As humans, we often claim that we can’t help who we love–but that’s not true. Humans definitely choose who we are willing to love and who we are not willing to love. If we couldn’t control who we loved, then you would see men who are married to women in wheelchairs, you would see women saying the sexiest man alive is a blind man…The truth is the best people are often not noticed, not loved, not chosen, because we have societal pressures and societal statuses and messages and images that tell us who is to be loved and who is not to be loved.
I escaped the Arab Muslim wedding, because my parents were murdered in front of me at the age of six and my Egyptian grandmother handed me over to UNICEF (to be ‘left for adoption’ after she got permission from the Mullahs—adopting being illegal in Egypt) because she could not fathom having a chocolate colored granddaughter in her White Arabic family. Through UNICEF, I was eventually placed with a Black American family in Washington D.C. and did not learn that I was vaginally infibulated until my Black American mother gave me a bath the first time I arrived in America. She and my new Black American father rushed me to D.C. General Hospital that night, horrified at the stitching between my thighs.
My life is not typical of the African girl who has been circumcised or infibulated. I grew up Americanized. My Black American parents wanted to have my vagina “corrected” at 16—but I refused because it was the only thing that connected me to my birth mother. Losing my virginity at 17 to my Black American tutor (who to me was White because of his egg-nog colored complexion) took an entire month. Imagine having your upper lip pulled up over your entire head—that’s how it feels for a ‘cut girl’ when she first has sex, you literally pass out. On one occasion in the back of his car, we got ‘stuck’ like dogs and had to be “wet” by fire hose to get us apart. It was so humiliating. Each attempt was excruciatingly painful for me, but like any teenaged girl I was determined to prove that I loved my man. Later, in my twenties traveling the world as a model and actress, I learned the value of having “pinhole pussy”—I could manipulate men with it. No matter how many of them I bedded, it appeared to each next guy that I was a virgin. And when men think they are the first and it’s even tighter when they return—they do a lot more for you. My vagina gave me all manner of problems—hormone imbalances; winter time shrinking. But because of my power over men sexually, I grew to take pride in my vagina. I refuse for instance to allow Westerners to tell me that I’m “mutilated.” I don’t accept that. I am different, but my life is not over, I am not defeated and I see myself as inconvenienced; violated—but not mutilated. With its shield face and Arabic writing, my vagina is very pretty to me.
Activists using the term “mutilation” forget that this is a Psychological condition, not just physical. We that are cut have to live our entire lives with our vagina. We have to move on and accept this horrible inconvenience and find joy in it.
I am now 42 and have given birth to two sons by cesarean—yet I am like a 12 year old down there. It does not change. This tightness that is created for male pleasure (no other reason, despite what the religious men say) is a never-ending curse of pain and ecstasy; sexual rapture bound up in brutally inhuman suffrage for the woman. I have learned to live with this—to even exploit it for my advantage. But I would not wish it on anyone. My vagina has been for men…and not for me!
So to watch a man—a man calling himself a ‘Black man’—lay on a table and holler moans that invited laughter as his friends cut chunks of his pink genitals away and at them—was so devastatingly powerful that it reduced me to loud, butchered sobbing. I couldn’t stop crying. Add to that the psychological effect of having to cope with the strangeness of Western reaction—particularly Black American friends defending this image and claiming that the intent of the art was to help girls like me.
Help us how? Who did it change? Who among the masses even understood what they were watching? It looked like a Halloween comedy show! Far and wide—people were laughing! No one watching that video thought of little African infants lying on the ground in rows between Cassava plants being cut on by dutiful old women. No one thought of that.
And that brings me to the most painful experience of the video, the one that came in the days after I watched out—the shutting out of my voice and of women like me by arrogant bougie African American writers and publications—writers and publications that would claim to speak ‘for us’ in delineating the experiences of African women and girls in public forums—yet slander my name and claim that I am “crazy” and shouldn’t be understood or have a voice.
We cannot have a situation where we’re basically gonna have this utopian society where now Blackness is the thing but we are gonna be in the mule position still. That is what I cannot accept about Black Nationalism.
Regarding White women:
A lot of people think that feeling sorry for us is justice. You feel sorry for Black women and you think that is enough, you’re not offering us to come into the door.
I hope that I get to see this documentary; it’s very challenging to try to see films like this when you do not live in a metro city, especially NYC. Any exploration of intersectionality is of interest to me.
As a black woman in a white supremacist world, I can’t honestly claim that I’ve suffered any more prejudice and mistreatment from white men than I have from my own black men. Both groups seem to live by the white man’s standard, so they both hate, degrade, exploit, and humiliate black women, fail to even acknowledge our presence. Yet when it comes to race loyalty, I always took the side of the black man–not because he was morally superior to the white man, but because he was the one I gave birth to, the one my womb produces.
We turn on the television and only our suffering is recorded by the white man’s cameras—our poverty, our hunger, our disease. Not only exaggerated, but the cause of our downfall is never truthfully explained. And while the white man films himself saving us, medicating us, feeding and protecting us, the black man is portrayed as a loser who can’t even navigate his own land, can’t love or feed his family, and can’t standup as an African in the image, fully human, that God created him in. He’s just a backward nigger in a dying, stinking, rotten paradise that everybody wants.
Loren Kleinman’s ‘Breakable’ Things - March 25th, 2015
Award winning poet and author Loren Kleinman is to release her hotly anticipated third collection, Breakable Things, with Winter Goose Publishing in March 2015.
In this latest collection, the Treble Pushcart Prize nominee, Kleinman presents the world around her through breakable objects. These are as diverse as the humanly frail bones and hearts, to man-made artistry such as cabinets, and so much more between.
The reader learns that broken does not mean damaged. Being broken can be a necessary part in the process of becoming a whole person.
Kleinman said of the collection: “This book shows that after the fracture, after the breaks in the surface, there is always light.”
“Breakable Things is a testament to the idea that everything is breakable, and everything somehow finds its way back together again.”
Jason Carney, author of Starve the Vulture, said of the collection: “[Breakable Things] has a visceral quality. I was drawn in by the details and kept connected with the phrasing. There is a flow to this text, a common experience of relationships coupled with the unique perspective of being alone, which creates fascination within the reader."
Geoffrey Gatza, publisher at BlazeVOX [books], said: ”Breakable Things is a rattling tribute to the fragility of consciousness and memory. “I’m cut on the floor, / porcelain in the skin, / and he breaks / he breaks he breaks he breaks me,”Loren Kleinman writes. Fastened with pinching, deep detail, the shock of loss and a seasoned sense of being resonate throughout this book. Here Kleinman describes the bewilderment of being and the feelings that come from breathing, existing. “I step into the dirt. / Its dampness / makes me feel I exist.” Caked with shame and smoke, soot and blinking bugs Kleinman renders a panorama of sharp, dazzling poems that haunt and captivate us long after the reading of this book is completed.“
Kola Boof, author of The Sexy Part of the Bible, said: "With unpretentious clarity, guts and a bit of soul, Breakable Things has solidified Loren Kleinman as my favorite new poet.”
sometimes i forget that when i answer asks publicly on my profile page, they are routed through to my twitter account.
apparently the Kola Boof fan club, and Kola Boof herself, came through to my twitter account to “explain” to me the value of her referring to blakc americans as n*****stock. because apparently i don’t understand the complexity of her writing and needed further explanation as to how “pro black” she is.
despite her explanation that she refers to “all blacks worldwide” as n*****stock, maybe she should take into consideration that maybe there are some “ blacks worldwide” that wouldn’t appreciate being called n*****stock at all.
that maybe nobody wants to be referred to as n*****stock just so a “pro black” author can make a point
God’s hair (the proof)
Hair from blood at the root
Hair like jungle holding up oceans
Hair born from virgins black as
Outer space forever
Plat-dragged and rising to eat the sun
When we kill and destroy the genetic DNA of the black man we call that “good hair”
because GODS hair is not manageable
Celebrity Author & Egyptian-Sudanese Womanist Kola Boof Writes an Open Letter to Nina Simone Director Cynthia Mort About the Erasure of Nina's Image
According to "Celebrity Author & Egyptian-Sudanese Womanist Kola Boof:
A new film directed by a White woman who claims to be Nina Simone’s number one fan aims to achieve what America couldn’t achieve while Nina was alive-the total erasure of the Empress of Activist-Cool from her own Black image-an image so subversive and counter culture in its dark Negroid-ness that the challenge of living it imbued Nina with a justifiably rebellious and outspoken symphony of under-dog passions; all of it expressed through grandly operatic musical masterpieces, scornfully bold and unrepentant public truth-telling, beautifully Afro-sculptural body posturing, and most of all, Nina’s defiant love for herself and for her people’s political well-being. Nina Simone was no ordinary jazz stylist, woman or public figure. Everything about her was intelligence married to fire. She was charismatic, eccentric and Queenly. And above all else-she was the moving embodiment of raw cultured Blackness.
This is why it’s truly a milestone in revisionist history and Hollywood Colorism that the unauthorized film so disingenuously titled “NINA” casts the typical BET-caliber privileged but talented light skinned actress-in this case not Halle Berry or Thandie Newton, but up and coming go-to-Princess Zoe Saldana, a valiant self-proclaimed Latina of African descent via the Dominican Republic as Nina Simone.
I’ve always liked Zoe Saldana. You could even say that I was a big fan. But since the “Nina” controversy I’ve lost respect for her.
The film’s White woman director (bursting with good intentions as white women always are) unwittingly demonstrates why White women and Black women have not been able to forge a true sisterhood-the white sister can’t see the Black sister’s reality even when staring straight at her. And because of that inability to see us, the image chosen to represent Nina becomes a mocking dehumanization, an erasure of Nina’s swarthy and robust Black victory. Everything Nina stood for while surviving in that Black body becomes whitened and desensitized by the cloying signature of dishonesty. But of course, White people are making this film for White people anyway. None of these films from “Django Unchained” to “Nina” give a care about the Black people they’re depicting. They’d cast Adele (the overrated twang crooner) as Nina if they thought they could get away with it. As an African-born woman, not a true Westerner, I feel completely comfortable stating what’s obvious-that it matters that the woman who plays Nina Simone be dark enough. And that it matters that she have ties to the American Southern States (Dixie they call it). It matters that she be grounded in the lacerating reality of America’s unrelenting anti-Black woman imaging and socialization.
How someone claiming to love Nina and wanting to honor Nina could fail to see the importance in that is beyond my comprehension. I detest Cynthia Mort. I suspect Capitalism and typical Miss Anne entitlement and delusion are her real conduits.
Of course many people disagree with me. The argument goes that we’re denying Zoe Saldana her own Black identity and a chance to win an Oscar. But then photos are released showing Saldana on the set “as Nina” and wonder of wonders-she’s done up in Black face like a minstrel imitating a Black person! She’s got dentures, a prosthetic nose, Afro wig-begging the question-why didn’t they just cast a sensible choice like Kimberly Elise, Yolanda Ross (Stranger Inside), India Arie or Nina’s personal pick Whoopi Goldberg in the first place?
Some say it’s because Saldana is a proven box-office star after playing in several Hollywood action films. But I say recent two-time Oscar nominee Viola Davis is just as hot and that Viola’s film “The Help” grossed twice as much as Saldana’s last two films, “Columbiana” and “The Words”-combined. So who’s the hot property? And just think about it. If Viola Davis starred as “NINA,” she’d put her foot in the pot and come up with yet another Oscar nomination if not an outright win. The publicity from that would drive up the box-office and DVD sales. They’d have a hit and a prestige picture in one. Or imagine if cultural genius Lauryn Hill had a notion to use this as a showy comeback vehicle-or if the ravishingly beautiful and hungry-for-a-chance newcomer Adepero Oduye (Pariah) got to dazzle us with her too often unemployed brilliance. But with Saldana, all the filmmakers have is unforgiving rage from the one group of people that can make this film flop simply by refusing to show up-Black women. And I can promise you right now, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
Black American women are tired of the colorist Hollywood caste system. They love Nina Simone religiously. They know that Nina’s daughter Simone was not asked to be a consultant or even contacted to give her blessing. They know the leading man that Nina falls in love with in the film was a strict homosexual in real life and that his reality, too, is being erased for the purpose of making a quick buck instead of art with integrity. They aren’t dumb enough to pay their hard earned money to be so degraded and erased from their own historical imprint. Cynthia Mort’s film will flop, because enough of us have vowed to make it flop. But what a wasted opportunity! Imagine if they’d done this thing right and put the real “NINA” in the moan. Imagine if they hadn’t rendered Nina invisible in her own story. With Viola Davis, Lauryn Hill or Yolanda Ross as Nina, it would have become a classic.
Originally posted on Shine from Yahoo! http://shine.yahoo.com/beauty/celebrity-author-38-egyptian-sudanese-womanist-kola-boof-045300398.html
“Rappers and Colorism: The Wale & Lil Wayne Article” by Kola Boof
Egyptian-Sudanese-American novelist and poet Kola Boof has been an agent for Sudan’s SPLA and was the National Chairwoman of the U.S. Branch of the Sudanese Sensitization Peace Project. She has written for television and her many books include, “Flesh and the Devil,” “Long Train to the Redeeming Sin,” “Nile River Woman” and “Virgins In the Beehive.” She blogs at Kola Boof.com
From Lil Wayne to Nigeria’s Wale to Nicki Minaj telling us that we need to keep natural Africa hair permed and Europeanized in her song “Nappy headed hoes”—the poison being fed to millions of black children and teens by Anti-Black messages and imagery from hip hop culture is getting worse by the minute. Think about how the Michael Jackson Skin-Lightening Pill is sweeping across West Africa (they have BET now) and then imagine your pre-teen daughter listening to the supposedly Black Princess of Rap as she ignorantly announces that the entire continent of Africa and all your ancestors before you are inferior simply for flaunting their natural DNA-given nappy African hair and not wearing it straight and Europeanized like the White Women Nicki Minaj wishes she looked like.
With Pink Cotton Candy hair, a fake ass, fake tits and a ski sloped nose—Nicki Minaj is imitation crab meat her damn self. But after being raised in Hip Hop culture, she’s too stupid to know that. She is he penultimate “nappy headed Ho” in White girl drag. Her job, via Corporate Sponsoring, is to help continue teaching us that Blackness is inferior and that we can’t possibly be attractive unless we look like the people who used to own us on plantations and colonize us in Africa. That, in fact, is the message of mainstream hip hop overall. Watching BET with the sound turned down gives the distinct message that Black Men must “breed out” and that Black women must strive to become Biracial or else. Of course after we become damn near White—we’re to be dumped for real authentic White Women, because of course, the White womb produces whiteness better than the womb of the imitation crab meat, right? These same idiots pushing this agenda on a daily basis love hollering “Hotep” and telling us about the greatness of the Moors—yet they forget that the Moors were eventually “bred out” and that extinction is not honorable. Spain, which by all rights should be a Black Colony today, is just a racist Lily White nation where conquering Black men had victory and then lost it all over their white-brained dicks.
Unlike the Conquering European or Arab—men who kept black women as mistresses but place their White and Arab mother’s images on top—the Black conqueror lies on and then kills off his own woman’s image (thereby stopping his own re-birth) and takes the White man’s mother as his Queen image. Stupidity and lack of strategy to such a degree you can’t even breathe to believe men would be that stupid—but Black men are.
At any given hour on BET, you will see the usually dark skinned male rapper (a big black fly in a bowl of milk) surrounded by twenty or so female models who don’t have the genetic power to reproduce him or his people. That image is presented and reinforced as valuable by the entire hip hop industry. The message is White is good; dark is bad. Yet these street-rubble heretics become belligerent and threatening when someone points it out to them.
We’re “haters” for noticing how much these people hate their own ancestors, hate Africa and hate their own mother’s image. They whine and bitch about the ills of society, street life and the White devil—yet their only desire is to be made over in the image of that supposedly Oppressive White Devil. They’re Black trash with swag—the same greedy bling bling Glam-Roaches who sold their own children into slavery 500 years ago. Only now their DNA is transplanted to America where they sell our souls.
That includes the African born artists like Wale as well as the innocently White supremacist U.S. and U.K. slave stock.
And truly, let’s acknowledge that White Supremacy is exactly what most of the Black Diaspora has come to practice in our daily lives—from the epidemic bleaching of skin in Africa and Jamaica to the Western Black male celebrity’s intolerance for dark skinned mates to black men’s unbridled hatred for authentically Black children to the older black woman’s craving of grandbabies with “good hair” and mulatto images in place of the Black images we can’t stand—Blacks in general; worldwide—have been reduced to practicing an unspoken White Supremacy that is beyond bone deep; it’s to the soul. Yet we always want to deny it or make excuses and keep on committing the very atrocities against each other that we demonize Whites for. We are willing to kill our own mother (the image of our Black mother) just to be light skinned; just to have a perceived easier life. We are that rat-hearted and pathetic and the images in our art; our art—tell it all!
Yesterday, rapper Wale called me a “dirty weave bitch” on his Twitter timeline. For weeks, I’ve ignored him. But yesterday I again attacked him viciously regarding the lies he employs to make excuses for what I perceive to be his personal Colorism in music videos and how his videos and the videos of other Black rappers affect the Black community’s sense of self.
Wale tweeted back that he and other rappers can’t put any Black women (meaning women darker than a brown paper bag) in their music videos because the modeling agencies sent him 40 girls for his latest shoot and none were Black. Wale claimed that White Men overseeing corporate rap dictate what kind of women can be featured in the videos and ignores the fact that 20 years ago, I was a model—and know damn well he’s a fucking liar. If Black artists want Black models in their videos, they only have to request it!
But this popular lie that rappers tell is sucked up by millions of weak wallflower-type single black chicks who love worshipping self-hating black men who can’t stand the sight of them unless it’s for a blow job or a quick baby. The Black women who follow Wale on Twitter will remind you of pathetic Prostitutes protecting their Pimp. He can’t affirm them (their black beauty)—yet they defend and worship him like dogs gathered for scraps and water to be thrown on them. They stand in the shadows of the club; up against the wall; stupid Black women—defending his glorification and worship of Non-Black women as though they’re shit stains from the side of a toilet.
I spit on them worse than him, because the black women and girls defending these rappers really are the biggest problem—it’s this type of woman, after all, who gives birth to and continues producing these self-hating losers. They have no self-esteem, so they don’t mind having sons who hate them and broadcast it to the world day in and day out. It’s just a vicious circle of slaves doing a jig and demanding that it’s healthy to be a Pimp; it’s healthy to be a disrespected invisible baby mama Ho. In their arrogant insecurity, they lash back at me—what is that ugly tranny looking African bitch Kola Boof complaining about? And who does she think she is. Everything for them is about looks and nothing more. Forget the topic or your opinions. Everything amongst insecure Blacks is reduced merely to what you “look like.” And that in itself tells it all about them.
I’m an African mother. It’s my Black African ass they came from—I didn’t come out of theirs.
I am woman enough to give birth to my own image—not my slave master’s. The father of my children is a Black man from Belize. Our children are new Black men that I brought into this world. Most of the men that I have loved in life have been Black, including the current boyfriend. I loved a few White men before—yes and I make no apologies for that. I am in no way against interracial love. But what we have in the West is an epidemic of self-hatred driving the majority of these couplings. In my own case, I have loved White men because I refused to be alone and I don’t think any Black woman should settle for being alone. Cause and effect is making it impossible for Black women to exclusively date Black Men—they simply are not there for us. The Black man, en masse, have betrayed us. The whole world has eyes and ears and knows this fact. So I don’t care about the Colorstruck Black Man’s whining lie that Black women are seeking interracial relationships in the same manner that Black men are. It simply isn’t true and everybody knows it’s not true.
And I also reject the blatant lies and distortions that rappers like Wale and tin-foil Niggerati publications like “The Root” invent about my rape by Osama Bin laden.
It’s typical for the Black man to blame his mother for her own rape—notice in 1,000 years, Black men never protected their own mothers, but suddenly, they can protect everybody else’s mother. And that is what you are witnessing when you see ignorant Black people pretend that I had a choice about being with Osama Bin Laden—that I could have called the police in the Arab world or escaped unharmed. It’s that historical uncaring and hatred for the Black woman’s rape and enslavement you are witnessing every time they open their mouths to say a single word about me and what I stand for. And nothing they say against me in desperation can change the truth of what I have written in this article about them and what they don’t stand for.
They don’t stand for…or represent…us.
Media images are the most powerful weapon in the world today. Through media images—we are told who to love; who to think is pretty; who to sympathize with and protect—who and what to hold valuable. From Beyonce to Keri Hilson to Mary J. Blige—the flowing blond weaves and the “White Girl Drag” only prove our people’s defeat. The little half-caste babies that we proudly hold up like trophies and not children (look at King Afrocentric Ishmael Reed’s daughter who could pass for pure Arab)—are the symbolic genetic proof of Black people’s defeat. They are the living breathing proof that we believed White to be superior and more worthy than our own blackness; our own image. These visual and verbal images matter a great deal and they’re nothing less than poison.
I just saw myself on the cover of the National Enquirer. It says “Exclusive Interview with Bin Laden’s Mistress”–but I’ve never given an interview to the National Enquirer; I have never in my life spoken to anyone at that magazine. In fact, up to this point, I have not given anyone anywhere an interview regarding my feelings on Osama Bin Laden’s death.
A week ago, my favorite television news anchor Rachel Maddow (MSNBC) stated that I was Somi’s “ex-wife” (because members of the Sudanese government authored a book claiming this). In Los Angeles, one of the top Black stations reported that because I tweeted about Osama’s demise two days before he died; I must be working for the CIA and was aware he was about to be killed. The cover of the National Enquirer claims that I was kept chained in Osama’s compound. None of this is true.
At this moment, I am embroiled in a serious matter that includes confrontations with Osama’s lead wife Najwa over possible monies that were left to me. I will get to that in a moment, but first to make it clear how I feel about Osama’s death and to make it clear why I haven’t felt like talking about it yet, here’s the Official Statement I gave the night Osama died:
“I rarely ever talk about Somi, but for the last two days on Twitter, somethingcame over me and I did nothing but Tweet about him.
Now I know why.
At last….I forgive Somi for everything he did to me and for all that I witnessed. I set him free and I dream for him to be healed.
My greatest sympathy is with his mother, Hamida, the only person in that family who is willing to hear from me. One mother to another, I close my eyes and embrace her with so much compassion.
I feel that no one has more accurately and fairly characterized her son than I have. I knew him to be a monster, a genius, a poet, a racist woman-basher and a very passionate, deeply sensitive confused being.
Like all of us, he was somebody’s child.
I am not God, so I leave him to whatever comes next. I still have his poems and each year they have a different meaning. But now the papers are cool to the touch. I feel many things…things that people would not understand…I look at the gray hair I have…and all I can tell you is this….
Usama, Usama, Usama–Peace.”
I think this statement spoken in my own voice reveals a lot for those who have intellect and can understand that the “Monster” Bin Laden was a real multi-dimensional person for those who knew him; not a media contrived cartoon. I have been greatly demeaned and disrespected by the U.S. press regarding my affiliation with him and I would like to say one thing straight out–Ninety percept of the media’s problem with me is that I’m a Black Woman who looks Black and not mixed. It has been said to my face. Connie Chung and her producers at CNN asked me point blank, “Why would a man of Bin Laden’s wealth and stature have a black mistress?”
Exotic deceitful monikers like ‘sex slave’ and ‘chained woman’ are applied to my image but were never applied to Patti Hearst–who was held against her will for more than a year and had sex trains with the nine Black men holding her–yet was not given a single exotic title. And unlike the garden variety White public mistress (Monica Lewinsky, Camilla Parker Bowles, etc.), my word alone nor my stature as a strong African novelist, activist and poet is enough to accrue common respectful treatment towards my person or my image. Extraordinarily literate facts and information I wrote about Osama years ago, things that could have helped them find Osama, are ignored as they focus on tabloid-like single sentences from my memoir (Osama lusted for Whitney Houston!; he was a Pot head). It was me, after all, who said ten years ago that Osama’s guards used cell phones (I was crucified by Peter Bergen for that; though they discovered last week that it’s true). It was me who reported ten years ago about Osama inventing the “kidney dialysis myth”–me who reported on his marijuana gardens and his obsession with Western culture. It was me who first wrote about his hatred for Sadaam Hussein.
Male journalists like Morgan Spurlock (who says he laughed about my rape) and supposed Bin Laden expert Peter Bergen (whose published facts have now been proven to be less accurate than mine) discuss me as though I’m a deceased taxi dancer or a maid who stole coins from their nightstand. Sadly, because Black Americans can’t decipher anything until White people confirm and approve it for them–I have been just as unfairly treated by Black journalists and so called Black academics and intellectuals. Which makes me shudder to think what would have happened to Thomas Jefferson’s slave Sally Hemmings had she dared write in her own words about her affair with the President of the United States. How would her claims of child rape turned to a forced long term relationship to eventual love been received by her own people?
Sally Hemmings was twelve years old when she gave birth to President Thomas Jefferson’s son, Thomas Jefferson Jr. He was in his fifties (I’ve since learned that the majority of Black American slave women got their first rapes between the ages of nine and thirteen and were freely raped by both White masters and fellow Black male slaves). As I well know, and share with Sally Hemmings–just because someone rapes you doesn’t mean you don’t go on to have a deep relationship with that person.
Osama raped me the first night we met. But out of my fear and determination to survive we became comrades; lovers; we wrote poetry together, I did his hair, I cooked for him, he gave me jewels and money; sent me to Milan on shopping sprees; buried one of his guards that I killed and made it so I only did one night in jail. Living at La Maison Arabe was hardly the life of a slave–I wasn’t in chains, honey. I supervised Osama’s men despite not being allowed to leave Osama. And let’s not forget that half the wives of Arab rich men live that exact same way–many are married against their will, fathers give away daughters, women are snatched off the streets. Women had no rights in the Arab Muslim world when I was there modeling, acting and “hostessing.”
It hurts to have so much valuable information; so much intelligence and to be so truthful and articulate–yet have “white powerful news controllers” decide that you’re not the right image for what they’d like to promote. Therefore, part of history is always missing.
Osama’s wife, Najwa Bin Laden, who wrote so snidely about me in her memoir a few years ago is now forced, at last, to recognize me. I’m sure she’d rather have me killed than see me collect money from her husband. According to her I was Somi’s “abeed lan sharmuta” (n***er slave whore). But that’s alright. I’m the one he kept for pleasure and not mere Islamic duty–as she well knows and sleeps alone with–and always slept alone with. Pitiful head covered door mat jockey.
The rank ignorant pettiness (well Kola’s not pretty enough!) and the treatment my story and my personhood have received shows you exactly why the Americans couldn’t find Osama for more than a decade. It shows you why Peter Bergen in all his almighty “million dollar advance” rhetoric could never locate Osama but had to degrade and slander me to protect the credibility of his own toilet-read tomes. And it shows most of all–that you can’t keep a good woman down. I was not the one who revealed that I’d been with Somi. The London Guardian newspaper started it all; I originally denied the story out of embarrassment and then the U.S. Homeland Security (more like “Gangland Security”) forced me to admit to it. From then on, I was trapped in a maze of defending my reputation and my personhood. And so the tragedy of my life is that I have told nothing but truth…yet the truth did not set me free.
My one revenge is that I’m not going anywhere. I think the Americans have noticed that by now. And I leave you with this bit of common sense and mother wit–”In any mansion…it’s the maids and the whores…who know the most.” You can’t stop what’s real