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  • carolemelanie:

    nuk-pu-nuk:

    Buju Banton “How Long” (Def Poetry Jam)

    One of my favorite Artists

    Mine too

    "How long must the people be a human sacrifice?  Stand up.  Defend your rights. Up up mighty race, you can accomplish what you will.  Stand up . Defend your rights"

    "In one day they destroyed what took a thousand to build.  Stand up. Defend your rights"

    "And those who stand for nothing will stand for any little thing"

    “Millions dying of starvation as the Super Powers plant another bambaclart invasion” -  Lol.  Preach Buju

    Buju. Buju. Buju.  Bwoi  You good. 

    (via jamgurl73)

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  • cherry-girl010:

    🍒🍒

    (Source: solisseblog)

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    • 12181
  • unstablefragments:

    Casio Gold Digital Watch

    Buy it @Amazon.com

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    • 199
  • (via worldfam0us)

    • 9889
    • 9889
  • WHY CAN’T A SMART WOMAN LOVE FASHION?

    blackfashion:

    As a child, I loved watching my mother get dressed for Mass. She folded and twisted and pinned her ichafu until it sat on her head like a large flower. She wrapped her george—heavy beaded cloth, alive with embroidery, always in bright shades of red or purple or pink—around her waist in two layers. The first, the longer piece, hit her ankles, and the second formed an elegant tier just below her knees. Her sequined blouse caught the light and glittered. Her shoes and handbag always matched. Her lips shone with gloss. As she moved, so did the heady scent of Dior Poison. I loved, too, the way she dressed me in pretty little-girl clothes, lace-edged socks pulled up to my calves, my hair arranged in two puffy bunny-tails. My favorite memory is of a sunny Sunday morning, standing in front of her dressing table, my mother clasping her necklace around my neck, a delicate gold wisp with a fish-shape pendant, the mouth of the fish open as though in delighted surprise.

    For her work as a university administrator, my mother also wore color: skirt suits, feminine swingy dresses belted at the waist, medium-high heels. She was stylish, but she was not unusual. Other middle-class Igbo women also invested in gold jewelry, in good shoes, in appearance. They searched for the best tailors to make clothes for them and their children. If they were lucky enough to travel abroad, they shopped mostly for clothes and shoes. They spoke of grooming almost in moral terms. The rare woman who did not appear well dressed and well lotioned was frowned upon, as though her appearance were a character failing. “She doesn’t look like a person,” my mother would say.

    As a teenager, I searched her trunks for crochet tops from the 1970s. I took a pair of her old jeans to a seamstress who turned them into a miniskirt. I once wore my brother’s tie, knotted like a man’s, to a party. For my 17th birthday, I designed a halter maxidress, low in the back, the collar lined with plastic pearls. My tailor, a gentle man sitting in his market stall, looked baffled while I explained it to him. My mother did not always approve of these clothing choices, but what mattered to her was that I made an effort. Ours was a relatively privileged life, but to pay attention to appearance—and to look as though one did—was a trait that cut across class in Nigeria.

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    • 1992
    • 1992
  • la-nef-des-fous:

    Sacré-cœur, Montmartre, Paris, France.

    (via okkvlt)

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