Yes I'll be wearing cornrows going to uni because I refuse to let the hairdressers snatch my soul in the salon.
And Yes my mom still braids my hair ๐งโโ
And Yes my mom still braids my hair ๐งโโ
Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie has been running through my head for free today.
If you haven't read it, it is set in Nigeria around the 1960s and follows a few people whose lives get swallowed by the Nigerian Civil War, the Biafran War.
Biafra was the breakaway state declared by Nigeria's predominantly Igbo Eastern Region in 1967, after years of political tension, military coups, massacres of Igbo people in the North, and mass displacement. The war lasted until 1970.
(แแแแ แ แแแจแต แแฅแด แแ)
Olanna (my favourite character right after ugwu) especially has been stuck in my head.
She is living this relatively ordinary, educated, comfortable life, and then violence comes close enough that all those ordinary assumptions about home, safety and belonging become completely unstable.
(Bit familiar eh?)
And later thru the story hunger kicks in and the federal government blockaded Biafra during the war, severely restricting food, medicine and other supplies.
As the territory was cut off, famine became catastrophic. Children were dying of starvation and disease while the war continued. By the time Biafra surrendered in January 1970, around two million people had died, most from famine and disease.
And hmmmmm
haven't we seen this movie before???
A frighteningly familiar pattern?
A population becomes politically marginalised. Ethnicity becomes increasingly tied to political survival. Violence produces displacement. A region becomes isolated. Roads close. Communication disappears. Services collapse. Humanitarian access becomes difficult. And eventually, whether people can eat, receive medicine, leave, or even tell the outside world what is happening becomes entangled with the war itself.
แ 1960แแน แแญแแชแซ แแตแฅ แจแฐแแ แจแแ แฝแแญ แตแแแฅ แจแแแณ แแแต แ แแ แ แแ แ แแญ แฅแแฐแแ แฅแซแจแแ แแแ แแ แจแแซแตแฐแแแ แแข แแแ แฅ แแแก แจแแแฒแซแ แณแชแญ แจแฐแแจ แแ แฅแซแฑ แฝแแญแข
แฐแแฝ แแแแชแซ แแแฝ แแธแแข
แจแแซ แจแ แแต แญแแ แฐแแฝ แญแแแแข
แจแแซ แจแ แแต แฅแแญ แฐแแฝแข
แจแแซ แจโแฅแแแแโ แแฎแฝ แข
แ แแจแจแป แฐแแ แญแแฅแฃ แแแแแแฃ แจแแแแ แแแจแฅ แฅแ แจแฅแญแณแณ แแแแต แแแแต แจแแซแแฅแแธแ 'แฐแแฝ' แฅแป แญแแซแแข
แญแณแซแน แฅแแแฒแ ๐งโโ
แแญแแชแซ แ 1960แแน แซแแ แแตแ แฝแแญ แฅแแฐ แฉแ แจแ แแชแซ แณแชแญ แ แแฅแ แ แแแแแต แฅแแณแ แแ แจแแแแข แฐแแณแณแญ แฅแซแแแฝ แฅแแ แ แญแ แจแแแค
แแ แฃแแแญ แแ? แแ แญแฐแแ? แฅแ แแ แฒแซแฅ แจแ แแญ แฝแแญ แญแแแ?
Half of a Yellow Sun won't leave me alone.
More like it won't leave Africa alone.
If you haven't read it, it is set in Nigeria around the 1960s and follows a few people whose lives get swallowed by the Nigerian Civil War, the Biafran War.
Biafra was the breakaway state declared by Nigeria's predominantly Igbo Eastern Region in 1967, after years of political tension, military coups, massacres of Igbo people in the North, and mass displacement. The war lasted until 1970.
(แแแแ แ แแแจแต แแฅแด แแ)
Olanna (my favourite character right after ugwu) especially has been stuck in my head.
She is living this relatively ordinary, educated, comfortable life, and then violence comes close enough that all those ordinary assumptions about home, safety and belonging become completely unstable.
(Bit familiar eh?)
And later thru the story hunger kicks in and the federal government blockaded Biafra during the war, severely restricting food, medicine and other supplies.
As the territory was cut off, famine became catastrophic. Children were dying of starvation and disease while the war continued. By the time Biafra surrendered in January 1970, around two million people had died, most from famine and disease.
And hmmmmm
haven't we seen this movie before???
A frighteningly familiar pattern?
A population becomes politically marginalised. Ethnicity becomes increasingly tied to political survival. Violence produces displacement. A region becomes isolated. Roads close. Communication disappears. Services collapse. Humanitarian access becomes difficult. And eventually, whether people can eat, receive medicine, leave, or even tell the outside world what is happening becomes entangled with the war itself.
แ 1960แแน แแญแแชแซ แแตแฅ แจแฐแแ แจแแ แฝแแญ แตแแแฅ แจแแแณ แแแต แ แแ แ แแ แ แแญ แฅแแฐแแ แฅแซแจแแ แแแ แแ แจแแซแตแฐแแแ แแข แแแ แฅ แแแก แจแแแฒแซแ แณแชแญ แจแฐแแจ แแ แฅแซแฑ แฝแแญแข
แฐแแฝ แแแแชแซ แแแฝ แแธแแข
แจแแซ แจแ แแต แญแแ แฐแแฝ แญแแแแข
แจแแซ แจแ แแต แฅแแญ แฐแแฝแข
แจแแซ แจโแฅแแแแโ แแฎแฝ แข
แ แแจแจแป แฐแแ แญแแฅแฃ แแแแแแฃ แจแแแแ แแแจแฅ แฅแ แจแฅแญแณแณ แแแแต แแแแต แจแแซแแฅแแธแ 'แฐแแฝ' แฅแป แญแแซแแข
แญแณแซแน แฅแแแฒแ ๐งโโ
แแญแแชแซ แ 1960แแน แซแแ แแตแ แฝแแญ แฅแแฐ แฉแ แจแ แแชแซ แณแชแญ แ แแฅแ แ แแแแแต แฅแแณแ แแ แจแแแแข แฐแแณแณแญ แฅแซแแแฝ แฅแแ แ แญแ แจแแแค
แแ แฃแแแญ แแ? แแ แญแฐแแ? แฅแ แแ แฒแซแฅ แจแ แแญ แฝแแญ แญแแแ?
Half of a Yellow Sun won't leave me alone.
More like it won't leave Africa alone.
โค5
Anyways dating is a sin
(Jesus Christ will remove anyone that's dating rn from heaven)
(Jesus Christ will remove anyone that's dating rn from heaven)
๐ญ5
Forwarded from Dave Dumps
As Sartre said โthe worst thing the Bolsheviks ever did was provide Ayn Rand with an education โ
๐ญ5
Feeling bored in the morning?
Here's < 30 mins of ayn rand speaking bs
Here's < 30 mins of ayn rand speaking bs
๐ญ2
Do you ever wonder how the authors of your favourite books live their lives outside the books they've written? like, how they take their coffee, what they eat for breakfast, what they do when they're bored, how they deal with grief. the very ordinary details of being a person that would never occur to you when you're reading their work.
i found out that chimamanda ngozi adichie recently lost one of her twin sons, reportedly following medical negligence, and it's such a strange thing to know about someone whose mind you've encountered through books.
i wonder how she's dealing with it. I mean, how does a person actually live through something like this? how do you wake up the next morning? what happens to all the ordinary things you used to do without thinking? does food taste the same? do you still get annoyed by trivial things? does the world become unbearable to look at, or do you find yourself getting irritated that the world hasn't stopped to acknowledge that yours has changed completely?
and i realise how little i actually know about her.
(Am I supposed to know about her that much tho?)
i know what she's written, some of what she's said, the opinions she's shared with the public. but i don't know what she's like at home, what makes her laugh when she's with people she loves, what she does when she's having a bad day. there's a whole life there that has nothing to do with me reading her books, and yet the fact that i've read them makes me conscious of that life in a way i wasn't before.
it's a funny thing about art, how you can become familiar with someone's mind without ever knowing the person. you can spend hours with their thoughts, recognise something in their sentences that you haven't been able to articulate yourself, disagree with them, feel understood by them, and still have no idea what kind of person they are when they're not making something. it's intimacy with what they've made available to you. Not quite intimacy tho..
and chimamanda is a writer, yes, but she's also someone's mother, someone's family, a person who has to exist in the world outside of her books. her ability to write about human suffering doesn't mean she's any better equipped to endure her own. being able to give grief language and having to live with it are two entirely different things.
Idk. it's a bit strange to me remembering that the people whose minds I get to visit through their work are out there living actual lives, having experiences I'll never know about, going through things that have nothing to do with what they mean to me as artists. I get the books and the rest of their lives belong to them.
i found out that chimamanda ngozi adichie recently lost one of her twin sons, reportedly following medical negligence, and it's such a strange thing to know about someone whose mind you've encountered through books.
i wonder how she's dealing with it. I mean, how does a person actually live through something like this? how do you wake up the next morning? what happens to all the ordinary things you used to do without thinking? does food taste the same? do you still get annoyed by trivial things? does the world become unbearable to look at, or do you find yourself getting irritated that the world hasn't stopped to acknowledge that yours has changed completely?
and i realise how little i actually know about her.
(Am I supposed to know about her that much tho?)
i know what she's written, some of what she's said, the opinions she's shared with the public. but i don't know what she's like at home, what makes her laugh when she's with people she loves, what she does when she's having a bad day. there's a whole life there that has nothing to do with me reading her books, and yet the fact that i've read them makes me conscious of that life in a way i wasn't before.
it's a funny thing about art, how you can become familiar with someone's mind without ever knowing the person. you can spend hours with their thoughts, recognise something in their sentences that you haven't been able to articulate yourself, disagree with them, feel understood by them, and still have no idea what kind of person they are when they're not making something. it's intimacy with what they've made available to you. Not quite intimacy tho..
and chimamanda is a writer, yes, but she's also someone's mother, someone's family, a person who has to exist in the world outside of her books. her ability to write about human suffering doesn't mean she's any better equipped to endure her own. being able to give grief language and having to live with it are two entirely different things.
Idk. it's a bit strange to me remembering that the people whose minds I get to visit through their work are out there living actual lives, having experiences I'll never know about, going through things that have nothing to do with what they mean to me as artists. I get the books and the rest of their lives belong to them.
โค7