A girl’s best accessory

Me and a friend were mucking around (as one Aussie would say to another) with the idea of “self-sufficiency”, or “rassin mechal”.

The word is one of those words that bring something particular to mind for most. Just the way “getting-away-with-murder” brings O.J. Simpson, the noun “adoption” the rainbow family, and the statement “I am not a crook” President Richard Milhous Nixon. The term “self-sufficiency” or the lack therein, brings a country that begs for her daily bread. It, my friends, brings Ethiopia!

Ethiopia is not a self-sufficient country. By which, according to wikipedia, is meant she [she is a she] “requires an outside aid, support, or interaction, for survival”. Why isn’t Ethiopia self-sufficient? Many a reason is given. Reasons that are approved or vetoed depending on the parties involved and their particular agenda. They all agree on one point though. That lack of self-sufficienc–y is a cycle. That’s it’s rooted in the [unproductive] past. That it ruins a would-have-been-bright-otherwise now.

The “self-sufficiency” me and the friend were referring to was, ofcourse, human self-insufficiencies -the emotional kind. To the people who try to compensate [substitute, stand in the place of, replace something] they feel they lacked with something unrelated to it. The relative, as I said earlier, who won’t feel “man enough” unless feeling superior to everybody around. The colleague to whom the sun doesn’t come out unless complimented on her looks. The classmate who stop to say hi everybody she comes across, or calls back every missed call, to show what an “ajeb” she has. Emotionally dependent people who can’t even travel a 65-cents taxi journey without rubbing thighs with you.

I used to be one of these people. I needed the love (or atleast a phone call) of a man to feel/show and prove I was lovable. The reverent gleam in my listener’s eyes to feel smart. Someone to spend an evening with, a good book or a movie to sufficiently numb me to the fact that I can’t get dates anymore.

How about now, you’d naturally ask. Does my usage of the word “used to” mean I’m completely healed (if I need to, that is)? No! I still feel down when I don’t see a comment when I open my blog in the morning. My steps are extra bouncy when I see a guy checking my booty out. Have yet to get used to sitting content in an empty room where the lights are out. But do I stop opening my blog, take a contract-taxi instead, beg my available-as-long-as-you-are-paying friends to keep me company and suffer the agony of listening to their mindless conversations?! No! The only thing I’m entirely dependent (self-insuffiicient in, if you like) on these days is my hand bag. Can’t go anywhere without it. If I’m bag-less and the setting isn’t a residence, I feel as good as naked. As if something major is missing from my person. As if I, abesheet/habesheet/abeet, am incomplete.

All for want of a bag!

Now I’m not saying a bag (in need) isn’t capable of doing damage. For want of a nail, here this poem tells us, a battle was lost! But it’s just an accessory, an ornament, a supplement. Something to compliment what I had on. [Instead of what I am]. It’s neither an extension of me or anything mine. Failing to define as well as incomplete me.

And when one day I grasp that fully, I’d master the courage/the maturity/the independence to walk out, bag-less, and say to the world “… Eye is free!” – Aster Aweke like :).