My Mom Named Me After a Bee

The other day I accidentally misplaced my phone in the house. So I grabbed my sister’s phone and dialed my number to locate my handset. As I dialed for the first time I listened to my skiza tune carefully and here is what the lady at the end of the line had to say;

“Thank you for calling Deborah, Deborah will take your call shortly; did you know that Deborah is a Hebrew name for ‘bee’…”

I couldn’t help but notice; BEE? Why did my parents name me after a bee? At first, I was furious. Then I got hold of myself. So yeah, I mean bee. “I am named after a bee” That is way too comforting.

I then recalled how I was bitten by a bee as a kid. I was picking flowers when I accidentally touched a bee that was sucking nectar from one of the flowers I was eyeing. Apparently my touch provoked the bee and it stung back. It was an afternoon full of nursing the pain. To make matters worse, I hid the bump I’d gotten because this meant punishment for disobedience.  If you grew up in the early ‘90s and had strict parents, surely you must know what I mean.

And now, I find out that am named after a bee. I almost rushed to the next room to ask my peroz why they named me after a bee, but on second thought, I wondered whether they were even aware of that fact. I had spent 20+ years going by the name Debra and I didn’t know what it meant.

I then typed Deborah into the Google tab and waited for the results.

Here is a little of what I got; Continue reading

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The Right to Be Me

I am a girl and I have no right to be me,

They keep details of who I am,

Of, who I should be

And how far I should go with my career,

I should never grow tall or remain short,

Just be somewhere in the middle,

And their expectations met in me.


I am a girl and I have no right to be me,

I never notice how beautiful my brain is,

Sometimes I forget I have one,

And concentrate on my external appearance.

I give my best smile to get into a public office,

A really good shot to make it in life,

And sleep with my boss to get a promotion.


I am a girl and I have no right to be me,

The length of my skirt is set by people around me,

That stunning mini makes me a slut

And my long denim is very old fashioned.

I dress modestly to secure a good job,

Keep fly to maintain my job,

And I’m guilty rape with what I wear.


I am a girl and I have no right to be me,

I’m bad wife because I work to make ends meet,

A crappy homemaker when my marriage fails,

And I attract wife battery with my flimsy opinions.

My dignity is compromised if I want a fair trial,

I am scorned when I stand up for us,

And I have to be someone else to get what I want.


If only you let me be myself…

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Love DM.

Who needs privacy? All of us….

Paul Bernal's Blog

A couple of privacy stories have been making big news over the last few days. The first is the ‘celebrity photo’ saga – naked photos of Jennifer Lawrence and others have been ‘leaked’ onto the net. The second is the revelation that the Metropolitan Police obtained the telephone records of Tom Newton Dunn, the political editor of the Sun, in connection with the ‘Plebgate’ saga. Between them, the two stories highlight some of the ways in which privacy matters – and at the same time some of the misunderstandings, some of the hypocrisy, and some of the complexity of privacy.

Celebrities and privacy

The relationship between celebrities and privacy is a complex one. At one level – the level usually argued by the press (including the Sun) – celebrities have less of a right to privacy than the rest of us. After all, they put themselves in the public eye…

View original post 949 more words

Makeover 2

“It’s nice to meet you again Ray.”

“Same here.”

As long as Ray did his part we were good to go. I never cared about his private life; of course not until he suddenly halted the egg business. He bailed on me when our little endeavor needed us most. It had gradually grown into a cash cow, and we were milking tons of shillings out of it. Losing a partner meant suicide for the business; and like I predicted, there was a decline in the overall profit of the egg business. I tried a replacement but it didn’t work.

My decision to close it came in handy. My dad wanted me to go back to college and my partner had ‘ditched’ me. It was perfect timing. After all, I had nothing to lose.

My first week at the university was mind-numbing. Getting to know my lecturers, re-getting used to books, and of course the boys. That’s how I bumped into Ray’s supposed best friend Silas.

“Silas?”

“Yes.”

“You remember me? I’m…”

“The egg girl; I remember. Never knew I had a thing for country girls till I saw u walk right through that door.”

I was willing to let that pass.

“How’s Ray?”

“Your partner? In an asylum, trying to recuperate from a terrible mental illness. But I’m here now.”

According to Silas, Ray was a cognitively impaired. Apart from the egg shop and being a medical student, he also ran a pub and sold male suits remotely. Ray had overestimated his capability and ran multiple businesses concurrently.

Motivated by both treasure and leisure, his ‘hypermarket’ did well, but his luck turned disastrous when he lost himself somewhere in between ambition and pleasure. He had a serious confrontation with depression followed by six months full time bed rest.

That was the last I had of him. Right now, He was standing before me and I was dying to ask what happened next. Not because I was remorseful but because seeing him there made me doubt the ‘Silas story’ He looked different. But in a good way.

“We can have another cup of coffee, or dinner.”

“No thanks. I’m full, but you can walk me home.”

“Definitely; Shall we?”

I reply with a nod. I am curious; I know what that did to the cat but I couldn’t help. We walk and talk. How could he change so much. I almost believed in evolution. The pre-emptive young man was replaced by a party animal who flirted like it was a hobby, but who cared? His chest was broader, he was taller, had a beard, and his lips were sensuous. I was filling my little head with ideas.

To be continued…

-Makeover 1