LIFE · Story

35

AI stole Corrine Bailey Rae’s voice and made a song. I heard it in the background of a YouTube Shorts video where someone was making an overly meticulous spaghetti dinner. Google could not match the lyrics to a song so I tried Shazam and Shazam could not find it either. A heavy dredging feeling arose from the bottom of my stomach as it occurred to me what Artificial Intelligence really is. Artificial Intelligence is the legal name of plagiarism. It is the permission to recreate an original idea without attributing that idea to the person who made it. It is being able to steal intellectual property from creators and churn it out in a mass overproduction. It can also be described as TikTok. Is AI the ultimate culmination of everybody getting a gold medal even for coming last or is it just a well dressed disfigurement of creative human thought? The equivalent of deep state for the human mind?

@amk

As I approach 35, I have noticed two more things recently, the passage of time as it interacts with exertion, both inward and outward, leaving evidence of fleeting youth and; an endless observation, contemplation and interest in having a say in how the world, our world, any world, first or third is run. Zohran Mamdani, mayor of New York has probably faced both, I imagine; the weight of American political office is visible in the strain in his smile and the droop in his eyes, less lean but emboldened by the audaciousness of hope, the dream of changing the world, reimagining the world, as if it had never been attempted before.

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Earthquakes are going door to door, coast to coast. The weather forecast says El Nino is coming, again; and this time, we are grown up enough to notice.

@amk

Succession and Estate Planning once again fails in Africa. The most outspoken critic of holding onto power is dealing with his own power crisis. Once a ‘revolutionary’, he is now, just ‘an old man’, among many other old men, hoping that what he did was enough, hoping that he maneuvered a lasting inheritance, or in this case, a dynasty, for his own.

How easy it is, to walk past with someone of shared origin, partly shared origin, because of how different they look. Only for them to approach you in a crowd, where you stand as an outsider, counting how many look like you, speaking a language that nobody there would know, and say, Hey! Are you guys speaking this language?”How did we find our bearings and somehow manage to have a flow of conversation within our confusion?  I guess skin colour and hair is not all that makes a person. Such a concept is unfathomable to America, surprisingly even more in California than it was in Texas.

In the same crowd that day where we were sticking out a little too visibly, I was afraid when our four year old run and embraced his brother’s principal’s legs. I didn’t think she had ever been that close to a brown child with furry hair. I wanted to pull him away before she could, but he had his little smile on, pausing and holding her tightly like she was an oft-visited grandmother. She looked up surprised. I said a polite high and looked for a shelter from the sun. I suddenly could feel the sun burning my forehead. That was the day of the ribbon cutting for the new community school.

World Cup ended about a month ago. It was the best fun of summer, besides the day we all went to the pool. Perhaps it was the most consistent one. Anyway, it lit me up. Because of World Cup and because of this picture below, I will be wearing my hair in its most original state, a little more.

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Bad black was on social media broadcasting the worldwide pandemic of body dysmorphia fueled by Instagram; a world of filters existing within a wider generational identity crisis. Years ago, she changed her nose and colour. It will take her half a year before she can sit again, but this time, she will finally become most attractive. As voluntary body changing surgeries became common place all over the world, weight loss drugs have also began their ascent, from a former tennis star, a former first lady to other women all around the world.

I · LIFE · Story

Peace

Carrying Peace was like having a fire in my uterus. He is the first person that let me know how I truly was. If I was happy, I was and if I was sad, I was. I got sick if my thoughts were sad. I loved him whom I love with no fear or remorse. Yet, also, he pointed me to the injustices all round me. His brother’s birth had made me a warrior, his sister’s gave me courage, but he showed me what real love was, and what it wasn’t.

Peace, when I carried you, I told your father that it was like carrying a war in my stomach. You would not let things go. You would not allow me a hood over my head. Before you, everything lay open. I could feel how hot, how unrelenting you fought, so he said he would call you Zen.

Like me, you are sandwiched between, but yours is the only time I planned for. I waited for six months before you came. Eight months before, someone else had come, six weeks, and then left.

I have never felt as beautiful as I did when I carried you. I had no qualms, nothing I would add or reduce. A body shape protruding in a most elegant nature, with edges molded to my own, a light in my eyes, light and easy to carry.

When it was time to give birth, I thought April was such an uncommon month for a baby to be born. Months before, an angel had walked up to me in a hospital lobby and said that I shouldn’t be afraid and that If God took care of the animals that gave birth in the wilderness, He would take care of me too. So, when they scheduled the surgery, I did not appear. Something in me would not let me. I had heard your father speak to my own about the dates for the caesarian and for the second time in my life, I did not need approval.

Your birth started like a thunderstorm in the night. Throughout the day there had been signs. I had seen the little hand-sized cloud after weeks of desert sky. I knew it would rain. Minutes before you pushed down, the rain fell as I walked to the labour room in that open-back hospital gown.

I was squatting in the bathtub asking for hot water, telling the nurse the contents of my heart. There had been a change in shift and the second nurse’s aura had been dismissive. I looked up at her from my contractions and told her that she had abandoned me. I don’t know what she saw in my eyes but her face went pale and as she began to walk away, she said, “Tell me when you feel like you need to go.” I said to her, “I have been feeling like that for a while now.” She started to run and call for back up. I didn’t push. You came out, tilted your head towards me and you smiled. This is how you wanted to come.

The Christmas before, I had lain in bed at home with you at five months after being in hospital all morning. I had picked up COVID. Since I was carrying, all they could give me was ibuprofen. So I took ibuprofen and I hoped that the temperature would drop but it went higher and higher and my chest heaved and it was just me and you. I cried. You still would not let me hide.

You exposed my hurt. You exposed my love. You pick up on sensitivities so delicate. You are like a fire. You are both delicate and strong. You jump on the bed with blackened feet and then, you offer me a crack of a crisp. You pick up music like a maestro, praying and singing like you understand what it’s all about and then you paint the walls with markers. You come to me and you whisper, It’s okayyy, mummy. You beat your brother, who is three times bigger, with blows in his back and then at night when he is not ready to go up alone to his bed, you tell him, “Let’s go, I’ll take care of you.” No!” indignant, he responds, “I’ll take care of you, I’m the one to take care of you.”

Happy Third Birthday Zen.

*what a joy to have you all in my life*