powerful, so overwhelming , so mighty in the before, was destroyed completely by the amazing power of love. Love controlled my every movement. It leaked out of me with every step I took. Love was in the music, and the music was in me. In the love I grew strong and used my strength to reach out and embrace the now, and in a metaphorical miracle everything up to that moment was trapped in the before, allowing me to step easily into the now, free of the burden of imperfections.

Living in a moment, while being aware of the fragility of it, invites an urgency on your part to experience the moment in its entirety. To listen intently to the song of that moment, not so that you can recreate that song, but to enjoy it to its fullest, is the essence of living. Each moment has its own melody. A rhythm unlike any other. It does not always have harmony, but it is always beautiful. In this melody we have the emotional foreplay of life. It strengthens us, and helps us to move on to the next moment. It creates in us the encouragement to be creative ourselves. This understanding became the well from which I would draw my music. The lyrics were direct translations from the language of our environment. I took the understanding of many moments and wove them together to make strings on my guitar. Then I played upon this guitar with the wisdom of my species so that all the females, and the males, could be inspired.

Female, and what it meant to me was a product of my understanding of the now. I had freed myself of the coarse fabric of a patriarchal self definition, and dressed myself in the comfortable clothing of my origin. No longer would I allow myself to be motivated by man maled ambitions. My body would never be a trophy of man's strength. My mind had shut out the intrusive teachings, which had caused so much damaged in the before. I love the male, I do, but I do not want, and most certainly do not need, a man. I am a female, and this is my society. An egalitarian one filled with communal ambitions realised through personal victories. The word, female, felt good! I sang it to my being, I sang it to everyone, and they heard.

On stage I was free. My freedom expressed itself in a musical depiction of a time in the now when all females would sing our national anthem with true understanding of it, and the males would stand erect, their hands pinned to their sides, their faces filled with respect and their thoughts as virtuous as heroes. For the males are heroes, they have just forgotten what it means to be a hero, and cannot except that we are heroines. If only they would let the music teach them again, then they would see that to be a hero is not to be a man, but to be true to one's origin.

So, I had gained peace. A comfort which allowed the music and I to co-exist in an environment which we had created together. I had come to understand more of what it means to be a female. In doing so, I had come to realise the differences between female and male. It is such a difficult relationship, some may even say impossible, but I had hope. There must be a way to be with a male who wanted to be with a female. For me this was absolutely necessary as I now longed for an opportunity to be the ultimate symbol of my gender. I wanted to be a mother. Not just a parent but a mother of a family. I wanted to be complete as only living can be.

in kind

Soft eyes with

unpolluted pools of energy.

A faint whisper of reality

caresses my bosom.

The future has become

attainable.

Understand this females of the world. Artificial insemination, is not sex's opponent. Frozen sperm or fresh sperm remains ejaculation's witnesses. Needles, eggs, test tubes and things are all strokes from the brush of desperate individuals' stringed puppets. Why do we allow such methodical practices to make vain attempts of bringing order where order can never be created? Black hair, twins, blue eyes, high intellect, female, male, pink parcels or sky blue balls, are only traced copies of someone else's masterwork.

Don't look at me like I'm not liberal enough. I, too, stood in front of the abortion clinics part of a human barricade to involuntary murder. I wore the earth coloured glove and held my fist high in defiance outside the municipality where same sex marriages were not allowed. I saw you there, but you, apparently, did not see me. My voice was part of the unified chant," female" when we marched to the centre square and rid ourselves and our bodies of the weapons of drugfare, all the time passing out condoms and pamphlets to young males, who were all on our list of suspected men. But my intention, my desire, is to secure a future for our kind, not to destroy it through creative manipulation. If we continue, we would not stop until we can clone ourselves, and then what? Some of us may long for this, but it is self defeatist. I do not want to slowly push man off the edge. I do not want to erase their memory so as to somehow clarify the life of our evening shadows. I do not hate man. I love male. I want the family that I want, mother, father and child, not the family that is ideal, for ideality is another of reality's trickery.

The story of Akafo

One night I went to sleep in a city and I woke up on a farm. Fresh milk stood welcomingly behind an open door, a note from the milkman taped to one of the bottles, read 'Have a nice day.' The neighbour's son waved hello to me, while he picked apples from one of my trees to make butter for the scones I could smell baking next door. I smiled and without thinking of what I was saying, I said, " I'll be over in a while, just let me get Antrassa." Immediately after I said this, a soft crying sound glided down the stairs, surprising me. I turned and walked, slowly, in a dazed, towards the crying, but the steps grew steeper, and slippery. Soon I was on my stomach, digging into the floor with my nails to stop myself from falling. My fingers began to bleed, my heart was pounding. The steps were now vertical, and the bottom of the staircase had opened up under me, revealing a crowded city pavement way below. The pain in my arm was too much, I would have to let go. I closed my eyes, freed my fingers, and smiled. A warm, relaxing feeling overcame me, as I fell backwards to the city pavement.

One night I went to sleep with a stranger and woke up in a city. My senses had grown numbed, and the numbness was comfortable, and reliable. I had fought, I had learned, I had lived and I had become this city. Living in this city, time had become my comfort, and with its help I had passed from a confused young girl, to woman, to a female man, to female, and in my femaleness I had redefined womanhood, selfishly, but now it was time to leave the city. I had already begun my exodus, but there was one more thing I had wished that this city could offer before I left, and that was companionship. Someone with whom I could complete my journey.

In the city, emotion and products thereof were fair game for the capitalist in a season that knew no end. Courtship, engagement, bridal shower, bachelor parties, weddings, marriage counsellors, therapist, sexual therapist, contraceptive, sex toy, sexual magazine, movie, documentary, books, diagrams, and then, divorce lawyer, auction house, and frequent flyer miles for interparental travel, all for the benefit of capitalism. Love had become a commodity. It was built in the city by the city, and came with a thirty day warranty, and a sticker which said, 'inspected by #6. It had become all too familiar, but yet, we, all of us, still roamed the city like rats searching through garbage, looking for a patch of fertile soil to plant, to hope, to dream upon, waiting for 'true love' to blossom into the never-ending relationship.

The question was, where to go? How to do it? I knew not the answer, but by luck I found the place, to dream, to hope. I found a man, who was a male. I met a hero of ancient myths and modern dreams.

I met Akafo in a taxi, and though I would at first not recognise what I had searched for, he held on long enough for me to see what he really looked like, behind the mask of society's deceitful normalities.

This is my taxi!

- This is my ride.

Listen, prick with a brain. Did you not see me?

He laughed.

- I like a woman with power.

Sure you do, until you realise that she has more power than you, and I ain't no woman.

Because neither Akafo nor I would get out of the car, we were ended up sharing that taxi. The closest I had ever been to a man in years. He tried to be nice. I never said a word, and when he got out he "accidentally" left his business cards on the seat. -- Akafo N'Dayki, Attorney --. I should have thrown them away. But, for no reason, I could then think of, I kept them.

I called Akafo. Yes I did. I had an idea that those business cards were purposely left, and I thought that it was cute. There was something about Akafo. He reminded me of a boy in my past. A time when innocence and happiness were both a big part of my life. A very brief time. Maybe it was this amiable thought, maybe it was something else. Anyhow, I called Amban, . . . I mean Akafo N'Dayki.

Hi. I am that woman in the taxi.

- Oh. Hi.

You dropped your business cards.

- No, I left them.

I see. Well, do you want them back?

- Only if you are going to give them to me personally.

Sure, why not.

- Well, if you are going to be so kind, can I offer dinner in return?

Well...

- Please.

Sure.

- Tonight?

I don't know. I'm working late.

- That's okay so do I. Which company do you work for?

I own an advertising company . . . . .

- Really?

Yes really! What do you think! I can't have my own business! Look here Mista, Akafo! Your business cards shall be in the mail!

I hung up. That was the first time I called. Yeah, I called more than once. It was difficult in the beginning. I still saw Akafo as a Halloween trick, being played by a vicious city.

Hi.

- Hi. Look I'm . . .

No, I'm sorry. Please understand this is difficult for me. I would like to have dinner

with you, but it is not easy. Let me think about it some more. I'll call you.

It took a whole month for me to even think of Akafo again. During those weeks an emotion grew to consume me. It is a difficult emotion to describe. An arrogant emotion. A blustering bully of an emotion. It shouted when it was not supposed to, made impossible demands and had the unbelievable strength to inhibit natural desires like, hunger, thirst, tiredness. Everything was forced to accept its will and the smooth homeostatic condition of my body became completely disrupted. This emotion has many names. It is called, in love, by some, infatuation, desire, lust, by others. Some of the more artistic types call it enthralled, and the romantics call it, simply, love. I, being a female in my own right, a 90's icon of strength waiting to be realised, called it weak. I felt weak and it frightened me. I decided never to speak to that man again. He must have been a demon. The only problem was that the telephoned number had already burned itself unto my brain, and stood out like the mark of the beast. It controlled my movements, like some alien device, and I found myself dialling Akafo's number, again.

Hi.

- What is your name?

What?

- What is your name? Please tell me your name. I have spent the last two weeks calling every advertising agency in this city trying to find you. I can't work. I can't sleep. I can't even think straight. Please don't disappear. Just let me take you out to dinner.

Listen, Akafo. If we are going to get anywhere, you have to understand a few things about me. For starters, you can't take me anywhere! You can invite me. Then I will decide if I would like to accept your invitation.

- What about tonight?

You weren't listening.

- Yes I was. Well, what about tonight?

Okay.

- Good. Where can I pick you up?

Oh Lord. I'm going to have to have patience with you. Mr. N'Dayki, you cannot pick me up. You can meet me at 22 West Livingworld Plaza.

- That's why I couldn't find you. You work outside the city.

So you really did try to find me.

- Why would I lie?

Isn't that what men do?

- Looks like I'm going to have to have patience with you.

Believe me, I know man.

Not this man.

Really?

- Yes really. Is 7pm fine?

No. 7:30.

- 7:30 then. I'll be there.

I know you will.

I hung up the phone and finally had a time to breathe. I had done it. I had made a date with a man. I stood there with the telephone in my hand, staring at the wall. My office began to spin. The walls began to rock. I felt that at anytime the building would collapse and my world would implode. I tried to push back, to save myself, but I couldn't get my arms to work. I just stood there. Finally I was able to move, and I ran out of the building. I stood on the pavement outside looking up at the sky, for it was no longer blue, but it was red, like blood. The clouds were black. It began to rain, and the rain was heavy. The water was pushing me to the ground. I was going crazy. I screamed, and held my hand over my eyes. When I removed my hand I saw my secretary looking at me and smiling, holding a beautiful large leaf in her hand. "This is for you," she said. A Philodendron, with a note that read, "Take cover, you never know what's falling in a city like this." This man was going to make this difficult.

Getting to know Akafo was a very difficult yet interesting process. Akafo did not fit any description of man which I had documented. He was man sure enough, but his words, his sincerity, were not what I had expected. Many times I felt like this could not be a man, yet it was. The days were layered and bonded by experiences, transforming any feeling of weakness into a feeling of strength. It made me feel superior to know that I had defied the norm. I had met man on my terms and man did not object, man did not retaliate. In spite of all this apparent success, I could not involve myself intimately. That had to wait. How long would it have to wait? It had to wait a year.

I had sex with a man once before. It took me 15 years to even admit that. A year after I met Akafo I had sex with a man again and this time it was as an act of love. This time it took me a few months to realise that he was no man. He was a male.

Alone in a dark foreign room, I lay naked underneath a thin blanket, watching the light in the corridor beyond an almost closed door, waiting, anxiously, for the light to disappear behind a dark figure. I was about to enter into different world. A world I knew nothing of. "I trust him, I trust him," I whispered to myself continuously. My palms were sweaty, my mind sunk into my heart and my soul merged with the two. Everything I felt, thought and knew depended upon this union and the union depended upon the honesty of only one thing; love. This must be love. It must! I was trembling. I felt light. I closed my eyes, and waited for that first touch. His hands rested on my thigh. His lips slightly brushed the inside of my thigh. I took his hands and placed them on my breasts. "Akafo, come in," I heard myself whisper to Akafo. "Come in and know me as no one has ever known me." He had accepted the invitation, and entered. There pain and joy mated in frantic uncontrollable erotic spasms that pushed me right to edge of a madness. I held on to this man, this incredible man, and allowed myself to be explored by love. All previously locked and hidden desires were opened. I exposed my femaleness thoroughly, so that the satisfaction would indeed be mine.

In a room, no bigger than the average kitchen, I had learned more about myself than I ever did in school. The kisses I felt, I still feel. The touches left marks on me forever. The force of his words had driven the dust off trust and hope. I wanted Akafo. In the year since we met, I had come to realise that man, just like woman were symbols in the plot of wicked propaganda which social demons had concocted in an effort to doom humankind to constant sexual warfare. I knew I was female and Akafo knew he was male and that we were both in-kind.

female man

"At birth I had two sex organs. My parents made a quick decision and decided that I was to be a boy. They felt that this was the right decision, especially since they both found the name Akafo to be the better of the two they had chosen, and it was more suitable for a boy. So I was a boy, and then I was a man. As a young boy I never knew about this and so I never questioned my sexuality. I grew up playing the sports, that boys play. Speaking the language that boys speak. As a teenager I was popular. Girls liked me, the other boys envied me, and the football coach adored me. Because I was a good football player and a fairly good student I got a scholarship to a top university. It is at this university that the questions came. Just as I stood on the plank of adolescence a little afraid to take the plunge into adulthood, I realised that my actions and my manner of speech felt awkward and superficial. Beer drinking and pointless arguments didn't make sense anymore. At first I thought that it was just that I was growing up, but there were other things. The films I was interested in, the books I read, all made me feel like I was turning into a sissy. I was petrified. The next summer, when I went home, I begged my parents to allow me to transfer to another college. I wanted to change my major and be some where, where no one knew me. My mother sensed that something was really wrong and spoke to me. She was so tender, so caring, that I explained everything to her and she in turn explained everything to me. My mother was worried that they had made the wrong decision, and that I would suffer living as a woman in a man's body. She was really afraid that I would be attracted to men, but there she was mistaken, for, although I could feel a distinct change in my intellectual, and social preferences, my sexual preference was still the same as it had always been. I was still attracted to girls. I know this sounds unbelievable, but there is actually a whole area of biology and neurobiology relating to this study. I later decided to see a doctor about it. A psychiatrist. After speaking to the psychiatrist for a few months, she asked me if I would like to participate in a research project. This was a project being carried out by the Neurological Institute at Andy. At the institute they were trying to determine if it was the sex organ or the sexed brain, which determined one's gender behaviour. They ran a series of test to determine if the part of my brain called the limbic system was female or male. The entire biological process is intricate and complicated, but the result they got was simple enough. I had a healthy male sex drive, but I had a female disposition, when it came to dealing with emotions such as pain and aggression. In short, I am a female who is attracted to other females, wrapped in a very male body."

My eyes closed, my head was awkwardly propped on a pillow. I took a deep breath and allowed my feelings to be slowly exhaled. My first experience of love as a sexual expression and . . . . . I shook my head. I reached out and held Akafo's hand. I squeezed it. I dug my nails into his flesh. I threw his hand away from me and I held unto his thigh. As if I were blind, I felt all over his body, squeezing, and rubbing, trying to make sure that what I touched was the same as what I had felt. This should not happen. I had just had the most magnificent experience of my life and, now, it was suddenly part of my most confusing experience. Akafo was a male, that I was sure about, but a female on the inside. That was cheating. What I wanted was a family, a baby, a mother and a father. That is how nature had planned it. Why would nature make fun of her own laws. The room opened up, and the water came rushing in. I felt it covering me. I wanted to move, I wanted to get up, but I could not so I just closed my eyes and rested.

Later at home I sat and thought of myself and my own disposition. Maybe I was a man, in love with men, in a woman's body. The idea was ridiculous. But it never went away. There was something very familiar with Akafo's experience. The feeling of not really being at one with oneself was not uncommon to me, but I would never have thought that it had to do with a neurological sexual difference. I had told Akafo that I would call him, but it would be weeks before I did. Akafo would call. "You okay? Do you want to see me?" Is all he would ask. I would answer frigidly "yes, no" and then hang up. I could not really conceive what was happening and what was going to happen. For the first time I loved. I mean, I really loved. I just did not know how to handle it. I was attracted to Akafo, the male, because that was who I wanted to be with. Not a woman. During the next few months I followed truth, holding on to its tail, and allowed myself to be dragged through precarious labyrinths, where one false step meant falling into oblivion. In the end, when I had made it safely past all obstacles, I smiled, for I realised that although I had made it safely through the Labyrinth, although I had risked so much, although I was bruised, and tired, I had simply got to the other side. Life was just a prerequisite for living, and living made life valuable. Man, woman, male, female. These words had been my bane. I had laboured under the burden of their shadows. Groups, organisations, institutions, entire countries, have manipulated my fear, my eagerness, my ignorance of these words in order to make me systematic. I had never known what, or who I am, or was supposed to be, because I had sought to identify myself by a language which is unreliable and insufficient. A language so arrogant that it chooses to define what is non-definable. I had tried on life and paraded through galleries of existence, now it was the time for living. I knew then what I had always known. I knew that I was the one who would create.

I was pregnant, and I was going to have the baby. The word, 'mother,' growled in my bosom, so that it tickled me. I smiled. "This would be the completion of a long and beautiful journey." I felt like I was finally going home. I called up Akafo immediately.

- Hi. How are you?

Fine. I got something to tell you.

- Yeah?

Yeah.

- What?

I'm pregnant.

- So, what do you want to do?

What do you mean?

- Are you going to keep it?

Of course! Of course! Why? Don't you want it?

- Of course I do. I want nothing more.

Akafo. I Love you, no matter who you are.

- I'm Akafo. Always was, always will be.

I know.

- Good.

There is only one problem. Who'll be the father and who'll be the mother?

- I have a feeling we'll both be.

Yeah?

- Yeah.

Yeah.

mama

Look at my child. Running bare foot on the sand, playing with a calabash, eating tamarind. Listen to the sound of a child's laughter. It has a purity which refreshes. I knew coming back here was the best thing for a child. I could not imagine what life in a city would have been like for a baby. No freedom, no beauty. No birds, no hand picked fruits. Of course, I also wanted to leave the city, . . . . leave the west. It was time. I had left my home several years earlier to find experiences. Well I had found a lot more than I could have imagined. I had drunk from the rivers, the fountains, the drains, and the sewers. When I would no longer drink from anything but bottled water, I knew that it was time to go. I came from an island, and, though, I had been running away from it, the island had followed me. After all these years I have realised that the sunset is just as beautiful from behind as when it is seen from in front.

I thought that coming back would be difficult, but after my child was born, I never questioned my decision to return. Not once. Before I had the baby, I was scared. I could not believe that childbirth was such a biological phenomenon. I felt like my whole being was being redesigned by some superior being. I felt very alone, deserted, stranded. When I came back there was no welcome home party. There were no familiar faces in the crowd. I was not certain of whether the island was just a conjured memory, a dream, fragments of a film I had once seen, remnants of a conversation I once had, a book I had once read, or maybe just a picture I had come upon in an airport somewhere, with text that read, Come To The Islands And Leave Your Troubles Behind. I didn't look like anyone here, I didn't sound like anyone here. I walked around in a daze, speaking softly to the tiny being inside of me, trying to find something which would confirm that I was, indeed, where I wanted to be.

As the baby grew so did my familiarity. At first I began to recognise the smell. It was the end of March, and, as if it had been waiting on a signal, the rain began. With the rains came that familiar scent of rebirth as the grass that had been whipped merciless by four months of never-ending sun slowly straightened and drank themselves green. The island smelled green. The many different plants covered the markets in green. There was bodi, calaloo bush, bhaji, ocro and breadfruit, to name a few. Each name was like a rain drop from the past. By the end of April I was soaked.

Then I recognised the sounds: yellow tails, parrots, hummingbirds, kingfishers and the loud horns of the flamingos returning to the swamp at sunset. The laughter, the mammaguy, the fattalk and the ever popular opera of a good 'lime.' Finally I began to recognise myself in the people and places and I was certain that I had come to the right place, and I was going to stay.

Then came June. The rains did not come as often and they stayed only a few minutes. The Island seemed to be resting, allowing the second group of plants to grow. They had begun to burn the sugar-cane and the workers could be seen every morning at 6am, walking towards the plantation, machete in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. It was mating season and stray dogs roamed the streets looking for a fix, while little boys threw stones at them. Frogs and crickets began their night time concerts at dusk, and mosquitoes used that as their signal to go to work. I sat on the veranda, in a rocking chair, with my baby on my lap. I looked up at the sky, filled with stars, and as I stared at the beauty of this the stars began to go out. One by one their light faded into the dark mysterious background. I began to count the stars that disappeared. When I had reach thirty five, I fell asleep."

in loving

Somehow it must be made known. There was a voice, heavy at times, at times very light, like snowflakes on water. This voice could signal the will, rise above the daily chorus, you know, complaints and arguments, and wiggle the tail of the lonely animal. "Awake, Awake," it would say, at least, something like that. Anything which would encourage the truth to become the willing, and search out the origin of such a voice. Find the source, and nurture it. Keep it warm. Quench its thirst. Hold it close, and allow itself to be lead by truth, like a musician in an orchestra. Don't search for a name tag, there is no need to beckon, for it will follow wherever you lead. "And if it doesn't?" The animal asks. "Then it does." Wisdom replies. Remember the truth has no master and willingness has no purpose. Be free. Tug too hard at the musical strings and you would unravel the unfinished melody. Above all, listen, understand. It does not only want to be heard. It is in search of an identity. No! You cannot give it one. You can build the bridges, open the gates, but only when asked. Otherwise you can be.

My dearest Duma,

How is it in your new world? Please write and tell me anything you would like. There is never a need to hide anything from me. You must believe that. You are, and were always, a very intelligent and creative being, and I know that you will succeed wherever you are. How's Aneva? Did you find a place of your own? Be careful, yet free, be aware yet honest, be adventurous, not stupid. I miss you and long for the day when you shall return. Never forget who you are, there is a lot to find, a lot to discover, but you should never have to lose yourself.

To my loving wife and all other women