Kali's World: A Guide to Nothingness.

I am fucking sick of this shit…

As published in the Trinidad Guardian

I am ugly, I am evil and I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I know it is my fault. How do I know this? My mother told me.
It was just before my eighth birthday that my mother was arrested for child abuse. My teacher had told me I needed to stay back after school. I remember being terrified because of what had happened the last time I stayed late. The other details of that day are broken up into fragmented pieces of memory. I clearly remember being taken from my primary school class to a building I had never seen before and being stripped naked by a woman, before pictures were taken of the scars that covered my body: pictures of my broken arm, the bump on my forehead from the previous night and scars that even now I can’t speak about. I don’t know if I was embarrassed. I was perhaps too young to recognise the feeling.  But I do remember fear. Not fear of the strangers around me, but fear of what my mother would do if I didn’t make it home on time. The last time I had come home late from school, the excuse that my teacher had held me back for reading was labelled a lie and a belt came swiftly.
I remember one specific moment she grabbed the back of my head and slammed it into a wall. The bump that grew was fast and clearly visible. When my father came home she told me to go lie in bed and throw myself off the edge to explain it. I did. 
Now, after being poked and prodded by a nurse, I was put into a police vehicle and taken to the police station. I saw my mother there. She never looked at me. A police officer asked me if my mother had abused me, or if she would beat me. I knew what they meant. I remembered wire hangers across my back, I remembered being slammed into a wall. I remembered being made to kneel on broken pieces of brick while a leather belt hit my back. I said no, and begged to be with my mother. I was placed in the care of the State for two months and stayed at the children’s ward of the San Fernando General Hospital. My mother was arrested, she went to jail, then to court and was subsequently released on bail. After a court hearing, I was released into the custody of my aunt. The alternative was a state orphanage. The court ordered that I stay away from my mother until I reached the age of 18. I saw her before then, but it was not a happy reunion. There was too much betrayal and distrust. What I couldn’t understand as a five-year-old child, I saw clearly as an adult.
No one can ever understand the mind of a victim of abuse, unless they themselves were victims. You can feel pity for us, judge us, and there will be the few that will say “a little licks doh hurt,” but you will never understand. It isn’t easy to go through life unable to trust another human being. It isn’t easy to go through life blaming yourself whenever something goes wrong or punishing yourself for every little mistake. It is even more difficult to stop and control the spiral of hatred that provides an easy escape. But I did and I know many people who have either succeeded or is attempting to get to that place of acceptance that I have reached. It wasn’t easy getting here. I saw psychologists and priests, I  read the books and watched  the movies. I can’t tell you those things worked, but I can say that I am grateful that unlike many who have suffered worse, or the same, I am not lost.
I am contributing to society in a positive way. I am alive and I am doing exactly what I have wanted to do since I was eight years old. Every day I wish for a perfect world where young children do not have to fear for their lives. Maybe with the Children’s Authority soon to be effective, this country can offer more protection. Until then it is more important than ever that teachers, family members and neighbours are watchful, and just as my teacher saved me, maybe one by one we can all save a child. Because innocence lost can never be found again. 
For help in abusive situations, please contact the police station nearest you.
An alternative would be to contact any of the following numbers so that you may be guided:
Childline: 800-4321
Domestic Violence Unit: 800-7283
Families in Action: 628-2333
Rape crisis Centre: 622- 7273 or 1079
Editor’s note: 
This story was written from personal experience by a Guardian staff writer, whose name has been withheld to protect the privacy of family members. 
Why I refuse to believe in reincarnation.

Firstly this is what I know about reincarnation. There is a lot of focus on your soul so basically when you die your soul can inhabit another living thing, not necessarily human.

I also know the word reincarnation is derived from latin with the meaning “entering the flesh again. Which kinda makes me feel like men who have sex regularly must reincarnate all the time.

How awesome would it be if you were having sex guys, and you entered the vagina the first time, nothing happens then you enter her flesh again and BAM!!! You’re a bird or a llama.

Sorry, I took a moment there to laugh at my silliness. Moving on.

I don’t believe in reincarnation because it doesn’t actually make sense to me but I REFUSE to believe in it because well, it would not be fun to live this entire life as Kalifa and then come back as a flower where the highlight of my life would be to get plucked out of soil to give to some undeserving heifer on Valentines day.

I’ve really thought this through. I refuse to believe that after all these years of stress, good times and bad, I can possibly come back as an apple and my life story would read like this: I was an apple, I got eaten. the End. Really?????

Or what if I reincarnated as a pig. It would probably be poetic justice seeing that I devour bacon like a junkie snorts coke. I’d come back as a pig, be fed, roll around in mud, shit and my own piss and then end up in somebody’s fridge. The End.

I don’t believe it! I refuse to.!!!

Then reincarnation is supposed to be linked to your karma, so what you come back as depends on how you live the life you’re in now.

If it was real, I wonder what I was before.

Not really, I don’t actually care.

You see, I find the idea of reincarnation pointless. What’s the point of living multiple lives over and over again? Somebody tell me, cause I don’t see it.

What’s the point of being a President today, a cow in your next life and a bloody daffodil in your third?

Sex Control.

Having a conversation with a girlfriend. She is distraught. She is sleeping with a guy that she isn’t in a relationship with and is wondering if he has respect for her. Her feelings are beyond casual. She wishes he would want more.

I tell her discuss the situation with him or get out of that specific type of relationship. She is not that type of girl. I would know.

She tells me she likes him and she doesn’t want to take the risk. She likes him. And at least she can control the sex.

I laugh sadly. She has told herself one of the most common lies told by women. 

A woman cannot control sex. Sex controls the woman. It’s almost like there is a direct connection from the vagina to the heart and even the brain. Sometimes the vagina can trick us into doing crazy shit.

We feel like we’re in control, then bam, we have sex and the sex becomes a tool to be used against us. 

You think withholding sex from a man is a big deal? Nope. He is a man. He’ll get sex elsewhere, trust that. He probably won’t break up with you but he’ll do what he has to do to ejaculate. And when he’s finished he leaves no love connection behind.

Withhold sex from a woman and she starts an entire psychological analysis on you, her and every conversation you’ve had in the past week. She thinks your cheating and when she wants it…when she needs it…she needs it from the ONE person that won’t give it to her.

Sex becomes less a physical craving and more of a mental and emotional one.

I know women who’ve done crazy things for ten minutes of sweaty bliss. I’ve done a few questionable things myself.

I’ve known women to profess love after some good oral followed by a quickie. I know women who swear that sex is just sex to them. Women who say “Pussy is power” with the fake confidence of a snail racing against a snake.

I know women who swear by Lady Saw tunes and who couldn’t “give a fuck” bout the man as long as he taking care of business.


I know a lot of liars.

Men can control sex. They know how to separate the physical from everything else. They are built that way.

Women, not so much. 


And so I go to the place I run to,

When no one can understand.

A place, apart from this world,

A void, a no man’s land.

And when I get there I weep,

I shed tears for the heart that just tore,

A heart so easily fooled,

It’s been tricked into thinking it would endure.

All my awkward parts for you to see.

All my awkward parts for you to see.

I hate my hairdresser

So…I need a new hairdresser as I hurled obscenities at my hairdresser today. Now don’t get all righteous. She earned it.

I brought my laptop with me to her hair salon and showed her a picture of Pink’s pixie cut, followed by Kelis’ side shave. I point at Pink and ask…can you do this?

"Yeah, yeah, of course," she says.

With that I sit in her chair and watch as she starts hacking away at my hair. Suddenly she pulls out a barber’s shaver thingy. I ask her what she thinks she’s doing with that and she responds that it’s just to blend it. Blend what, it’s hair not a fucking fruit daiquiri. 

She says I know what I’m doing. Don’t worry. “ah will fix yuh up”

This is where I should have jumped out of that chair and run for the hills.

The last time someone told me “ah will fix yuh up” I ended up with a lightning bolt on my side shave.

Anyway, I hold my breath, pray for the best and allow her to do her thing.

BIG MISTAKE. She  sort of graded down the back when I clearly requested a motherfucking pixie cut. I paid $340 for a mother fucking pixie cut.

Now I may have been a bit stressed beforehand but this is how the conversation went. 

Me: This isn’t what I wanted.

Her: Yes. Daz it.

ME: pulls out laptop, points at picture This is what I said I wanted.

Her: Well this is the closest I could get to that.

Me: I asked you if you could do it, you said yes.

Her: Well, this is it.

Me: No! ThiS is what women in the fucking 80s used to rock. I clearly asked for a fucking pixie cut. I brought a fucking illustration. How hard is it to follow fucking instructions.

Her: Look..

Me:  if you can’t do something just tell somebody> Fuck! This is fuckin bullshit. Now I have to wait like six fucking months to grow out my hair to get what I originally wanted. Fucking worse.

The conversation sort of degenerated after this point but let me tell you I was pissed and I am tempted to shave my head bald. Grrr.

Anyway, until my next emergency. Be Strong, Boobs are Awesome and Can anybody suggest a good hairdresser?

Love Kali,

Kali’s World.

I Husband Hunting

I am sufficiently exhausted enough to be the right amount of honest and vulnerable. Add that to the Angostura 1919 (BESS rum) wid coke that I had earlier and I am Smiley Kali, the girl that is always happy, who loves a laugh and often laughs at inapropriate things.

Tonight, I went husband hunting. No Seriously, no laughter I decided that if Mr. Right wouldn’t come to me, I would go find him. how’s that for assertive?! Screw you lady who said I was a pushover. Wait, I  take that back, don’t screw you. That was mean.

Anyway, back to Mr. Right and I (Did I ever mention I used to date a guy who’s last name was Wright and called himself Mr. Right. He was such a tool,lol.) Back to my tale. So I figured since I’m pretty good at figuring out who is exactly wrong for me, figuring out who is right should be a piece of cake.

The guy who is right for me, would be smart, ambitious, charismatic and would love the ocean. He would also support my lifelong dream of opening a bar near the ocean and being a beach bum/ freelance journalist till my dying days.

Well, with that thought, I decided to go to husband hunting in Crews Inn, cuz it’s near the beach. Total failure. My ideal guy would also have eclectic taste in music and when I walked in Crews Inn and heard Vybz kartel state that “no pussy can suck pon d gaza” I decided he wouldn’t be there.

I ignored the drunk old men trying to get my attention, had my signature Rum and Coke and departed like Matt Damon. (<—-See what I did there? Get it? Departed, Matt Damon?) No? Moving On.

Next stop, the avenue. Now I know for a fact that my future husband would not be liming on the avenue. Because he would be different, he wouldn’t be like everyone else with their gel-laden mohawks or their too-tight shirts and he would never be caught in a non-casual environment wearing flip-flops like the youth I passed there.

So the reason, I was on the avenue had nothing to do with husband hunting and everything to do with food hunting, potato wedges preferably.

Too much traffic though, so we turned up some street (oh we includes my roommate by the way) and I promptly passed a handsome brownie walking with a group of friends. I shouted for Carla (Carla is roommate’s name) to stop as I was sure he was husband potential.

Why? Superficial reasons, he was dressed impeccably with the right amount of good taste, we were driving close enough that I got a whiff of my favorite cologne on a man, Aqua- Kenneth Cole or as I call it “The panty dropper”. (Just to be clear I have never dropped panties because of Aqua eh…but I have wanted too.

It was too late though. My roommate had driven past leaving enough space between me and handsome dude to be weird.

On the way home I suggested KFC Maraval, which we did go to. While there I saw a dude smoking and it hit me. I believe that there is one true love for everybody but what if my true love smokes? What if he’s a drug dealer or involved in human trafficking? What if he is a Justin Bieber fan or thinks wearing open shirts to show off his chest is in good taste? Gasp!

I am clearly not ready for this. Moment of insanity past, I am now in bed, eating the fries I purchased in KFC and thinking about the one man I ever loved. The only..JS. 

Wow, he did a number on me.

Until nex time. Be Strong, Boobs are Awesome and if you can’t find love atleast settle for really good sex.



Kali’s World.

Anonymous said: you're hot!



I felt distinctly inadequate today while watching hundreds of women traipse about my beautiful Port-of-Spain, decked out in their tribal print dresses and dashikis, with their elaborate and intricately tied headwear.

I wore my signature jeans and a v-neck long-sleeved top to work. My relaxed hair, a disappointment when compared to the thick natural curls, and hairstyles sported by the women I saw on this beautiful Emancipation day.

On the day meant to celebrate the freedom of African slaves from colonialism and I felt distinctly mediocre.

As the taxi I was in, made a turn around the savannah and I got a better view of the Emancipation village, of the children laughing as they ran around, dressed in brightly coloured prints.

The different skin colours made me smile, from dark chocolate to vanilla, black, white, indian and chinese mixed, all dressed in African wear…heck even Kams was sporting her bright red prints and huge headwear, and here I sat in a taxi on my way home, feeling like I was lacking.

I vaguely wondered how apropriate it was for mas band YUMA to host their band launch on this day as I passed the Queen’s Royal College. But then business has a morality of its own.

Where was my pride? Where is my external display of my “african-ness”?

This morning when I woke up and realised it was a typical work day for me, I was not happy.  I went to work and feigned annoyance, saying it was a disrespect to my African heritage that I was being forced to work today. 

As they progressed, I thought maybe I was a disrespect to my african heritage.

I with my love of rock bands like Green Day and my hidden Britney Spears colloection, was I denying the “african-ness” deceptively portrayed by my mocha-coffee coloured skin shade? 

Does an African print even validate my blackness…and why should it?

The emancipation committee’s theme this year is Forever Forward: Reflection, Resistance, Renewal. I’ll borrow it.


I am black. I am beautiful. I am a daughter of many races combined to create that beauty. But my skin colour is black. I have been born from the strength of a freed, formerly beaten section of humanity and that strength lies within me ready to take me past any shackles in my way. I am black. 


I resist the need to conform to anyone’s ideals but my own. I live my life for my happiness and God’s. I resist the jaded, prejudiced views of the bitter that feel my “african-ness” is defined by what I wear, how I think, and the music I listen to. I understand that my ancestors fought and died and educated themselves so they could fight harder, not just so I could go back to africa…but so that I would have a choice.


I am black and though at times people see my skin and come up with pre-conceived notions about my mind, I understand that I must always be me. And if I want to shave my head, I will and I will still be beautiful. I appreciate the sacrifices of my forefathers and put an even greater effort to stand proud for myself and for them.

It’s funny, because associating with my “african-ness” isn’t really something I consciously do but let’s face it, when I travel if I find myself in a room full of white people and an African American girl walks in, I will immediately be drawn to her. 

However if an asian girl walks in and I hear a Trini accent, African American girl will have to deal on her own.

Bye bye bi…lol

So years ago, before my whole “I’m celibate and happy” routine I may or may not have had sexual intercourse with a bisexual male named Bradley (not his real name).

 Bradley is my sister’s friends cousin (<—-this is a lie). I felt zero attraction to him at our first meeting ( <—this is true) and there was absolutely zero chemistry on my part.

However what Bradley had in his favor was his eagerness (he clearly wanted me). the fact that he has a penis (absolute necessity since my vibrator stopped working),  and he also has a breathtakingly beautiful smile that could make mother Teresa drop her panties (obviously an exaggeration but the smile is gorgeous).

Also working in his favour was the fact that I had been purposefully depriving myself of sex for months and was an emotional nutcase(<—-true) and I was just about at the end of my rope ( I kept having sexual fantasies about a co-worker that I don’t even like). Now that’s not to say that any hot guy with a cute smile would have been adequate eh, he met other requirements as well (I’m just trying to make myself feel less of a lecher with that sentence).

Anyway so when I was told that Bradley was bisexual I really wasn’t in the least bothered(I was kinda bothered). In fact I really thought it was the evil lie of one of those deranged creatures known as haters. (can’t stand those)

And yes, this does mean that I was told he was bisexual beforehand (does that make me a sicko?) I won’t lie there are things about Bradley that are somewhat feminine, the way he stands, his soft gentle voice, the way he’s really believable when he lies. But does feminine qualities make indicate sexual preference? I dont know.

You would think these would have bothered me but no, I had a goal in mind and that goal was a tall glass of water after spending months in the arid desert, to win the championship after countless failure seasons.

Okay that might have been much, let’s keep it simple, my goal was to put an end to the celibacy with someone that wouldn’t attempt to trap me in a relationship (I’m a total commitment phobe).

And so I had sex with him (It was kinda lame and lasted about 2 minutes and 38 seconds). 

And now years later when my homosexual former co-worker Chuck (not his real name) pointed out Bradley to me and told me he was gay I wondered about that sexual encounter. ( I’m wondering if when I gave him a handjob it had been in some guys mouth. *gasp* Did I totally touch dude saliva?) I’m also trying to figure out how much that bothers me (I’m cringing on the inside).

Now I could just ask him…but I’d be pretty embarassed saying “Hi Bradley, I heard you have sex with both men and women, is that true? I don’t judge” and besides why ask when you could facebook investigate him? ( I wouldn’t be embarrassed)

The thing is I facebook investigated him and there are no red flags. 

I guess what’s important here is my feelings on having had sex with a bisexual male. (If indeed that is true, but why would someone make such a baseless allegation?)

Do I feel disgusted? ummm…not really. Not unless I think really had about it. Then I want to throw up in my mouth.

What really bothers me about it is the people this guy interacts with because as the whistle-blower said to me, he has relationships with girls but has like on the low sex with men.

I wonder how it works, do you stay in a fake relationship with some naive chick till the day you have enough guts to say “hey I think I’m gay’”?. That’s way fucked up.

It makes me wonder, does anything matter anymore? Does saving yourself for the right person mean anything? Is sex just a meaningless act to be done frequently and without emotional consequences?

I feel like I’m venting now eh, but I’m totally irritated. 

Do I need to let go of some of my morals and accept that I live in an era where anything goes?

A love letter to my vibrator

"Even if u were a million miles away, I could still feel you in my bed…"

Dear Jade (yes, I named my sex toy)

I don’t know what happened or even when it happened but you aren’t allowing me to turn you on anymore.

I tried changing your batteries. I jiggled with your cord thing and it just seems to me like I’m no longer what gives you that electric jolt of awareness…or is it the other way around?

I needed you last night, well technically I needed you at around 2:20 am when I  woke up from a strangely realistic sex dream (I think I need to cut out the late night chocolate fixes). I needed you and so I stretched toward my drawer, opened it and there u were. Yet when I tried to press your buttons u didn’t respond.

Are we breaking up? Is this your way of telling me I need to move on and find someone else.

I don’t want to! I’m attached to you and I really doubt anyone can make me feel as good as you.

In fact, with you I have discovered a lot about myself.

You don’t demand my time and you are always available when I am ready. You don’t ever make me have uncomfortable conversations. That guilty feeling that I used to associate with my Roman Catholic upbringing left a long time ago. Our relationship is perfect…well at least I thought it was perfect.

What is it? Didn’t I give you enough of my time? Are you still mad about that time a few months ago when I stopped turning to you? It can’t be the sex,can it? I’m your best sex ever. Hell, I’m your only sex ever!

Whatever it is, we can work it out. I don’t want to move on. You know how attached I get. I don’t think it would be the same with someone else. But if I can’t turn you on what’s the point?

It’s not like I can take you to be fixed. Could you imagine the mortification of me taking you to an electronics guy? I know you wouldn’t want to put me through that.

I guess, I have to accept it. This is where we part ways. I promise though that I won’t besmirch your memory with some tawdry piece of hardware. I’ll do without! I won’t betray you. I promise.

Faithfully yours,

The hard wALL, I conquered it.