Winning Hearts and Minds.

I once ordered a speed reading book online. I read about 15 pages and they took me forever. The book now sits underneath my desk and I frequently think about picking it up. Well, it and the mindful meditation books. I've bought six in the last two months. I suspect they teach you how to eschew capitalism and how to run from retail therapy. I don't need that. For now, spending money makes me happy. It's only plastic. Of course, if mindful meditation can teach me about time management, then I'm back in, because I could definitely use that.

I'd just like to know when we got so fucked up. Because, when you get right down to it, with all this self help available, it's a real wonder we're not perfect. I remember being 18 and thinking things seemed pretty easy -- not super easy, but definitely manageable. And then something happened. Might've been my college boyfriend, who sat on the floor in front of me one afternoon when we were both living in New York and he was two days from dumping me.. again, who stared deep into my eyes and said, "Jesus, Doyle, there's gotta be sadness in there somewhere." I wonder if, in the end, we're just really addicted to drama. Or complaining. Or comfort. Or therapy. In our own way, maybe we have too much time on our hands. Look at me! I'm supposed to be working right now, but I work for myself, so I can always get to it later. I'll just skip yoga. 

Yesterday, I walked into two grocery stores with double barrel line ups of men at the floral counters. Super. Depressing. Fellas, don't stand in the line up at the florist's counter on Valentine's Day, looking for a plastic wrapped bouquet personal and unique enough to represent your love. On Valentine's Day, your gesture doesn't count. It doesn't. It's transparent. It is also NEVER unique or personal to pick up a plastic wrapped bouquet from the grocery store. Grocery stores are very impersonal places. Their flowers are overpriced. And impersonal. And they die. Fast. If you want fast-dying, impersonal flowers that are, at the very least, cheaper than your grocery store variety, there's a place on Broadview. Email me. 

Also, it struck me, as I watched those snaking lines full of red-eyed, stoic men, that these guys looked very afraid. They looked panicked, under the gun, out of their depth. And fair enough. Because, if we learn through experience, then seriously, when was the last time, ladies, you brought your guy roses? I thought about doing that yesterday and then I thought, no. They die. They're expensive. And I need to get more mindful about the things I'm purchasing. If you don't ordinarily get flowers, I imagine it'd be difficult to truly understand why anyone would want them. They're a gift that requires care from the minute they enter your house. And yet, who's ever had the gifter of their flowers return a day later to snip off the stem bottoms, refill the water and drudge up another packet of those magic crystals? Ladies, Gents, this flower transaction is a bad exchange. They're certainly an unfair exchange for sex, which is kind of what it looks like when they arrive on Valentine's Day from somebody with whom you'd consider that kind of Biblical experience. There are no women in my life who'll have sex for flowers. 

There are a few men.

I got a wonderful note from a friend today to let me know that I am just as smart and attractive today as I was yesterday. He is a blind man, so there's that, but he is a wise, wise blind man. A one-eyed oracle, if you will. 

Today, it almost counts. Tomorrow, it definitely does. Seriously, you should email me about this place on Broadview.





There's a new US study floating around that says quitting smoking improves men's sexual performance. It seems that the guys who quit noticed an increase in size (width specifically, fellas) and an increase in the speed with which they could reach "peak arousal" (which makes this a sort of good news bad news story for the ladies, I guess). Now, there are all kinds of concerns with the study, and the researchers aren't certain these improvements will translate into "real life settings" -- ie outside the man cave -- but I just want to know if this study will make my boyfriend quit smoking, or if he, like most male smokers, will read it and think, "Wow. I am beating ALL the odds."


Enlightenment Achieved.

Obviously, I have difficulty with schedule. That said, I feel a manic writing period coming on, which is clearly fantastic news for the two of you who read my blog.

Thank you, Dad and Aunt Joan.

I'm up watching the post-game on bin Laden, so this may read a little distracted. I've spent the last few weeks in India. I decided to go on a whim, since, as mentioned, scheduling cramps my style. 

Many stories from India, but after seeing Kumare today at Hot Docs, which you should see, like now, or as soon as you've voted (http://www.kumaremovie.com/home/) I thought I'd post a few emails from the trip.

This one was sent on my first day in Rishikesh... where I was pretty certain I was going to die.

"Lord, let me live in Rishikesh. And, let me be clear, I have no fucking intention of staying here. Just let me live."

Here it is. Adapted from an email to Josh.

Rishikesh is wild. It is a place of capital E "Enlightenment," people all desperately fighting to have an authentic experience, racing from yoga class to meditation to kundalini meditation, bowing and rocking and praying feverishly for salvation from cow patties, honking speedsters on motos, buffalo on foot bridges, monkeys, cyclists, and saddhus begging for change. I understand the "enlightenment" part. Moments of silence feel truly transcendent in this place, as tourists debate and compare the hottest gurus, the coolest spots to chant, and the best pastry at the German Bakery, which overlooks the majestic Ganges, and is one of the top spots in both the Lonely Planet and in my Rough Guide. Authentic experiences abound in this cafe. The German Bakery's a hive of activity. It even has a few clones -- all packed. So, not surprisingly, despite all the yoga and the rocking and the bouncing and the praying and the dodging, the average person here seems unduly rotund. Also, it bears mentioning, albeit tangentially, that in Rishikesh, even cows have the runs. Yoga is necessary here for the balance and sure-footedness one requires to dodge the stews. It's also critical for peace of mind, forever threatened by screaming motos, demands for money, offers of religious salvation, sales on chant cds or sandalwood incense, and the relentless debate about where the hell Laxmi's 4:15 Pranayama class has been moved to.

I was strong-armed my some be-robed man into a "power yoga class" after accidentally setting one bare foot onto the floor of his ashram, because I liked the look of a statue behind a gate. 

Pinki led the class on the roof. Pinki's face is all over Rishikesh. It's hidden behind her leg on billboards just past the suspension bridge. Pinki is a contortionist. She belongs in Cirque de Soleil. And somehow I have ended up in her yoga class, balancing on the edge of a rooftop. Most people in Rishikesh believe the Universe decides where we go and what we do. In another yoga room, the teacher would argue the Universe had brought me to class. Not Pinki. Pinki doesn't give a shit. Pinki's probably making a run for the Olympics and I'm just a stop gap.

"Feel the circulation in your face. mmmm hmmmm. Now stretch your booody. mmm hmmm. feels good. Breathe the fresh air. stretch to the side. Stretch your leeegs. Mmmmmm. This is good to get rid of extra fat on the beeelly. mmmm hmmm. Get rid of the fat on the beeelly. Get rid of the fat! Jessie, give me your cell phone." And Pinki continues, barking her orders, mumbling some chants, staring into the distance, thoroughly bored or, perhaps, just living on another astral plane where concentration exists in the distance or perhaps by text. 

Walked home overwhelmed by the bullshit of it all and then saw the evening aarti -- candles drifting with the current, as people gather by the cold river to pray and chant and to give thanks for the day. I was met by a man leaving an open temple, who marked my forehead with red, put seeds in my hand, and then flowers, tied a red string around my wrist and blessed me. "Health and happiness to you.     One hundred rupees.    One. Hundred."

For one hundred rupees, I said, you'd better give health and happiness to everyone I know. 

And so, friends, throw out the vitamins, because it is done. I stood on the banks of the Ganga, by the ghat and tossed my flowers into the water, where repulsively large fish leap free of the current intermittently, and I said a little prayer, before being accosted by a raggedy girl asking for money for her drawings. I gave her a pen and climbed up to the Shiva temple, where I took off my shoes and headed out to take in the view. Again, a little prayer and a moment of silence, and the sound of the water and the candles drifting past and the lights across the river and the fish still jumping, the river clearly teeming -- and I mean TEEMING --with life, and, I guess, shit -- more shit -- and soap and tradition and history and I found myself crying, moved by the place and the people, and how very lucky I am. I suspect this whole country is a living experience in emotional roller coasters. And so I laughed at myself for getting sucked in by it all, and got back to my ironic commentary, which was turning into something of a mantra as I dove into stores looking to avert the woman who'd followed me begging for the last few blocks and simply refused to shove off, in spite of the fact I'd explained that a swami four blocks back had gotten all I had. As the rick driver in Agra said to me two nights ago after hanging around waiting for me for two hours to take a 10 Rupee fare (for which I gave him 200), "I will wait."

Everyone's walking around with perfect posture, in robes, with softly focused eyes and smiles dripping with inner wisdom. They're also all 22. Or 42, by which point they really are totally crazy. "This place'll change your consciousness, man." Well, I'm excited to see how it all ticks. Yoga at 8:30. About 1100 places to choose from. Hear great things about Kabral. Apparently, he's into chakras, but I think he's just moved by the spirit of the room... Don't judge me too harshly when I arrive home with a Vedic Chant CD. Just go, as they say, with the flow. 




(This blog post is late. It's been a busy few months. Resolution for 2011... fewer excuses.)

It's party time. November, December... the two months of the year when people throw parties. And galas. And fundraisers. Live auctions. Art fairs. Clothing swaps. 

November, December... the two months of the year when I am painfully reminded of the fact that my wardrobe is not cut out for this many parties. 

I work from home. This means that I wear gym clothes all day and only change into proper attire when called out to do something exceptional. This is why I'm forever bumping into an ex-boyfriend while sporting Lululemon. (Girls tend to think they look much better in Lululemon than they actually do, btw. A sad truth.) 

When you only occasionally dress yourself, you can pare your wardrobe down to 2 or 3 good outfits since, if they're strong enough, nobody will tire of them, and you can alternate them effectively enough to avoid repeats in repeat company.  It's all about accessories, ladies. 

But black tie events are different. And there have been an inordinate number of them lately. 

I have one green dress. It's a go to. Sometimes I belt it. Sometimes, I do not. Really, it's that versatile. There is not a single person I know who has not, now, seen me in this dress. I busked in it when we were shooting publicity photos for the tv show, and I've worn it to every wedding I've been invited to for the last two years. A lot of my friends have gotten married. That said, the crowd changes widely enough, wedding to wedding, that ol' Green's weathered the barrage in fine form and without complaint.

But, black tie events, galas, fundraisers, these things for which I am forever a "plus one" and never a "one", are attended strictly by the people who can afford them. And, in this city, that is a small, highly critical, and unchanging group.

A friend recently gave me a dress because she'd tired of it. It is covered in feathers and, although it makes me look like a Muppet, it is not green, nor has it been worn, by me, like, 1100 times. That makes it fucking perfect. 

A few weeks ago, this same friend spoke at a black tie event, for which I was, natch, a plus one. I planned to wear the dress. It occurred to me about an hour before the event that I needed nylons to go with the dress and that these nylons had to be understated and sexy and very anti-Muppet. I was at the office. We were moving -- offices, that is -- and I had 5 bags of clutter to carry home. Maybe seven. You pick up a lot of random stuff over two years in a cubicle. The bags were heavy. I needed a nylon shop within a three block radius, so that I could walk there without losing a bag or an arm. 

There is a sex shop up the street from my office. I figured it probably sold sexy, understated nylons -- the kind with the line up the back. I believe they're called "French".       Or, "Available". 

It is an awkward maneuvre, slipping into a sex shop around the corner from your office. Many, many things can go wrong. I was lucky. 

There's a parrot in the sex shop. An African Grey. I bet she'd make a spectacular lover. If her wings worked, she could fly to Malawi and make some other parrot very, very happy. 

The woman in the sex shop shows me to the nylons and hands me a package.

"These ones are gorgeous," she says. "You won't be disappointed."

I ask if I can look at them. She tells me, "we don't open the packages at Miss Behavin'".

Makes sense.

She suggests another pair of nylons with red bows on the...

No, no thank you. Not for me.

So, home now. I'm running late. I throw on the dress. Grover. It's also a little big in the chest. If I hold my breath, it stays up. I continue to hold my breath and slide the nylons on. One toe, five toes, ankle, calf. One toe, five toes, ankle, calf. The nylons catch on some jewelled bit on the dress. Small knick. Barely noticeable. I turn to examine it. Larger knick. I'm out of time and, surely, nobody will be staring at the back of my thigh. Find a chair and sit on it.

I lick my hand and run it up the back of my leg to straighten the line in the back. Repeat. I won't wear mascara. Muppets have long lashes. I'm actively fighting the obvious. 

Did I mention I have called a cab? I have. Because now I'm quite pressed for time. And the cabs are running slow, because sometimes that happens when you're in a rush. Of course, now he's honking outside, and calling my cell.

He rings the doorbell. Twice. Jesus Christ. I'm coming.

I throw on my faux fur jacket, which a Briton at a bar recently called my "Sewer Couture". Lipstick on. And, lipstick off. I need mascara. Muppet or no. 

Quick spritz of Static Guard to tame the feathers.     And, dress is down.     Hoisting up and  BREATHING IN.

I will spend the evening like this. No exhalations.

And, one more glance in the mirror. Check, check, check. One quick inspection of the lines up the back of my calves to make sure they're straight.

And, yes, they are... but, what is... no. Surely not. Good God. No. No. There's no time for this. CRITICAL OMISSION from the salesperson. Critical. Omission.

There are two foot tall penises rising up the back of my calves before a velveteen line continues up each thigh. 

Somewhere, an African Grey is smiling.




Circle Researcher, Rory Tate, was an icon at Second City. By the time I got there, a theatre had been named in his honour and he was referred to only in whispers. Tim Sims, the actor better known as Rory Tate, was a legend -- the sort of man people pretend they once met.

I'm lucky enough to ACTUALLY know Gil Masuda, one piece of the DJ collective, Circle Research. Giller will probably read this and call to tell me that he would NEVER refer to Circle Research as a "DJ Collective", and that that's "kinda cute but pretty lame". Gil is cooler than I am, but he still lets me hang around, which is great and, frankly, kinda charitable. When you're friends with an artist, or, at least, when I am, I go through a period at the beginning when I'm afraid to see their art, because I worry it's going to be bad. Pessimistic, I know, until you think about the ratio of bad art to good in the world. Then it's just rational. Gil gave me his album, Who?, within a week of meeting. I listened to it while I was scrunched up on a chair with my eyes closed. And then I started dancing. And then I listened to it again. And then I realized that his music makes you feel cool, and then makes you feel good about being a little nerdy, and then makes you stop thinking and start smiling. Gil Masuda's music is, as the kids say, kinda next level.

Here's his myspace page:


Don't go there yet.  

Gil and I met at BNN, moments after I'd been hired. He thought I needed help with my style. He told me I should wear more scarves. He proclaimed himself my stylist and we went out shopping and we bought him a pair of boots. 

"I don't do this for everyone, Hil," he said. 

Gil is one of those understated friends who constantly surprises you. He remained my friend throughout a year when I virtually never left my apartment, because I was writing an investment comedy, Stock & Awe, and I was afraid I might run out of time. He called and invited me out and I never went and he was still my friend. Last night we were out for pizza and I mentioned that I don't know what you wear to a hockey game and he said:

"If it's you, you wear your Sex Pistols t-shirt, those pink plastic pumps, the Roots fuzzy sweater with the zip and, I guess, your one pair of jeans."

What I'm saying is that Gil really "sees" his friends. He has a unique ability to sense what they need. So, for the record, the Sex Pistols shirt is actually the Ramones, and I sure didn't NEED this, but I'm SO glad that he did it...

Here it is... Stock & Awe's official DJ Mix. Prepare yourselves. It is awesome.



Listen to this, then check out his MySpace page and then wait for his new album to drop early next year. If we're lucky.


The People in My Neighbourhood (Vol 1)

He rose up out of the pavement on my way home. Maybe he popped out of an alleyway. Both seem equally plausible. He was very short. Not unusually short, but short. He wore a track suit and sunglasses. It was 2:30 am. it was misting rain, I was walking home, alone, looking much like a drowned rat. Again. It went like this...

"Damn, girl. You so fi-ine. Mmm hmm. Girl, whas yo' name? Mine's Big Splay-ash. Girl, i know what you thinkin'. Mmmm hmmm. Why Big Splay-ash? Well, Big Splay-ash named Big Splay-ash, because Big Splay-ash don't drink. So, if you think I'm gettin' in yo' face because I been drinkin', damn, girl, you wrong. Whas yo' name?"


"Mmm hmmm. Damn, girl. Hilary. Mmm hmmm. Exotic. Hilary. Thas exotic"

I could say the same about you, Big Splash.

Big Splash is walking backwards, as I speed up. We are getting dangerously close to my house.

"So, you and Big Splay-ash gonna hit the cluuub? Mmm hmm, we gonna hit the cluuub."

You know, Big Splash, I'm exhausted. Thanks, but I think I'm going to head to...

"Big Splay-ash ain't a guy you meet on the street. Big Splay-ash want yo' number."

Two blocks away.

Big Splash, you've lost your friends. I think you should head back and find them...

"Big Splay-ash is doin' his degree in po-LEE sci up at the York University. Big Splay-ash gonna wait till he gets yo number. You gonna like Big Splay-ash's dancing. You gonna dig us at the cluuuub"

Silence. We are one block away.

"It start with a four or with a six?"

Call it female intuition, but Big Splash does not live here. Big Splash commutes. Big Splash makes it down to the cluuuub once a week, and Big Splash wants to avoid the drive home. It is 2:45 am. Big Splay-ash is desperate. 

Big Splash. Look. Here's my number. You can call it any time, but I can promise you, I will never pick up. 

"No problem. Big Splay-ash gonna tex.                    When, exactly, should Big Splay-ash tex you? Should he tex you tonight? Should he tex you in the morning? Should he tex you now and then jus' wait for you to tex back?"

Play it by ear, Big Splash, just please don't expect a response. 

A selection of "texs" from Splash:

Dem girl. U r so hot. We need to link up. It's big splash.  (3:22 am)

Dem girl. U r so hot. We need to link up. It's big splash (3:35 am)

Sup sup sup

Hi Hilary?

Feeling stupidly guilty and kind of stunned by the persistence, I respond with: hi. I basically haven't left the office since we met. Hope all's well

Omg. u r a workaholic


How r ya

Let chill sometime. I know u r a workaholic



Its big splash

This still your phone?

I'm at the club. 


Stalker & Awe

I have spent the last year of my life writing a comedy about personal investment. It's called Stock & Awe, and it launches on the Business News Network on Thursday October 7, at 8 pm. The good news is, if you can count to 57, you can probably find BNN on your dial. If it's not part of your cable package, you should call me and I'll pay for you to have it installed and then you can just start keeping your tv on on Thursday nights at 8 pm while you cook, go out, Skype with relatives, or do other things. This way, I will be able to keep my job, although I may be very poor as a result. That's okay. We all make sacrifices. 

If you forget to track down BNN at 8 pm on Thursday evenings, starting Oct 7, or you're just trying to save money, which I can appreciate, you can also see Stock & Awe on Saturday evenings at 5:30 on CTV. CTV comes with your tv. So, that's convenient. Either way, you can watch Stock & Awe and then push off to your Saturday night dinner party or nightclub armed with hilarious conversation fodder about investing. Hilarious!

For example:

What do you call a lady who just made $10 000 on a commodities stock?


Your new girlfriend. That is... if you're interested. 

You get the picture. 

Bottom line is, it would be terrific if you'd watch. My boss calls Stock & Awe life thinly veiled as art. My life. 


Soft Focus.

I ran into my neighbour the other day on the street. We often leave notes for one another, just to check in, so it's always a surprise to see him in the flesh, even though we live across the hall. Frankly, he shouldn't be out at all, since he borrowed a friend's first season of The Wire over a year ago and still hasn't given it back. My neighbour should be spending all of his time watching tv. Anyway, he was out and looking snappy in a new pair of glasses -- his first -- which he'd picked up two hours earlier. It was the first time he'd seen clearly in years, he said. I told him the glasses looked great. 

"Last time you'll see me wearing them, Doyle. I miss two hours ago, when people were pretty."


Writer's Blog

It crossed my mind when I launched this blog, but I ruled it out as a possibility, because surely thoughts are a renewable resource. I just figured I'd need to be more selective, become a better editor. I spent a week mulling over what to do about the fact that this blog has no point. Then I thought about the fact I'd never be able to poke fun at the people in my life again, since they now make up the majority of people reading this. That worried me. The key to my humour may be the people in my life, and I worry that this makes me sound fickle or callous. I worry about why the fonts keep changing when I post. I also wonder if it's tacky to promote the movie I'm in this Friday at the Royal Theatre at 9pm. I worry that "the movie I'm in" sounds self-important, especially since it's such a little part. I hate it when people refer to something as "theirs", like, "I'll have to talk to MY writer". I wonder if saying it's only a little part sounds falsely modest. Or worse, ungrateful. I really loved this little part. And I worry about appearances and about how all of this must sound, since I'm actually not worrying about much anymore at all. I think life moves much more smoothly when you stop. Worrying, I mean. I've tried worrying. I like not worrying better. But, cold turkey's no fun, so I maintain a little worry just to remind me of the old days, and also to keep real worries, the important stuff, safely at bay. So, I worry a little that maybe my ex-boyfriend's stumbled across this blog and that he's read a line I wrote about him way back, after the first time we broke up, and I wonder if I should erase it, since I'm still deeply in love with him, and I'd sort of like him to know that, even though I know we probably shouldn't be together. And, then I worry that maybe the wrong ex-boyfriend is going to read this, and then I console myself with the fact that, let's be honest, there aren't very many ex-boyfriends, so the likelihood of a) their reading it or b) their mistaking one for the other is probably quite slim. Still, I worry that I'm going to bump into him-- either one of them, really -- on the street while he is/they are with some stunning girl and I'm in my gym clothes. Again. 

And all this worry to stave off the fact that I appear to have stopped having thoughts that anybody will care about. And I am concerned that this is a blogger's occupational hazard (though, God forbid I should EVER be referred to as a blogger). I formalized blogging, I gave myrself targets to hit -- one, two, three blogs a week -- and now, I have paralyzed my blogging muscle. Ordinarily, when this kind of thing happens, I hit the road. I travel. I have lots of thoughts when I travel. I have lots of thoughts in lots of languages. But, for now, I'm grounded. So, I'm pulling out travel diaries, reading Jack Kerouac in French, picking up every magazine I can get my hands on, reading history tomes, looking at calendars and dreaming about Ethiopia. 

And the problem, I find, with worry, is that it muddles your priorities. It totally slipped my mind, but the first line of this blog post was supposed to be, "skim this".


Love Song for Football.

Five years ago, around this time, I came back from West Africa.  I was only there for six months, but you can learn a lot about a place in half a year. I worked as a journalist with a few local papers and it was a pretty magical period. I'm finishing up a project now, starting to think about what I'll do next. Itchy feet are a perpetual state of being for me. I'd love to get back to Africa.

I wrote this during the last World Cup. It's a piece of a book that I've been writing, on and off, for... well, for awhile.


The win means that Ghana’s playing Brazil for a berth in the quarterfinal against France.  Everybody loves an underdog. Suddenly my friends at home are asking about Appiah, and Mensah. They want to eat Fufu.

No. No you don’t.

This team has raised the hopes of West Africa. These players, who’ve faced such racism, people in the stands chanting, “Monkey, Monkey”, these players are hoping to be the first African team in history to score a goal against the Brazilians. One goal.

The Black Stars. The self-proclaimed Brazil of Africa.

The country is still. Ghanaians are quiet in prayer.

At game time, we look strong. Brazil scores first, Ronaldo breaking a record for most goals scored in the World Cup finals -- 15 and counting. And then, Ghana dominates. First, a shot on goal by Draman. It’s palmed out, but it’s a shot. On goal. Against Brazil. And the crowd is going wild crazy. And then, Appiah’s got a clear shot to Amoah, who’s looking at the goal but kicks it wide and it sails past the post, then Amoah again, then Addo, and nothing’s gone in, but we look aggressive, professional, we look fucking good. Still, it's tough to watch. Brazil’s held back by the Stars’ defense, and John Mensah sends a beautiful header right at the Brazilian goalkeeper and, although it bounces off his shins, it is only a matter of time.

Molls and I are watching on the projection sheet again, because we think it’s good luck. Garbage bag walls and a ceiling block out the sunlight around the screen. It’s sweltering, cocooned inside black plastic, laid in like tinned fish. It wasn't this dark inside the last time. Maybe things just feel different when you're winning.  

I’m trying to gauge the number of people in this tiny space, all wearing Black Stars t-shirts or puffy orange top hats with a black star in the middle. We’re a grand crew in this airless plastic mass. Everyone is silent. The large man next to me is praying. The large man next to him is clutching his throat. It’s one nil, and half time is coming up. One goal before halftime, just to validate the effort. Come on, come on, come on.


And, out of nowhere, his name’s Adriano, and he hoofs the ball past our guy, Kingson, and even though he is clearly offside, the goal’s ruled good, and the rest of the air’s let out of our black plastic yurt.

“But everyone saw it. He’s offside, he’s offside-oh!”

There’s fury in Accra as the second half gets underway, but by now, Brazil dominates by two goals, and by the time our guy Gyan is thrown out over a yellow card, the chasm's too wide. 

Three-nothing. Final score.

The people of Accra look to celebrate the bravery of their team, but there are tears. A palpable despondency is sweeping the country and, maybe, the rest of the continent.


The woman who sells waatchey outside my office says, “God will punish that ref”. Molls’ radio station’s running a Black Stars/Proud to be West African consolation rap on a virtual loop. I’m amazed by the rapid turnaround of this new billboard hit. Emotions in the newsroom at the Public Agenda are high as we talk about how we're going to write this.

It’s a bad day to be an oburoni.

Roland, one of the ad guys, is giving me the silent treatment, because, he says, I’m one of them. Ordinarily, it’d be something of a miracle to be mistaken for a Brazilian woman. Today, Brazil is a curse word. My editor says I’m lucky this isn’t Nigeria. If this was Nigeria, he says, I’d probably be dead.