“SHE LOOK LIKE like dog meat.”
Well, ting, I nearly tumbled off the toilet. I know many of you may not admit it, but the throne is a place we like to do things, like thinking, reading, writing and even arithmetic. Well, I was on the phone while on the throne, talking to my dear friend, Andrea. Andrea’s descriptions are never mundane. They are a vivid tapestry of colourful speech, woven by a master seamstress. (Or should that be “mistress” seamstress?)
Anyway, Andrea was describing one of her neighbour’s sister’s friends, who had been sunburnt almost beyond recognition. Said friend decided not to use sunscreen and spend an entire day on the Best Caribbean Beach for 2015, (according to USA Today) lounging in a chair until she was charred like a wild boar.
In case you didn’t know, the beach I’m talking about was the Crane Beach; and while the friend was adamant that being under the firmament made her content, Andrea made no comment . . . until she saw her a few days after the incineration.
“Is a sin what she do with she skin,” Andrea complained. Andrea had given the friend more warnings than a Viagra commercial, but the friend took no heed, until her skin literally began to peel and bleed.
Most of us say that the sun is “different” from when we were children. As a child, I remember the teacher putting me to stand in the sun and I would pretend to faint. Not because the sun was hot – I could have played tennis all afternoon with my schoolmates – but simply because I was a hard-ears, melodramatic mischief-maker.
Today, putting a child to stand in the sun would certainly be considered inhumane, since the sun is so fierce. But then again, putting a child to stand in the sun may be farcical, since the child may simply brandish a weapon and put you in your place.
Yes, indeed – it is the age where the sun is hot and sons are hot-headed. I wonder if amidst all the brouhaha that someone may just laugh and offer a solution instead of a complaint or defence. Our sons need us to help them into adulthood. As a tutor, I see many children in want of something so simple that we sometimes fail to see it. It’s called love; and it is lacking.
Love is not found in the screen of an iPad, nor is it hidden in the material of brand-name shoes, bags or clothes. I am not a preacher (although I used to be); I am not a pastor (although I sometimes wish I were). I am simply a nulliparous (but fertile) female, observing tomorrow’s adults. They are our children; and we should feel responsible for teaching them about the circle of life – the connectivity to each other that makes us all human. Even dogs feel a sense of connection, moving in packs. If we don’t live and practise our humanity, we may as well be dog meat.
Veoma Ali is an author, broadcaster, advertising exec and most important, a karaoke lover.