senduQ

mind entropy of the ethiofrican

Flattery: Fast-tracking Success?

1 February, 2010 | 13 comments | Category: Relationships, Senduq- Semhal, Uncategorized, iPerceive, nostalgia.personal, thinking...

photocredit: tsepeaces

by senduQ blogger Semhal

Schmoozers or Ass-kissers …most of us have been drawn to such crowds at some point in our lives. I don’t know how they do it…become magnets of long lines of insecure ambitious people like myself (every now and then) who get convinced that success is only for those who are expert artists of sucking up. I have to admit, I can be too nice to people at times especially when I’m dealing with people seated higher in the job hierarchy.  But I have recently become more self-aware of this habit especially after I received some veiled criticisms about this from my dad who noticed my tendency to “worship” my boss. This newfound awareness  convicted me every time I gave one of my fake smiles or exaggerated compliments.

So as a new year resolution, I decided to work my way out of this habit even if it means risking the climb up the ladder in the job market. It was a conscious decision that I made. One of the big steps in accomplishing my goal was to choose my acquaintances carefully because you know what they say “evil company corrupts good habits.” I don’t want to boast but I was doing pretty well until…

A few weeks ago, I made a trip to Atlanta for a conference. There were many esteemed people in my field of work, people I would love to work for after graduation. I was fortunate enough to meet some great people who are doing incredible work all around the world. Unfortunately, I also crossed paths with the overt schmoozers: people who would say and do anything to be part of the “IT” crowd. They talk like they have “your back” but they are neither your friends nor confidants. They are polite and politically correct and have the appearance of doing everything effortlessly: but when they get a chance, they will sell you out at any price. I felt obliged to join their group since the person I came with had quickly befriended them (ye habesha yilugntaye:) ~ politeness). So I listened to their gossip about who has more funding or who has more publications or who gave who a face …all day

After 12 hrs of flight and 8 hours of gossip, I was ready to retire for the night so I respectfully declined their invitation to accompany them to the bar. That’s when one of the girls said “You know it is who you know not what you know. If you are not going to come and hang out, you might as well not have come.”

I would normally scratch that, roll my eyes and go on my merry way but I could not help but wonder if there was some truth in this. In today’s society has the value of hard work been compromised? Are people losing faith in the value of hard work? When I think about people who have made significant differences in the world, they have always walked alone, they were even outcasts. Think about Jesus and how he was out-casted by his people, yet isn’t it extraordinary that the life of Jesus thousands of years after his birth should move a sane soul this way? Why do we then roll our eyes to the heavens when we come across people who walk in paths different than ours? I mean let’s get real people…everything is earned…you cannot learn French in 40 hours or calculus in one afternoon no matter how much you click with the teacher. It doesn’t matter if you have the most intelligent conversation with the CEO, at the end of the day if you do not know what you need to know, you may get the job but you can’t keep it. Don’t get me wrong, I am not against networking: you cannot make a difference in anyone’s life if you lock your self in your room all day. But the foundation of success is your ability and confidence to do the work well: At the end of the day it IS what you know not who you know.

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Untold Stories of She

19 March, 2009 | 7 comments | Category: for.the.love.of.words!, poetry, prose.tales, thinking...


from silence emerges the invisible hero.
cast in a supporting role
she shuffles quickly behind man, carrying the bucket.
mopping stanking rubbish and residue
with her calloused hands that grip flaming coals…
and her belly that muffles pain.
like light and moths her womanhood lures together people
her wisdom hidden in her womb
in silence it bears history and culture
with depth apparent only through action and nurture…
for words forsake her…

words overlook
diminish and maim her
into an object,
a sweep or blanket
a workhorse, a maid
a silent ornament in the scenery

Wonder how she felt
how she’d vent
what she dreamed
…imagination lit
what she desired
…body aflame
what she pondered…
when she seeps pleasurable tastes
as if thoughts were cough drops from her intellect.

Did she ever say, or was she never heard?
When? to hear her ululations as they reverberate from center stage…
They said…
“Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.”
So…She existed?
The individual. Not a skirt among the masses.
Not a scarf among the others. not Misses Proxy.
Looking to hear Miss Loud Foxy.

Stories
…she’s the one who told stories.
the oral historian teeming with juicy tales
mostly abound with stories of the men of her family.
casually more absent than present…
those rambunctious heroes with puffed chests and boisterous yelps…
The soldier who died too young after his trip to the Ogaden.
The adventurer who disappeared into the deep south of cental Ethiopia, Arusi.
The intellectual who mounted francophone education brought on the Addis-Djibouti train
The geologist who mapped the vast lands of the horn of africa, pioneering his field.
The student activist who hid away in roofs from the junta red terror police.
The doctor, a former Haile Selassie boy scout, healed patients across the world.
The farmer who tilled the family land
The auto-mechanic who drove jeep convertibles and fixed archaic Italian fiats.

Interestingly, her life mostly featured courageous women.
Though ears strain for their stories…
I pick up whispers, hush-hushed…
The widow entrepreneur who sold injera on dusty streets under umbrellas blocking a fiery sun
The live-in Italian household maid who financed the men’s education
The wife who walked +50km fleeing an abusive man chased by coarse hills, desolation
The homemaker & her shenanigans: sifting, sewing, boiling, sweeping for her family institution
The mother who showered care, thought and exertion to nurture those around her
The controversial bride whose wedding featured an ex-suitor & his blazing guns
The old maid – a failure for not catching the eligible man
The single professional woman building a house in the outskirts of town

stories of She. Untold.

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the horn’s dustyfoot wordisans

31 January, 2009 | 14 comments | Category: book snip, for.the.love.of.words!, love.of.words!, musiqa, poetry

I wrote about the dusty foot philosopher k’naan’s wordskillz last year. looks like the emcee-poet-word artist is back with a new album!

a somali wordisan artisan
K’naan’s poem ‘too well done’ portrays beyond doubt the power of words to relay messages dripping with passion and energy. It does that as it encapsulates an experience within the horn in a unique and touchingly honest way that no other medium could.

Words can shake. caress. arouse. repel. expose. provoke. uplift… It’s intriguing how complicated the history of cultures & their wordplays get. Though, simply -- words sculpt a story through a unique writer-orator’s worldview. enter: the horn immigrant K’naan hailing from Wardhiigleey (”The Lake of Blood”), Mogadishu, Somalia, now a rapper residing in Canada.


the horn of africa’s wordy history

For a region with communities that raised us teaching you must respect the elders without daring to talk back…words weigh a lot. Though the truth -- our stories are not heard in our voices resounding across the world. We hear stories about wars, famine and suffering, no clear and honed voices speaking out in intricate articulation about people of ancient cultures sharing their glorious humanity, until now. The groove of the horn is deep with a lot of treasure within… as K’Naan put it “The horn of Africa has the deepest wells humanity has ever dug to find the truest sentiments that describe the world and what it contains.”

I’ve been reading ‘Notes from the Hyena’s Belly‘, an interestingly written book seeping stories about cultural rituals and traditions through the eyes of a grown man remembering his childhood in Jijiga, eastern Ethiopia -- a cultural crossroads between the interior of Ethiopia and the interior of Somaliland. And I came across a section that described the role of poets in times past, of highland kingdom kings and noblemen, feudal lords and warriors…

The key to the kinae lies in the contradictory nature of the Amharic language…Generations of oppression, without freedom of speech, gave birth to this tangling of meaning and intentions. If a man had been mistreated by a feudal lord or local chieftain, he would compose a kinae to read at a social event, a poem that was sweet and heart-rending to the untrained ar, but quite biting to the lord- one of the intended audience.

The peasants, by and large, were illiterate and unable to put together a recondite kinae, so the poets did it for them. A poet might compose a kinae to inform the lord that the taxes he had levied on his subjects were expensive, about the brutality of his son, who raped and plundered the locals, or as a plea for forgiveness on behalf of the man he had recently thrown into his private jail. The feudal lord was often trained in the interpretation of the kinae, but if he doubted his own judgment, there were always one or two monks beside him to shed light on the subject. Poets were usually exempt form the repercussions of their kinae, as lords were generally reluctant to be seen as monstrous persecutors of humble poets. Besides, the poet could always plead his ignorance, claiming that his intentions were misread, and offer apologies.


It’s quite fascinating really, the horn has such ancient traditions with words…intertwined with the fabric of society where the lifestyle has been dictated by the nature of the location. A location very much at a crossroads and junction point between continents with a variety of cultures. Like most forms of African art, spoken and written words are mixed into the way of life; literature is functional, musical, entertaining, uplifting and has a performance culture fused with it. Like most African art -- it is holistic…interactive…improvisational… communal.

The horn is the land of storytelling, poetry, fables, riddles of play, wisdom and double edged words…warrior chants and calls, songs of childplay, lyrics to accompany the grinding of grains & the sifting of dry pepper fruit … Religious & spiritual hymns resound along with rhythmic recitations of scripture and the echoing sounds of mosque prayers …words spar for justice village elders witness conflicts of village members, scribes record mystical tales as beggars and singers improvise poetry & lyrics to customize to their listeners…

the dusty foot filosofer’s wordy inspiration

‘Somalia tops Forbes magazine’s “Most Dangerous Destinations,” list above Iraq and Afghanistan. And yet it is “The Nation of Poets,” where a poem has the power to inspire peace. Where every weekend, regardless of the climate, one can find a play or concert.’

‘Somalia was dubbed by the 19th century British explorer Richard Burton in his book ‘First Footsteps in East Africa‘ as a nation of bards:

The country teems with poets, every man has his recognized position in literature as accurately defined as though he had been reviewed in a century of magazines -- the fine ear of this people causing them to take the greatest pleasure in harmonious sounds and poetic expressions. Every chief in the country must have a panegyric to be sung by his clan, and the great patronize light literature by keeping a poet. Read more about Somali poetry

.

As Said Samatar explains, a Somali poet is expected to play a role in supporting his tribe or clan, “to defend their rights in clan disputes, to defend their honor and prestige against the attacks of rival poets, to immortalize their fame and to act on the whole as a spokesman for them.” In short, a traditional poem is occasional verse composed to a specific end, with argumentative or persuasive elements, and having a historical context.’

The grandson of Haji Mohamed, one of Somalia’s most famous poets, and nephew of famed Somali singer Magool, K’naan the emcee is creating his own musical orator path through reggae, funk, pop, soul and hip-hop. K’naan says he makes “urgent music with a message”, talking about the situation in his homeland of Somalia and calling for an end to violence and bloodshed. He specifically tries to avoid gangsta rap clichés and posturing, saying:

“All Somalis know that gangsterism isn’t to brag about. The kids that I was growing up with [in Rexdale] would wear baggy [track] suit pants, and a little jacket from Zellers or something, and they’d walk into school, and all the cool kids would be like, ‘Ah, man, look at these Somalis. Yo, you’re a punk!’ And the other kid won’t say nothing, but that kid, probably, has killed fifteen people.

”

“My job is to write just what I see / So a visual stenographer is who I be,” he rhymes in “I Come Prepared.”

here’s the video of his first single from his latest album.

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Kenna.i.love: Grammy Nominee EthioAmericans!

4 December, 2008 | 1 comment | Category: madness!, musiqa, thinking...

This is way beyond surreal! I was writing up this post last nite before going to sleep-- and this morning I woke up to an alert on facebook: Two Ethiopian American Musicians have been nominated for Grammys!! Way to PUSH the envelope! CONGRATULATIONS- Way proud of you guys!

Best Urban/Alternative Performance

Say Goodbye To Love -- Kenna

Wanna Be -- Maiysha

Be OK -- Chrisette Michele Featuring will.i.am

Many Moons -- Janelle Monae

Lovin You (Music) -- Wayna Featuring Kokayi

____________________________________________________________

Kenna.i.love?

such love!

its inexplicable! wheew!

its beyond the realm of words i tell ya….

it’s a feeling located in a place only music can reach.

Kenna Zemedkun, is an Ethiopian-born American musician- a rocker…

i didn’t like his music just a year ago…i thought it sounded like empty ruckus muckus suckus. tehehe i know, so harsh right?

but now--NOW i hear him and i quickly connect…he is like a genre of his own which u acquire a taste for. his voice is so singular, so clear…so confident. his style is so unapologetic…which i just love. His artistry is like he has a little caption under his music: this is me *shrug*. that’s kinda deep… that’s a lot deep…!

yes, part of his stuff sounded/s kinda the same…but thinking more about it, to me, he’s kinda like gnarls barkely in that -- his distinction and sometimes sublime lyrics have an enthralling clarity. hmm…his stuff is always so recognizable, and catchy…great ‘on the move’ music.

what i am in love with the most tho is that …from his work i sense he’s a creator…a musician  who flows passion into his work, pours it all right out, splatters it onto the guitar strings, sound mixer and keyboards from his heart. exhaling ‘there!‘ An artist friend of mine once said to me “creativity comes from the heart” and i was like …hu? the heart spits out innovative cartoon thought-clouds? sawweet  …it’s all subjective anyway, i guess…

been looking @ some stuff on creativity. The “creative personality” article on Psychology Today was an especially intriguing commentary on creative people’s personalities… had some fascinating observations including -- ‘creative people are more like ‘multitudes’ rather than ‘individuals.’ ‘one word what makes their personalities different from others, it’s complexity.’ Here are some more abstractions from the article…

  • great deal of physical energy, but they’re also often quiet and at rest
  • smart yet naive
  • combine playfulness and discipline, or responsibility and irresponsibility
  • alternate between imagination and fantasy, and a rooted sense of reality
  • tend to be both extroverted and introverted
  • humble and proud at the same time
  • escape rigid gender role stereotyping
  • both rebellious and conservative
  • very passionate about their work, yet they can be extremely objective about it as well
  • openness and sensitivity often exposes them to suffering and pain, yet also to a great deal of enjoyment

Well i don’t know how this all sounds to anyone else but, to me, these descriptions paint portraits of people who are full of contradictions and frankly speaking- plain ol CONfuSION…I think it’s like they’re comfortable with the confusion and ambiguity…they choose to be at that itchy middle point, the interface, on the edge. They are comfortable with discomfort because they know the Brink is where they can push themselves off the edge into something new. after all…one wise dude once said ‘necessity is the mother of innovation’. out of a survival instinct standing at a void-at emptiness and a lack of fulfillment of what is humanly necessary or comfortable, these creative minds make do and use what is available to create…

ok enough philosophizing for one sitting. handing it over to a queen of creativity herself…

lo and behold the world-renown ‘Joy Luck Club’ author Amy Tran asking where Creativity Hides. Quite the edgy, quirky, rambilicous talk seeped with sarcastic humor. video again courtesy of Nani

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Diirre: A Childhood Crush

13 November, 2008 | 6 comments | Category: for.the.love.of.words!, nostalgia.personal, prose.tales

the boy, the city, the spiciness of the experience…

I was 10-12 I think…

The Spiciness
Every summer I went to visit my grandmother and great-aunt away from the rainy, muggy kiremt into the sunny humidity of the East. My great-aunt was the precious kind of woman who exuded love to all the kids of the area and gathered them into her home, showering them with the little cares of a grandmother. She would cajole, scold, hug, kiss and nurture as if they were her own. She was many things at all times, the versatile abode that is Woman. Personified, she was the vesicle for culture, the treasure chest of folktales; a linguist, like many in her generation. She spoke Haderi, Arabic, Amharic, Oromiffa, Somali…saying exactly what was on her mind with sharp eloquence as the need presented itself.

Almost every night, us kids would gather outside by the grayish blue gates around my great aunt’s feet as the sand settles and the heavy nefasha air breezes past the leaves; the teeming starry sky twinkling above us. I was a big fan of these nights, nights of teret teret storytelling about ali babba, the always mischievous monkey and the smart girl, the selfish one…the stepmother (Hmm…maybe this is why I’m such a sucker for breezy warm days that caress as they prode out a contented smile; like a lazy Saturday afternoon by the Potomac waterfront…)

Anyhow, back to another time and place.

Every summer I would reel from excitement as i make my way to Dire to start a month long excursion filled with dankira with the kids and happy days with my adorably talkative aunties. freedom! These summer friends of mine had their own slang; the juiciest kind that combines all the languages of the area. “Kale Waria!!” “Abooooo tewaaa!” “Abshir new, Alhamdililah!” “Intalo, injiru bishaniti?” Qesht, Abo, Senduq, birka, shillingi, roqa, medebir, mamilla, CHebo, deAs, DerIA…and so I rack my memory: to find all these and more profane wordy varieties…

The Boy

It was then that I became crush-struck. My younger cousin’s best friend was about 1 year older than I. The star footballer and the little arada of the area with his hitched walk and croaky voice; sure to be crowned mr. congeniality; deserving by far. It seems I was drawn to personality more than looks, even then…He had sharp accented features (big eyes, big nose, brownish soft hair) and he was light-skinned. Tall and skinny be he.

The old ladies were his fans, the other kids admirers of his mischief. Him and Cuz would tell me stories of classroom antics, football rivalries, adventures running errands around Dire and those vicious kids at the khat terra with whom they waged reckless battles. I’m not sure if I wanted to be them in their recklessness and my rebellious tomboy aspirations or hang with them for some girly reasons I couldn’t fathom! Nonetheless, such were the vagaries which plagued the mind of a little girl coming-of-age.

Jeezz, I was so ashamed of my heart doing a violent and loud ruckus! My tongue-tied little mouth releasing hitched breaths …jitters as he played football outside, came to buy Rossmans…crush-struck! lol, It was petrifying for the little girl that I was. It didn’t even occur to me that I could like him. I badly needed to keep my casual ease – sliding smoothly into funny stories, rants and raves about childhood naughtiness …and juicy neighborhood gossip, for good Dire measure…But No! his voice started breaking as I started breaking into sweat! what silliness!

Sure enough I never told him how I felt- maybe because I didn’t know what it was despite the plethora of teenage books and movies I devoured! At age 11, I expected he would laugh in my face. And as we grew older he would come visit and I would grasp at composure, fumbling… Mainly, I would hear about him from other people…he repeated a class, he was thinking of joining the national football team, he joined the team at the ‘C’ level, then went to vocational school for carpentry …finally he’s joined the federal police… and such a path destiny took…

The City

My little memory vesicle still holds this swanky character with fondness…A fondness that encompasses a town full of people in flip-flops and short-sleeved shirts; long skirts and flirty scarves. Neighbors that come out in the fading warmth- in the cool, calming dusk under acacia trees…as they sit on steps across narrow roads and yell out conversations about so-an-so’s illegitimate child and the price of water… ah! the freedom and openness! Dirty laundry always adorns the dingy streets; if u care to stand for a quick second and listen.

This is a town with equal opportunity hoya hoye where girls ran around with boys, chanting and singing for coins; where people (read: bachelors) buy ‘muslim’ meat pasta with marinara sauce in thin plastic bags with handles. The pasta spot sells chick-pea porridge ‘fuul‘ at breakfast (a middle eastern meal? As staple as dunked bread in sweet spicy tea, as far as I could remember)

Here, the mid-afternoon starts with a calm when everyone clamors indoors to chew on khat and rewind after the noon nap… Mid-morning is marked with knocks by entrepreneurial contraband salesmen, beggars and milkmaids calling for attention. And what of the open blue-grey gates? These gates are always ajar. Open to sounds of children kicking around balls; little girls mixing sand to build play-houses…and passersby exchanging greetings along with drips of the social update for the day.

This small city ruckus is topped up with the sound of the mamilla-CHebo coming around asking auntie for lunch or work carrying stuff in between his cigarette swigs. Infamously, this year’s mamilla was an amazingly intelligent english teacher until the blinding sun-khat -and sand turned him looney!

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