Fame.Monster.

Or, in the vein of assignments I give my students: "Write a composition entitled 'My life is like Lady Gaga's because...'"

It's time for some juicy, sit-down-and-actually-spend-some-time-on-this-shit prose. Can you handle it?

I'm famous. It's awesome. If you've ever wondered what it's like to be screamed at, stared at, admired and adored, then maybe you should give Peace Corps, or any scheme in which you live in a place where you're the only azungu for miles around, a go. Shouts of 'Bo!' 'Madamu!' 'Muli bwa?' 'Annetti!' 'Anness!' accompany my every walk to my trading centre. At first it kind of bugged me, but I've got most of them trained now not to say 'Azungu!' and I've decided to be the gracious celeb who adores her fans. Admittedly, this is partly to impress some cute guys at my trading centre. How into it are they going to be if I'm a hater all the time? Although I do still make kids cry frequently. And it's not the: "Oh--my--god--I--love--you--sooooo--much!--You--are--brilliant--and--your--music--really--speaks--to--me!" kind of tears I'm sure people like Lady Gaga and the Biebs get all the time, it's the "Oh-shit-is-this-bitch-really-going-to-eat-me-like-she-just-said-and-why-the-hell-is-she-running-after-me,-I'm-2!" kind of tears. Yes, that really happened. Yes, I felt (a little) bad. I'm a monster. Just adds to my street cred, I guess. My facebook profile should read: Annette McFarland, Fucking Awesome. Got evacuated from Niger. Makes little kids cry. Shits in a hole. Doesn't give a shit.

So you'll forgive me for living in Africa, but the July 8-22, 2010 issue of Rolling Stone just got around to me, and of course I was all over the article about Lady G like a fat kid on chocolate cake (which reminds me, I just had some delicious chocolate cake at Elizabeth's the other day, mmmm). I cut out the pictures for a Lady G tribute collage I'm going to make on one of my walls. Yeah they're risque but this is my house, if you're going to come inside you're going to see some crazy American shit. Deal with it. Two quotes really resonated with me. The first:

"When I wake up in the morning, I feel just like any other insecure 24-year-old girl, then I say, 'Bitch, you're Lady Gaga, you get up and walk the walk today.'"

Translated to Africa, that's:

"When I wake up in the morning, sometimes I just don't want to deal with this shit, then I say, 'Bitch, you're an azungu, and will go home to flush toilets and celebrity gossip blogs and ice cream and electricity someday, but today, you get up and you walk the walk and be adored." It works-I haven't not gotten out of bed yet.

Tangentially, the other quote from the article I really liked:

"When she uses words like "fierce" or describes her sexual conquests of beautiful men, one sees why the hermaphrodite rumors about her have been so persistent: She seems, at times, like a gay man trapped in a woman's body."

My thoughts:
1. Is saying 'fierce' and sexually conquering beautiful men really all there is to being a gay man?
2. Bitch stole this shit from me! Haven't I been saying this about myself for years? It makes so much sense now why I can't get enough of her! I've got nothing but love, Lady G. Respect.

But I digress. Back to being a local celebrity. A (white) South African dude swung through my town last week laying fiberoptic cable or some such nonsense. Of course we started chatting when I walked by him working one day, because we're azungus, we gots to stick together. He told me that people had asked him if he knew Annette. I said "I'm Annette!" I also told him that of course we already knew each other--hell, we're cousins! (People here would actually believe that, no questions).

Another awesome moment in the life of me: yesterday I was typing exams for my school and everyone was impressed by how fast I type. I was like "Yeah, that's right. I can type. Been doing it since 4th grade. What?!" They were like: "Can you teach us? Someday we want to be experts like you!" Then I made this diagram (see Figure 1) in Paint and blew their minds!

Figure 1

They were freaking out at how fucking amazing I am (and let me just say, it's refreshing to have other people saying out loud what I'm thinking all the time). I was like: "Wow, that was easy."

But the day I knew I was famous, knew this was real Beyonce-and-Lady-Gaga-esque shit (...ok, ok, who's a lot less famous but still turns heads? A lot less classy and more skanky? Snooki?) was last Saturday at the Form 4 graduation (excuse me, "farewell party", because we didn't have enough ndalama for a legit bash). First I put on my Swear-In outfit from Niger, a sexy little number that fits pretty snugly after being laundered in Morocco (dryers?!? I had forgotten what they were and the effect they have on cotton for a hot second). So I was turning heads more than usual. Then there were a few photographers running around, and students I didn't know would come and stand next to me to have their picture taken with this hot piece of fierce. It got to the point where they weren't even asking me, just lining up, and as the gracious queen of Thavite, I politely obliged (and even informed the photog that he left the lens cap on, but only after he'd probably taken a whole roll of film...what an idiot!). To top it all off, I was asked to officially open the dance by dancing with the Guest of Honour at the end. We had invited the MP (Member of Parliament) of our area, but he had meetings in Lilongwe (actual work? running the country?(into the ground) and he couldn't blow it off for our awesome bash? sheesh!), so he sent some other dude. So yes, the event closed with me and him shimmying next to each other to some Malawian song for what seemed like hours in front of 80 people, who were sitting and cheering. After about 10 seconds I was like "Uh, c'mon guys, you aren't gonna hop up and dance too?" but I worked it out, as always. I wonder if they realize how unique I am. I mean, sure I'm the azungu, but not just any azungu would agree to get up and dance with some strange official dude in front of everyone. Luckily in our very thin budget we had allotted money for 2 cases of soft drinks and beer for the teachers and invited guests (MP rep, village headmen) to drink after the ceremony. My first thought had been: "Really guys? We have no money for decorations but we need a case of beer for ourselves after the students leave?" but after the whole day (and did I mention it started 3 hours late, in a particularly poignant demonstration of 'Malawian time'?), I was like: "Hells yes I need a beer right now!" As I always say, when it comes to getting special attention, or transport to the next town, "Rock the white privelege if you got it!"

So my kingdom is some backwater tiny town in a small, extremely geopolitically irrelevant country (is that why Bingu's going crazy lately--penis envy?), and not, like Lady G and the Biebs, the known universe. Ah well, play the hand you're dealt, right? I may not be making the pages of People and Us Weekly with my shenanigans, but all the same I run around Thavite being ridiculous and scandalous and shaking things up-teaching my kids about things they've never heard of (World Wars I and II, Glee, that Obama doesn't 'rule' North and South America, just part of it); wearing my tight yoga pants around my trading centre; alluding to the fact that gay marriages are okay; playing volleyball with the boys!
Gaga