Vol No: 83,
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AFRICAN ECHO NEWS

A letter to my folks By Pearl Ashia
(Pearl Ashia is back)


Right folks, i still haven't heard from you. No phone call. No emails. No letters and you all are too busy chasing the Sterling that you don't even bother to pop into my crib to say hi. I said before that I am not going to bother with your little "butts" any more but here I am penning you again because there is something I got to tell you.

Do you folks remember Paula? Paula. Fante Paula? I mean Paula Marshall Cann from Takoradi? Good one! Anyway, Paula and I met at Akua Odrey's 25th Birthday at a Banquet hall somewhere in Shoreditch. Boy, that gig was super! Some women are so f-word lucky they don't even know what to do with themselves. It was her boyfriend who threw that party to say thank you to her for being such a sweet girl.

And folks Miss Ever-So- Lucky was clad in the most expensive Chanel outfit I had ever seen and boy you should have seen the rock the guy presented to her as he dropped down on one knee and asked her to marry him.

Peaches! If you are an unlucky girl, you won't find this appealing at all. So I met Paula Cann, looking as gorgeous as ever. You know Paula, abi? Paula wears an outfit made out of bin liners and she still steals everybody's shine. Less is always more. So we stood sipping champagne and talked about old times.

Secondary School days and trust me we had a lot to catch up on. She told me she lived in Chelsea and was a housing officer in one of the South London Boroughs. Although I had lost my job as I stood with her and I was crushing in a friend's couch, that didn't stop me from being happy for a strong, intelligent African sister.

After that party, we communicated regularly until one day she called to tell me she had found the most wonderful man on the planet. Cushty!

Folks, do you know what girlfriend did? She stopped calling me! I mean who will keep communicating to their girlfriends when they have found dark-skinned, redlipped Mr.Cool and Collected who cooks them breakfast in bed? The flowers followed the promises and it went on and on. Love is sweet, isn't it?

Then one day girlfriend lost her J-O-B and then TROUBLE! She lost her flat and had no option than to move into Mr. Cool's apartment. The drama and entertainment that went on in girlfriend and Mr. Cool's home will need another telling but all that I can say to my girlfriends is: UNTIL YOU MOVE INTO A MAN'S CRIB, YOU CANNOT CONCLUDE THAT HE IS THE BEST.

Your first week at his, I can guarantee you will feel like you used to when you had your own place. Now here we go girlfriends, brace yourselves for what happens after the "honeymoon".

After your one week stay, the relationship is beginning to lose its elasticity. Bouts and bouts of bumping and grinding has worn him out. By now, if sex was soccer or Formula 1 he'd rather watch Desparate Housewives. Yes, that is right!

Then waking up every morning and finding out you are snoring by his side makes him feel that his life is over.He is only 29 and is saddled with you and your unemployment and destitute situation!

Boohoo! Remember that the relationship is still valid and because of your presence there are certain things he cannot do any longer. Like?

Wake up girls! Like being a boy! Men want to be called men but they are afraid of letting go of their boyhood. By now, Mr. Cool is bursting to be himself. Go on ! Be your true self and go sow some wild oats! Have some few pints at Gold Coast with the lads. Drown your sorrows in good old Courvoisier because when you walk through the door Miss Paula Housebound will be waiting to ask you where the hell you had been. That is right! Sit your butt down and let me give you the news flash.

ACTING LIKE YOU ARE MARRIED CAN BE AS BAD AS BEING MARRIED! Folks, so I was in bed watching Tom Hank's ROAD TO PERDITION last night when my phone beeped.

Guess who? Paula Cann? After this long silence? I knew straight away that something must be wrong. So I answered, though indifferent.

Folks, girlfriend was on the other end sniffing and wheezing, sobbing and blowing snort into her duvet. How can I help you Missy? She was so hysterical that I had no choice but to hail a taxi and go to her before something terrible happened to her.

There she lay, in a scentedcandle lit room, crying to Toni Braxton's Unbreak My Heart. Problem? Kwame has broken up with her. Offence? Serial.

I listened to girlfriend's lamentations without any particular interest but what hit me most is the phrase the redlipped guy used on her and I quote; "You are a good housekeeper but I cannot center my future around you." Nice one,. A very diplomatic way to tell someone you claim to love, to go away. So I asked Paula what she really did and after she had narrated a lot of the she had been through I quickly rushed to the CD player and swapped Toni Braxton's ballad for Beyonce's Irreplaceable.

Here is a woman who is so much in love with her man that she goes a-painting in a room he is soon to settle in.

That was her way of surprising the emotionless, expressionless insensitive, first-world - war-german -soldier -like - man! And what happens when she comes home? Mr. Cool comes to open the door and here is a Miss Hoochie Mama slouched in the sofa, covered comfortably with Mr. Cool's favourite duvet, switching channel after channel on Sky TV, cool music playing and what was boyfriend doing? He had gone to the barber's to crop his shapeless head and he was clad in his favourite yellow lacoste, busy in the kitchen, dishing out soup Paula had cooked previously and at the same time preparing her yam and egg stew.

To be continued.

 

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