Reppin' for Africa?

Yo, notifications are back. I saw me traffic drop a bit without the notifications, and that’s no good. So, if you want off the list, speak up now or get one of these once a day.
You’re welcome, BJ.
Either way, click this here and let me know if this qualifies as representing for the Motherland. Warning–this pic involves some female nudity, though nothing that will make you flinch. And the point of the pic isn’t to broadcast the nudity. It’s just too funny.
Reminds me of a great story, though.

(And before we get to that, Aden said, “I bet she’s heard every ‘back to Africa’ joke there is.” I concur.
When I first went to Cali for grad school, I wound up finding a minority congregation to hang out with. In Claremont, that was no small feat. Wasn’t enough black people ’round there to get up a good game of spades, and Mexicans weren’t too deep, either. But, after a couple of days, I found a brother from Carson, a sister from Lake Charles, a Mexican cat from Oakland, and another Mexican from Ontario.
We wound up having a night of drinking, but we messed up and got a handle of Seagram’s Extra Dry Gin. Bumpy Face is bad news, but I didn’t come to this conclusion until that evening.
Well, the brother from Carson–who is on this mailing list and is probably still trying to come to grips with the fact that Oklahoma sucks in football this year–decided to make the drinking a competition. He was representin’ for the diaspora against the Mexican cats. Before taking a shot, he said…
“Hey cuz, I’m doin’ this for the homies in Madagascar, South Africa, Somalia…”
Went through a list of OAU members and chugged a shot of cheap gin in their honor.
And another shot.
And another.
The Mexican boys were killin’ theirs, too. Me? I was playing it easy. I knew I was gonna be earlin’ that night if I drank even a little bit more of that gin than I should have (and I did, though privately and with minimal drama and/or pain).
Them boys were goin’ at it. My man as representin’ for the race something vicious, though.
However, it ended like most nights with Bumpy Face end–with terrible illness.
After I heard one of the Mexican cats earlin’ in the bushes and helped drag the other out of the street as he passed out trying to get into his car–wound up with a ginormous welt where his forehead hit the concrete–I decided to walk out and see what was going on. I saw the brother on the couch, his white shirt covered with his dinner and gin. With a glazed look upon his face and his eyes half-open, he called for my attention.
“Hey cuz, I did it for the homies in Madagascar, cuz. I did it for Madagascar…”
And that is the only context remotely similar to putting a tattoo of Africa on your ass. It looks like it’s in Mercator projection and everything.
(And yes, fellas, that is a serious ass she’s workin’ with.)
But this is almost pandemic, misguided representin’ for Africa. Remember this Nas line from “If I Ruled the World?”
“It sounds foul/but every girl I’d meet would go downtown/I’d open every cell in Attica/send ’em to Africa.”
Now, while I’m sure a few of them cats in jail got railroaded and used their time in the pen to learn a few things, why don’t you open every class room at Howard and send them to Africa? Do they need any more crooks in Africa? Considering how many e-mails I get asking for my account number, I’d say they’ve got that Attica delegation over there already. No need to give it national diversity.
So, the moral of the story? Put a “self-educated” rapper, a man with an MBA, and a model with a tatt of Africa on her ass in a room and ask them who loves Africa more. Surprisingly, the latter might be the champion.
She is filthy cute, though.