Archive | June 2013

If Silence is Golden…

Sakhile WriteousSTP Shabalala

Sakhile WriteousSTP Shabalala

If silence is golden than King Midas must have touched it.
So silence the Blackman by putting the gold where his mouth is.

The first couple is homeless, I assume they stayed in one of the many houses.
New fresh family feeling astounded.
Melodius connections like Bra Hugh Masekela blowing his sax, or is it a trumpet?

They loved kids, so the honeymoon got them started, WAIT!
He parted ways wit his 3rd wife, five kids even angels thought Justin was to be his last kid.

Her tongue slithers around with a sound, ‘his’. While his tongue slithers with a sound hiss.
As we all know there’s a lot to tell with a sound like hiss…

If the devil is the snake then why have 10 snakes as housepets, if your man is 1, why have him as your husband?

Does western marriage promise one-nnes?
Are we blinded?
Yes…well Stevie Wonders.

And there is no gold in our Blackhands, it slips through our fingers during marriage and divorce.
Then they took ALLGOLD in exchange for your tomato sauce.

We get married and have divorce papers as backup.
That’s like having a packet of Choice condoms in your honeymoon, and guess what?
Men and Women are like remote controllers with bad batteries.
They continue to PLAY even if you press STOP.
It’s messed up, like someone spilling tea on you, right after you dressed up, smart, for your best part.

Modern marriage is no different to seeing a fish’s fins ontop of waters, it’s a Shark.
So the next time you cheat,
Don’t forget to put your dress love, and remind your man to pull his pants up, because things could end rough.
You could end up trying to get rid of spouse as quick as u do your dandruff.

So if marriage was a journey, guess what?
I might as well take da next BUS.

Sakhile da Poet


Twerking – Could it be a Dance Revolution?

Twerking in practice. courtesy of Google images.

Twerking in practice. courtesy of Google images.

You Tube is fair proof that twerking is here and causing more havoc than a mob justice.

When this dance phenomenon hit South African shores for the first time, it literally left many jaws dangling on the floor. The nation tore into two, with a good half indisbelief whilst the other fifty percent’s eyes indulged the sexy bum shaking motion with appreciation.   

South Africa is an African country where dance is fully appreciated, women with ‘assets’ are loved, the value of tradition and traditional values is not forgotten and it’s where media and modernity is still trying to find its place.

A considerable number of South Africans who value the integrity, respect and traditional upbringing they were brought up in find themselves electrified with shock, that a dance movement of such kinky element has publicly found a home in this country.

As if that shock isn’t paralyzing enough, South Africa is now home to the self acclaimed professional twerkers; the ‘Pro Twerkers‘. These ladies are blessed with a behind that will see you uttering in languages you don’t understand just by looking at it. I also heard that if you’re lucky to see them on stage, the amount of heat you’ll be releasing is enough to leave those around you thinking you’ve just stepped out of the roasting fire in ‘hell’. And apparently for your sake it is wise to have a leash handy just in case (which is likely to be more often than not) your imagination attempts running faster than a cheetah.  

These ladies bounce their above average butts high and low, with an enough sensual vigour to leave you wondering if their mama is where they really got it from. As for that dripping sweat on your face, well, you’ll need ten tons of empty gallons for it.

The Pro Twerkers give Mrs Carter’s booty hop a run for its money.

As you can imagine, these ladies have received both love and hate mail. Those who show them love are not only fond of their bodies but also appreciate the sight of the work these ladies do.

I’m not sure (as they never replied to my email) whether they’ve taken to twerking as a career or it’s just another one of those piece jobs one does on the side for an extra buck. One thing I’m certain of is that the ‘Pro Twerkers’ have traveled extensively and opened up for the controversial, multi-award winning now Yeezus (that’s Kanye West to you) when he performed in Johannesburg earlier this year.

It is absurd but I wish upon indulging on a listening class whereby an almost visually impaired, friendless, ugly glass wearing computer programming geek turned into boring lecturer explains to me the popularity of this sensual movement which is at the peak of its global widespread, making it the most popular move on the dance floors and one of the most talked about subjects on social media platforms.

I would gulp mostly the tiny extracts of this choreography’s origins as I still wonder whether it originated in Southern American clubs, Africa or New Orleans. I would prefer the longer theoretical version which I plan to do absolutely nothing about until the age of sixty where I will look intelligent and turn ‘cool’ in a split second to my grand-kids.

I will mention to my grand children who will sit, surrounding me as if enjoying a thrilling tale around a fire, that before I got introduced to twerking a seemingly non negligible amount of me desired to see what twerking was, for it hammered my twitter timeline in every update and made me feel under-informed.

At my convenience, or maybe belwiderness, my television set gladly introduced to me the mystery behind twerking.

To my jaw dropping surprise, twerking was a phenomenon which required the participator to bounce the butt and hips up and down in erotic motions, extremely suggestive manner causing jiggles and or a shake.

I stood motionless in front of a television set I looked into with eyes which seem to lose their sight. My throat immediately felt like a freshly poured glass of tap water. I knew that if I had asthma, I’d be suffocating.

Since that day I couldn’t help but notice the flooding of twerking home made videos on the internet. Ladies putting their twerking capabilities into practice almost daily like it’s a world competition entry requirement.   

I would explain to these kids, which I pray do not drive me to tears with insanity, that life is the mother of changefulness and its main characteristic is unpredictability, hence, one needs to be strategic in all aspects. More importantly, you can be able to live fruitfully as an individual if you have the guts to choose specifically what influences you as much as you should be able to categorically know what does not influence you.

Many say, like any other dance type, twerking is a certain form of expression for not only hip hop influenced individuals and those with a behind enough to send Nicki Minaj for an extra implant on her bum, but it’s an expression that can be freely explored by your average girl next door, even though the big butt acknowledging advised that when you have a big booty the experience is more appealing for their pleasure, of course.

As for me, with an average bum, and many other silenced reasons, I wouldn’t be caught even on a twerking inducing hip hop track trying to pull a twerk.  

With all that said and little done, I still wonder, could we be sitting arms folded in a freezing windy weather, sipping our hot chocolate whilst a dance phenomenon that we’re not fond of is being brewed? Can it mature its way into a fully accredited choreography or worse still a credit bearing subject at dance schools?  The thought of it drives away my desire to raise kids.

Do not misinterpret me, for my withheld perspectives; I do not like twerking, specifically for my generation. However, anyone else who chooses to engage in it is still my blood from the other father (God that is).

June 16 2013

The dj’s desks were ready and armed in the company of the biggest, loudest speakers on the market.

Nicely ironed school uniforms crisply hung outside wardrobe doors in anticipation to be worn.

It was not just a long weekend, it was both father’s and youth day.

Drinks had been bought on Friday afternoon and they were enough to keep you hang-overed for the rest of your life.

There were celebrations everywhere. Even an amateur dj had a gig.

The theme as proposed by people unknown to us; “working together for youth development and a drug free South Africa”. It meant nothing, we are educated, unemployed and drugs are our only sense of freedom.

I rose to the most annoyingly loud sound of a house or was it a kwaito track? Never mind. And then it hit me; this is a public holiday and sadly, that is all it will ever be to some.

It is a Sunday and a very special one at that, so hold the thought of an early morning church service. My compatriots need to defeat the hang-over accumulated on the early hours of this morning with a tender, delicious braaied meat. This will be followed by an ice cold cider or should it be a steaming hot tot?

A hang-over murdering breakfast was followed by a visionless loiter around the neighborhood until the time for the important qualifying soccer match came.

They sat in front of a 54 cm television screen, every one looked tidy in their black and white uniform. They didn’t know the significance of their outfit but it felt appropriate.

Have you ever been in Hillbrow and witnessed Nigerian brothers having a conversation in their native language? Well, the noise in this house was nothing compared to that. There was bickering, swearing and at one time I swore the television set was seeing its last minute.

When Bafana Bafana scored a magnificent own goal, that was the end of it. This sorrow needed to be shed, fast. Beers were out of the refrigerator, into hands right into the blood stream.

The speakers showed us what they were made of. The noise level tripled the one my ears were settling to. This was like a shebeen on a pay day evening. For a mere conversation, the voice needed to reach the highest frequency possible.

Vuvuzela’s had been abandoned and lifeless. Beer was now doing the talking. Secrets were revealed.

My compatriots are young and to them, this is a celebration, a joyful noise that means freedom.

In 1976, it was a different story. A tale that means little today to those who enjoy the fruits of its outcome.

Learners took it upon themselves and marched with the purpose of breaking oppression boundaries. This became a battle which saw some of them take their last breath.

In pursuit of equality, recognition and freedom, innocent young souls became victims of tear gas and rubber bullets. In 1976, youngsters traveled a journey to youth emancipation.

Today we celebrate, in whichever way that suits our mood a freedom that took away lives.

After 37 years, the wrath, has little if any meaning at all. We could be lost, we could be lacking knowledge, we could be clueless but we’re lucky because in a non impressive way, we portray freedom. The human in our young mind has forgotten, as people are prone to, the minor things we take for granted were achieved through the shedding of blood.

Today we are emancipated from the chains that held the 1976 youth but we too face boundaries which shrink our magnitude. We however attempt to break these boundaries single handedly in a thousand different directions.

June 16 2013, maybe you could have done it more differently and maybe you did achieved the best results and maybe you spend it commemorating the day your father walked out of your life and never came back, maybe even that thought was difficult to trace for you were just an embryo when he left. No matter your form of expressing appreciation and way of commemorating, I hope you had a fruitful youth and father’s day.

Men are Beautiful – An Appreciation of Majestic Creatures

A man is a supernatural crafted creation whose purpose is to conquest a clandestine doctrine that is to disclose itself through daily sufferings. He is a God given machine which in its capabilities lies astounding augustly worth. A man is a creation brought forth to represent the importance and existence of the celestial God on the planet.

The hurt carried by women, would disagree, however this is not a matter of debate, rather a declaration; men are beautiful. And their roots spring from greater envisions.

Usually in my country, men get very little if any good publicity. This animadversion has incredible deteriorated men value. The exact side-lining of men makes us forget the creed God purposefully created men for.

So permit me to tell you about the exorbitant artistry of men. I grant you the permission to indulge on this heavenly creation through its physical features, which hail from the well kept head to the fittingly maintained physique, down the brawny outer calf muscles.

I prefer to look into this exquisite creation through the base of its modeling; making a slow zoom into his perfectly distilled constituents. Like the projection of his preferred articulation, the refined eloquentness of his words. The delicate quality in choosing conversations worthy of his eminent value. The amour-propre he has for who he is. The dignity which reflects in the way he walks. The enamor that blossoms through his creativity. The delight which resounds through his voice. His cultivating hand that is ever so willing to extend for the curing of his nation. This kind of man is not a dime in the dozen rather a one in a million.

I’m talking about a man whose imperfections grant him the capacity to acknowledge his misfortunes and mistakes. He possesses a vocabulary ability inclusive of sentences such as; “thank you”, “I’m sorry”, “I made a mistake”, “I appreciate you” and of course “I love you”.

To my advantage, I’ve been fortunate to realise that men are the astrally God created beings which with love are to secure our ambiance and nurture our beautifullness. More importantly, I’ve grasped the knowledge; God deemed men the head for they are meant to love, secure, lead and protect.

Dear men, as I take this seat, I do none but adore your eyes which tell stories of envisions that our generations will find everlasting joy in. It gives me a purpose to strengthen, through a smile, your bones which have with time grown weary.

Lying helplessly in your arms, introduces to me a heart which is pounding with blood that through its predurelence many smiles will glow with happiness. Your heart beats in correlation with mine as assurance that the next day needs our unison presence and passion.

I sleep at night with you in mind, and you lie awake in the midnight hour as solutions for our decaying world knock into your mind for recognition.

You are a God given nature to oversee the unforeseen misfortunes of our daily struggles. Struggles which nourish the muscles we (women) tenderly fall for. These struggles are witnessed in your hands which have held and shed heavy loads of pain.

In you I delegate the duty to love, respect, honor and appreciate. In your arms I find hope and strength to sees the dreams that despair almost deprived me off.

Great is the love you will pass down to our offsprings which I imagine will look into you with love and lie in your arms hopelessly knowing that you are their shield.

If mountains, rivers and sands could give thanks, they would chant songs of appreciation to you for you have helped bring unto their presence purpose for their creation; you have given them the duty to flourish for our well-being.

It is without a doubt that your presence is my present.

Men, you are beautiful, not for your features, although they cannot be missed, you are beautiful for you have known the powerful yet secretive strength that my Lord invested in you.

You are a leader, not by choice, but through respecting the basis of your artfulness. Honoring the purpose the sovereign God saw in you as he perfectly molded you with his blessing hands.

The power that a forlorn, desponded nation needs is the strength in you which can drive through impossibilities like they never existed.

Today I thank you for you are a vessel of honor, a man worthy of love and deserving of respect.

I promise to speak to the Almighty on my knees every night asking him to restore perseverance and store hope in you. I will ask him to give an extra day every day, for you are deserving of a long life.

Men, whatever happens, never forget that you are beautiful.

With Love

The Nature of Love

I’m surrounded with so much love and I want you to also go through this. #OneLove


We, human beings are an amazing lot. Our creation is beyond the simplicity of the Bing Bang Theory. I truly believe that the roots of our existence are encompassed in the deepest book of secrets that is still yet not known to our scientists.

I think, due to the fact that we do not know everything about ourselves. We spend the entirety of our lives trying to make sense of who we really are through hypothesises, past and many other aspects of our lives that we think can help us make sense of our selves.

We shall only look into our selves here through the journey of trying to make sense of our feelings. A feeling is that encounter which one person experiences individually whilst the person on the other end can reciprocally experience it through a series of verbs and adjectives (my definition).

We have manifested feelings as part…

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I’m Ghetto? What Does That Mean?

Let me tell you how it all began: in one of these newly formed instant messaging applications, a supposedly “friend” of mine was departing the conversation, and after a seemingly long attempt of halting a simple instant messaging chat, I texted the words; ‘sure boss’ [note: this was written with isiZulu in mind]. Now this could have been a ghetto move except I did not know it. “You sound so ghetto sometimes dude” [should have read with an Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice impersonation] after this very instant reply I was flummoxed.

This was peculiar, befuddling and conventional at the same time. Could the way I text render my roots bare to a person out of sight?

It is not a matter of debate, however public speaking inclined individuals are welcome to reason otherwise. We have become a nation who will despise you if you apply the native language’s tone, voice and pitch in pronouncing and or speaking the queen’s language.

Our modernised activities of engagement serve as proof that our adopted Shakespearean nature propels dominance over our African indigenous constituents. Could we be heading for the one way journey which its destiny will see us right in the middle of confusion and illusion?

We prefer meeting the model C standards whenever we can more exceptionally in the vicinity of our highly educated compatriots who fully understand but refuse to associate with our indigenous languages which we absorbed before birth through our beloved mothers.

The above will of course apply to people of colour, whose hue falls on the dark to very darker side of the spectrum for I know their behavior when it comes to declining native components.

My ‘love to hate you’ relationship with English is not long running as I did not go to a model C school and up until the age of twelve I could not really get my way around the queen’s language.

I would like to think that I never struggled with English, however, after listening to me speak or perhaps reading the work I’ve written, you could appraise differently since it is evident that my English vocabulary is nowhere near first grade.

English is a tool that became somewhat important in trading as it was understood diversely, this widespread was the fruits of ascendancy and colonialism. Today we globally witness the embrace of English’s superiority over our own languages.

The dearth of the alembicated English vocabulary in me is due to the preference of defeating the daily struggles in my mother tongue, isiZulu, even through encounters where a native African man would recommend the sophistication of the English language.

I am of colour therefore never took bullying seriously until of course I got this pretty girl they call education under my sleeve. Now that I think about it, I’ve been bullied severely that my esteem was dented for a while, I just did not know it.

Henceforth, unlike most of my fellow countrymen, my life has always been like that of a mistress’s child caught up in a decaying marriage; strange. As a result, I was called many things from an early age, with my skin tone taking most of the credit. Remembering an incident that occurred when I was five, colourfulness a very strong almost navy brown hue then. Walking with my sister to the nearby tuck shop. Before the many constructions which saw us the luxury of tarred roads and the aches of e-toll tariffs, when walking, with the exception of a gravel main road, you walked one after the other for the ground on either side of this narrow street resembling path was buried by a grass so long it might as well have housed a green mamba and its offsprings.

As I walk behind my sister, who’s a few months younger and of lighter skin tone than me. A lady approaches us. When passing by my sister, she drops a compliment; “you’re beautiful”, this would of course bring butterflies in any lady’s (young or not) tummy. My sister with a smile makes way for her and to the lady’s surprise I appear, “hhay’ umubi wena” (you’re ugly!) she says, I make way for her and she passes. My heart sank, I turned every second to take a glimpse of her behind me but she disappeared into the sunset and never turned to take back a heart throbbing joke (or was it not), or tell me something else, something that will make me smile too, I was five and didn’t understand cruelty.

My dark skin colour has earned me more criticism than any magnitude advantaged growing little fellow so you’d share my sentiment; I’m used to being at the trough of compliments. As a result, I do not appreciate compliments (good, great or out of this world) regarding my body or a body feature [hint: keep them to yourself].

I’ve recently added another definition to the almost full basket of society views about everything one was created with or was taught. I was called by this now widely used word which seems to describe something that every body does not want to be associated with; ghetto. I did not know what this meant. I’ve seen, witnessed and heard its usage but I could never put my finger to its real meaning when used to describe an individual.

Google has directed me to many web pages that proved clarity about the word and its description, however, it lacked pages that could define for me the referral of this word to individuals.

So I took a pen and paper in hope to find answers to defining one as ghetto. Could it be the bad English I speak which is usually accompanied and worsen by the isiZulu influenced accent?

I unnecessarily have no problem with the word as I’m used to my fellow compatriots and their emotional anguish which is expressed verbally in conversations that could very well deprive an individual of their altitude. I just need only the word ghetto and its link in adjectively describing an individual who has never lived in a or a ghetto lifestyle. I’m only but a born and bred rural girl, what constituents could qualify me as ghetto?

I just need those who have a thorough understanding to share with me their knowledge. So that in my future, I completely understand when one refers to me as ghetto.