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Been inside eating good. ❤️

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Untitled - Lettre à l’autre inconnu

J’ai grandi. Il y a quelques années j’aurais tout gardé pour moi. Je me serais fait des films jusqu’à ne plus pourvoir distinguer la fiction de la réalité. J’aurais vu des images de toi chaque fois que je ferme les yeux. Je crois avoir grandi. J’ai des images dans la tête et elles sont bien réelles. Des flashs. Des apparitions subtiles. Un vernissage près d’un point qu’on dit éphémère. Le hall bondé d’une salle de concert qui soudainement devient sourd. Une soirée entre amis d’amis. On s’ignore. Une nuit d’été, une énième première rencontre. Un jour, un sourire véritable. Tu me vois enfin. Enfin, je crois. Je vois quelqu’un qui a changé pour ceux et celles qui le côtoient. Mais mon regard n’est pas dupe, il voit l’âme et ses travers passés. Là, évidents. Et mon regard aime quand même ce qu’il voit. D’autres auraient et ont pris la fuite. Je me trompe peut être mais je me trompe rarement.  Alors je cède au caprice de mon cœur et de ses raisons qui inlassablement reviennent toujours vers toi. Qui sait, je suis peut-être un des chemins vers ta rédemption. Un soir, je me révèle. Par défi. Pour conjurer le sort. Pour être libre. Je ne sais pas si on a parlé la même langue. Mais j’ai ri. J’ai eu une envie de texter tous ceux que j’aime en secret. Ça avait l’air si facile à cet instant précis, pour le troll que je suis. Drôle de réaction au rejet. L’était-ce ? Les images reviennent dans ma tête. Tu me joues le sketch du mec surpris.

Are you ?

Are you though ?

‘Tu dois savoir que tu me plais depuis le temps’. ‘J’ai une réputation de friendzoneur’.

« Friends » ?

Are we ?

Le téléphone sonne. Les blagues fusent. J’en comprends la moitié. Mon franglais revient au galop, signe peu flatteur d’un début de nervosité, mais ô grand secours ! Il m’a sauvé maintes fois quand les mains deviennent moites. (...) Le temps que je « cool down », les oiseaux commencent à chanter. Sur l’écran, je ne te vois plus ou presque. Tu as éteint la lumière, mais il y a quelque chose qui brille dans cette nuit. Je ne sais pas si c’est ton piercing ou ma persévérance.

- L.N., Juin 2020

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WANT.

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Paris, March 8th 2015

This afternoon I took a walk and joined the procession organised by French afro-feminist collective Mwasi. #InternationalWomensDay 

All pictures by (c) Bobbi

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LISTEN.

Promptocole by Bobbi Bomdia on Mixcloud

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BRO.

"Kids & a farm". #goal

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I don't blame you August Autumn is my favorite season too

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K I N S H A S A

Last May, I visited my parent’s native country, Congo-Kinshasa, for the very first time. And yes, it was also my first trip to Africa. It’s been more than a month since I got back and not a day goes by without me thinking about Kin.

 My parents settled in France in the early 1980’s for studies and work with the idea of going back to Kinshasa but more than 30 years later, they’re still here in their country of adoption. Although worried because they weren’t able to make this trip with us (I travelled with my big sister), they were also proud that we decided on our own to go visit.



I’ve always been kindly teased by fellow immigrants children for never having been back to my roots. “You never been to Africa ? What kind of African are you ?” Knowing how to speak lingala and being fond of madesu and mikaté clearly wasn’t enough to make me a worthy member of the diaspora. Just like my parents, some friends and other family members living in France were really not confortable with the idea of two young women travelling alone to Kinshasa. My sister herself was telling me that I should expect our trip to be less fun than I’ve anticipated.

Well, I didn’t really have any expectations but Kinshasa being the capital of the DRC and not a village, I knew we wouldn’t be that lost. And we weren’t. It felt like a homecoming. Kinshasans are really welcoming people, we witnessed so many acts of kindness from them. People there live in awful conditions and it might sound cliché to say that but they also have so much joy. Every night, you could hear people partying in almost every neighborhoods. Before my departure, a friend of mine told me : “When you arrive, first thing you have to do is smell Africa!" Not feel but smell it. I did. Kinshasa smells of pollution, gaz, barbecue, and burnt plastic. A particular mix of odors that you get used to after a while. Fortunately, Kin is a really big city and in some areas people live among dense forests and vegetation.

This trip was emotionally challenging as I got to meet family I heard of all my life for the very first time. Finally, I’ve been able to put faces on those familiar names, sure I’ve seen pictures but time goes by and I realize they’re now very old pictures. I’ve also discovered places such as the home my mom grew up in, my father’s old school, the neighbourhoods where my parents spent their childhood and where my grandfather used to work and where my grandparents got married and so on…. All of this means a lot because as a child of immigrants you naturally have different cultural landmarks from those that your parents have.

And this is probably, the biggest thing that this trip brought to me : the ability to understand my parents better and just for that I wish I had made this trip earlier. Kinshasa is not touristy at all but if you learn a little about the history of the Congo, you’ll be interested to visit. As for me, I’m already planning my next trip to Africa because the “Black experience” is on a whole other level on the continent… And to Kinshasa, I only have one thing to say : I came, I saw and I’ll surely come back to conquer !

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"A man comes into my life and I have to COMPROMISE ?" - Eartha Kitt, 1982

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Are you on Facebook?

NO.

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I’m not easily moved by dancers but this O’Trip House freestyle just got me stuck in front my screen for 12 min straight ! These gentlemen master their art, no doubt about it. They voluntarily shaped their own personal style in order to give consistency, coherence and clearly a soul to their group when dancing together. And trust me, not every dance group can do that. They all bring something special to the table. Check it out !

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This is how 2014 feels like so far.

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I do not know what to do with my grief so I write a poem that will listen to me cry when the world is noised with laughter and all the heart wants is to weep in blood. Losing an elder is like taking a tongue out of a mouth. The youth becomes betrayed by it’s silence. As I mature into a...

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See you soon NY !

(c) Bobbi Bomdia, may 2013

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HOT SHIT. HOT SHIT. HOT SHIT.

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Un grand fou rire marquera la fin des jours heureux. Je m’esclaffe et tu glousses de nos amours arrivés en fin de course.

C’est drôle, au sens premier et originel du terme, Et très malaisé de faire passer des adieux pour un

aurevoir.

Nous rions encore, essoufflés.

- L.N 20 avril 2013