Leaning on the Edge of Death

Have you ever wanted to die? I don’t mean the occasional figurative expression when you’re trying to exaggerate how embarrassed you were when your crush saw you looking like a “no” while s/he looked like a “hell fucken yeah”. I’m talking about drowning so deeply in misery that you don’t even see the need to cross paths with tomorrow. When you’re so defeated that you long for the day the darkness decides to finally drown you and strategically take your life away from you. When you try to keep a straight head and keep everything together but the darkness that is your life, your future, your dreams, your EVERYTHING is too much for you to contain and death becomes the ultimate need. If you’ve never needed to die; I am not sure whether you’re lucky or blessed.

There was a time where I NEEDED to just numb everything. Yeah just die. Death sounded like a better option. If not death then let the darkness swallow me. Take me far far away; where no one spoke my language or knew me so that I can maybe see the solitude in a different spectrum. A chance to at least try and decode the very life I seemed to clearly live wrong. Everyone’s life seemed to workout BUT mine. At least Facebook, Instagram and all these other social media things where imperfections don’t exist told me each and everyone of you were living your best life. And here I was; I couldn’t take care of myself financially and now mentally. I am mentally confused, unsure and don’t know when this journey will last but  it seems like something beyond forever. I’ve hit an emotional wall. I am broke and heading speedily to broken. The world is spinning in a slow motion everyone is going about their life and there is no superhero coming to rescue me. Its just me in this dizzy commotion. I wanted to ask for help but at the same time, I didn’t need help. I needed something more. Something I could not explain. Something more meaningful. More peaceful. I needed, I don’t know, perhaps harmony and obviously I wanted things to be alright and stop crumbling down all in one go and embarrassing the hell out of me. But all misfortunes happened there, then and never stopped; a series of disappointments.

The worst part was how my soul shredded into irreconcilable pieces every time a negative remark about me was made. Perhaps it was the lack of emotional intelligence or I was after all a human being and I too had feelings. Or was I just giving people way too much credit on my life? I don’t know. I remember this one time when I was called a failure because I was apparently not trying hard enough. Being called a failure by one of your very own made me cried a few times. I cried because the mere thought of them thinking I wasn’t trying hard enough while I was doing EVERY single damn thing I could shrunk me back into the pit of darkness. I had drained all sorts and sources of energy I had to try and align what was in my dreams with my reality. As you can tell, it hadn’t worked out. And I was also now more than ever convinced that it’ll never workout. Not in this lifetime at least. I had wanted to be badassery. Run. Break glass ceilings, feel the pain and actually not give a damn but continue striving. Be Great! So great that the reflection in the mirror smiled wide and told me each time we crossed paths how great I am. I wasn’t running. I didn’t break any glass ceilings but I was sure as hell feeling the pain. The odds were just against me. So against me I had to die. There was nothing left to see or want.

Oddly enough, the odds are still against me. I’ve concluded that the odds don’t like certain people much and I form part of that ‘certain people’; I’m learning to come to terms with it without a single strand of bitterness. Since I have unfortunately not died, I still haven’t stopped running and gunning for better, more calculated, structured dreams than those that almost killed me. Sometimes I feel like I am still chasing time; and those of us who’ve tried know what a futile race it can be. Sometimes I just want to breakaway from this thing I’m living and go live the financially, mentally and problems free life I wish I was meant for. I have good days. Great days. Bad days and of course depression days. They are the worst days.

I’m alive for one basic reasoning; it turns out blinking is much easier than killing yourself. Lets be honest here, it takes a certain amount of courage to take away your own life. It can’t be a walk in the park (walks in the park can be deadly nowadays but catch my drift for a minute).It requires a lot. A breaking point I clearly haven’t experienced yet (in hopes to never). A breaking point which I’ve summed up as the longest alley of darkness intertwined with loneliness that any living human being can take so it takes you instead. Squashes you up into tiny pieces of nothingness that you only see yourself as a problem that’s not important enough to form part of the equation. So you save everyone else the maths of figuring you out because you actually can’t figure your own self out and you exit the mess. It is A WHOLE DAMN LOT this life thing and I to am actually exhausted but I have chosen to suck it up for as long as I can. And its going to be a very long time!


Channelled Complaining

Almost every ‘HelloPeter’ snob if not every human being has a reason to complain or throw an overly exaggerated negative comment or two.

Social media serves as proof that most of us have not only found an entertainment value on otherwise previously ugly and uninteresting faces. But we have also managed to make a non-profitable career out of being extremely mean and devising endless complaints.

Booing of certain or all brands and ideas has managed to find and extend its niche from soccer fields to social media—making a safe land into our society. As a result we have completely sidelined or perhaps forgotten the reason behind placing a complaint or ‘making your voice heard’ as some rephrase it.

Last week my long haired indian colleague found a strand of hair on her morning made ‘freshly’ packaged sandwich. Hell broke loose, someone had clearly let the dogs out because the office went buck wild, except for silly old fashioned me.

My colleague, like a mad lady whose about to Solange ‘the Beast’ Knowels some cheap gum chewing low-life her husband openly cheats with, gathered her entourage faster than you can say ‘spin kick’, while expressing her fuming state on social networks. The loud mouthed, crap talking ring leader was right in front. Looking off-ish.

I stared at the encounter as one often does when ‘the Fixer’ series unfolds.

A moment later in they came with a new sandwich. Profound, right?

Yes because you’ve never found hair on your homemade food and the chef would probably pull a piece of hair out of her head intentionally just to spite you because you’re the ‘tweleb’ that curved her brother but kept making it hotter for her man on DM’s.

My point is, make your unsatisfactory service concerns heard accordingly; if there is ‘accordingly’ when you’ve been served a vegan burger after specifically ordering a steak relish. Anyway, address the matter in a manner that will not make it seem like you’re declaring war or intending to fight or file a law suit. Rather do it in a manner that will discourage the occurrence of bad service for good ‒ professionally.

Of course you should be firm but avoid appearing as militant, for there is nothing more annoying than seeing people who complain only to make us (the rest of the customers) realise how great their shouting and demanding skills are when combined with disrespect and sheer arrogance.

It cannot be denied that sometimes the service provided is filthy, unprofessional and infuriating one could be propelled into high-pitched voices and forceful behaviour however one needs to learn to control their temper and behaviour when channelling a matter as critical as a complaint.

So next time you place a complaint, and by this term I’m not in any form referring to those big white folks wearing shorts behind a long queue in a grocery store shouting at the cashier just after a minute of being in the queue. Rather a complaint in this case would mean following the appropriate protocol of certifying that a concern is heard and acted upon. Do it accordingly and professionally.

Don’t be a difficult customer for the sake of being difficult.

In My Forefathers House

Before a verse in one of the kwaito songs which became fairly popular, they were widely known as the ‘peaches’. The smooth, soft-yellowish, immensely likable peaches. These African darlings were the preference to a number of African gentlemen. And by the sight of interweb mentions, it seems the yellow-boned are also a majority’s favourite.

When the popularity of the word yellow-bone (don’t worry my English conscious beings, I’ll dissect this frog for you’ll…later) landed on our black streets, we expressed our delights, as per usual, on social media platforms and once again Twitter took the texter’s choice award.

You see, long before we labeled our own blackness, there was only one kind of black…Black. As you can obviously understand, this was neither sufficient nor satisfactory to my fellow countrymen/women. Out of that almost negligible yet invariable lack, existed the bonds which intertwine curiosity and inquisitiveness, the perfect ingredient to a thrilling series of adventure.

As a result, today I’m glad to notify you that we have different shades of black and they all have different categories. So next time you find yourself in Africa, or for precision’s sake let me say in South Africa, you need to know a few very minor but highly important things.

South Africa, at the moment, is home to five specific shades of black. We have the two previously pure black but now Indian and Coloured blacks. Then we have the black-African blacks, this is divided into three categories. The dark-skinned blacks (also known as the black baby-jellies). Secondly, we have the vanilla-blacks (these would be known to white folks as the Albinos) and lastly, I really wish I had a drum-roll and a Johann Sebastian Bach prelude playing in the background for this one, the yellow-bones (these would be the subject of discussion here and everywhere).

The yellow-bone’s are at the peak of their existence. As it is with one who is at the peak of their career, they are the talk of the
twittersphere. And to no surprise, their fashionableness has kicked the ‘dark beauty’ and the ‘black is beautiful’ phrases right where is appropriate to render them irrelevant.

However, this whole phenomenon has only been true for ladies of this skin tone. Gentlemen on the other hand, if they by any chance happen to be in possession of this yellow-bone(ness), are most likely to be referred by the derogatory ‘f’ word often expressed towards gay people. On Twitter they are captioned with the hashtag ‘keeps losing’ text code.

I need to mention that long ago, before I learnt how not to shut my mouth, they said ‘black is beautiful’ and I’m not yet certain as to whether my native South Africans have decoded the underlying vision that moulded and brought forth this cultural notion.

Anyway, to accommodate our progression, we have a new, more relevant expression; I’m yellow and it gives me pride. This yellow denotes, in particular the lighter shaded kids of Africa, those whose skin colour resembles the shining sun at exactly midday in the African skies. It is a very favourable yellow even amongst the ladies whose skin tone screams ‘I am an African’ from afar. Hence the havoc in my forefathers house.

The longing for the soft, smooth yellow-bone skin tone has been in existence long before we could discover that nursing, teaching and social work are not the only disciplines available post standard ten. Our fore-mothers had their homemade traditional skin lightening mixtures which till this day continue to serve their purpose at utmost best in some parts of my land.

‘Yellowness’ is proving to be grade A prestige in my land for it is associated with the desirable amount of beauty; beauty which grants a lady adequate attention needed to make her feel lovely inside. That is why African women, for the longest time, have wanted (and still desire) a skin tone of this sort.

This is where the adventures of ‘chasing’ come into our black lives. ‘Chasing’, mind you it is not English but could be thought of as a simile to skin bleaching, except this method is likely to be the works of some cheap chemicals that guarantee the user a damaged skin, in the long run.

Chasing is also an exhausting process, it requires you to never for a moment neglect it, otherwise, darker days shall be all over you like an annoying mosquito in the summer nights of the moist KZN land. And to make it worse, you’ll be more darker than when you first started the process ‘yok-chaser’

Now the thing is, I’m dark and as if that is not enough, I battled the fight against resistant skin acne. So everywhere I went, as a teenager, I would find a stranger prescribing me some form of medication or ritual I needed to perform to overcome a seemingly endless war. As a result, I’ve swallowed pills which refused to go down the esophagus and tried ninety percent of the skin products on the market.

I really thought the prescription process was over, to my despair, I’ve recently been prescribed a skin lightening cream mixture which is to brighten my skin’s tone and make me look ‘beautiful’. I was flummoxed. I wasn’t sure whether to chuckle or burst out in tears. I was however very concerned.

My people are overly obsessed with running after the fair skin tone, in a world where the colour of your skin is ought not to define your beauty nor your altitude. I mean it could be, to a certain degree, understandable that my foremothers envied a skin colour of this sort. However, we are not bounded by those laws anymore.

Henceforth, why do we invest so much time in depreciating the things we have through processes which endanger our lives? Why do we constantly seek contentedness on catalysts that can completely rearrange (usually for the worst) our normal living conditions?

I’m well aware of the black stereotype that if your skin tone is darker, by default, you’re ugly. I learnt that as a kid. My own black people told me so through the nursery rhymes they sang as they delicately held me in their warm loving hands. It is deteriorating that when you’re a kid and dark skinned, ‘umubi’ [you’re ugly] is amongst the first words you learn to utter.

As a toddler, I knew black wasn’t beautiful or adequate. Somehow I feel as though I’m still stuck in the era where your skin tone is questioned by your own people. Your own people oppress you for the way you were created. They inflict words in your vocabulary that make you question the purpose of your appearance.

Moving forward, as you stare unto a mirror which presents to you your yellow-bone(ness) that is globally worthy of embrace, remember that really dark skin toned child who sits besides you, longing for you to instill in them confidence that will not be penetrated by the spiteful phrases of societal beliefs. It is a plea, make them feel as beautiful as you do.

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

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.

Mistakes are Okay but not Everything is a Mistake

From where I am sitting, we have become a world fond of creating stumble blocks for our own feet to trip on. When the inexorable time to fall flat on our faces comes, we are unlikely to admit that it is the fruits of our ingathering. We are so quick at pointing fingers, jumping high preaching that it is nothing but a pure mistake. It is in us, we do not take the blame especially when the results of our actions have turned even the beautiful of moments sour.

I was on a bus the other day. The gentleman I sat next to at the transit lounge gently asked to sit next to me when we boarded the bus. I looked at his reddish eyes after listening to his suspicious voice and said nothing. When the bus arrived, I quickly headed for the loo. Brother man said he’ll save a seat for me next to him. He’ll be seated on one of the front rows, due to his height which would not allow for knee relaxation on the other seats. I did not pay much attention to that.

I boarded the bus, brother man is already seated there, FRONT seat and waiting for me. I do not know whether I took more than the time he had estimated, for as soon as I sat foot on the bus, he grinned so wide – the kind of smile which a child after going missing for a minute in a busy supermarket wears when found darting about by their mother in a sweets isle. He recollected himself so as to make way for me but my eyebrow rose in disconcert. I passed him as though I did not see his whole existence. Excuse me! I was not going to sit in front as if this was a physical science lesson on motion and the so ever draining Sir Newton Laws.

I guess it’s true; some people do not give up that easily. They push boundaries – just a little, sacrifice themselves – once in a while and choose discomfort in hope to find it in the future, for brother man followed me to my seat. The journey began, so did his lame conversation attempts, he asked me out, requesting my cell-phone number every split second. So every split second I surrendered to the duty of telling him that he must be patient, I will give him my numbers when I (note the caps lock) saw the need to do so.

Since he was so interested in me and my almost non existing love life, I took the same root. No, I was not interested in him but I figured it would make the bus ride more enjoyable. The conversation had gone from lame to okay let me give you my ear and loosen my grip from the world of instant messaging and giggles. I had been hearing the resonance of his deep, creaky suspicious voice in my ears. As soon as I placed my phone on my lap and looked in his direction, he seated upright, began to pull his face together which made him more unpleasant to look at. So my eyes darted about, avoiding direct contact with any feature as I will pull a face and he will know what I think of him and his reddish (kinda ‘m high) eyes.

His annoying voice breaks in and he begins a self-introductory like the one you do in grade one except he would have earned himself a 2/10 due to the loop holes it had. In my convoluted nods, before I could throw a question or two to help me understand, he admits to amongst other roles to have fathered a daughter – this was meant to be an act of honesty, from him to me. He tells me about his sincerity and how meaningful he wants ‘US’ to be [typical, I think].

He had asked me if I had a partner. Well I did not and still don’t have the kind of partner he was referring to. I told him the truth. His eyes seemed brighter and more alive, his face blossomed. I do not know what he was thinking but it was sure doing his appearance a marvelous favour.
From then on, this is how it went;
Do YOU have a partner?
Brother Man:
Eeee hmmm
Okay by this time I already knew the answer.
Brother Man:
Yes I do but….
Yes I did cut his deep suspicious voice.
Do you love her?
Brother man desperately ignores the question.
Brother Man:
Ay, why are you asking me this?
Why are we even talking about her?
He is bluntly ignoring the question but [jerks] that is not how you would escape this girl. So I casually repeat my lovely self. I did the repetition three times then the answer came, in an even lower voice than the one I was now accustomed to.
Brother Man:
Yes, I do love her.
My heart was glad. Do they still come with honesty instill in their inner beings, wow!
When are you going to marry her?
You have a child together right?

He gave me a lame answer, mumbling something about marriage being something that ‘just’ happens because of some luck one has. My mind instantly thought “who fumbles such nonsense at this man’s age, sies!” Brother man went on… He hadn’t made any plans to marry the girl of whom he had given the duty of a mother to but he loved her (so he admitted). Ladies I wish we had the guts to set the record straight from day one, we could curb so many unnecessary deeds, including the on going cycle of single motherhood.

He had in his mind this absurd idea that you do not in any way prepare for the coming of marriage in your life. If you have not prepared to accommodate beautiful accomplishments in your life, then you have made it clear that you do not want them to manifest in your life. I asked a lot of questions, bluntly because he had set fire to where they rest and I could not contain them.

The question which he appeared more allergic to was; “why did you have a baby?”. He of course answered like most stupid fools; “it was a mistake”. Say what? I was set ablaze! Literally. Do you know what a mistake is? You do not get naked with someone, touch them and be united with them on that level and thereafter claim the product of your action a mistake, NO! Sex is an agreement, whether written down or not, it is an engagement communally elicited from its sleep by its par-takers. If you do not plan on having a baby, don’t have sex especially if it is not protected and or carried out in accordance with contraceptives.

I hate it when we have to call our intentional actions, mistakes. We are always running away from the fact that WE made impulsive choices which in turn yielded awful circumstances for ourselves that could have been avoided if we took necessary precautions. We never acknowledge a fault especially if we are the cause of its eruption – we seek anything that we can hold liable.

In these instances, kids become a mistake which we out of lack of choices accept. We are stupid! We are so likely to take advantage of the voiceless and shove the blame onto their faces for they lack the ability to tell us our truths.

The time to conceive unplanned babies is over; technology has made things for us fairly easy and bearable, the time to call kids a mistake is outdated. Contraception if you cannot abstain. Mistakes are accidents; NOT having unprotected sex. Leading yourself to a baby which you are financially and emotionally unfit for is not a mistake. Let us grow and halt the game of playing victims of circumstance.

We need to plan for our lives; prepare for what we want while we work towards it. Let us not allow life to keep throwing bomb shells of surprises every now and then. We cannot deny the existence of shortcomings, however, let us know what we want and have a plan on how to execute it. Do not prepare to utter negative words, rather prepare to receive the works of your executions. Whatever the case might be, let’s strive to make the appropriate decision.

Let’s Gather OUR Families – A Connectedness Approach

This is a sentiment evoked by a television show I recently watched. They were strategising the construction of practical ideas which can reduce hooliganism in townships. Societal issues always trigger my attention for I have so much to yet invest in my people. I am aware of their strength and power as I have more than once off-loaded my heavy heart unto their hands and danced to the sounds of their joy. Wherever I go, I always know, their struggle is my struggle and their tears are my anguish. So it’s natural that when they are infected, I pay more than the required attention, to analytically gather solutions to sufferings.

Hooliganism would briefly be characterised by many as notoriety. The strategies to defeat this ‘notoriety’ were based on approaching and turning hoodlums into economically viable society individuals. I observed that these solutions were limited to sport recreational activities. I also noted that the methodology applied by grown-ups in phenomenon’s which young individuals combat is not well suited for both parties to understand and execute for favourable outcomes. The gap in both parties lifestyle is to take the blame, parents become overwhelmed by fear that in spite of raising their kids well, history might repeats itself and their beloved kids might find themselves in the same or worse complications that THEY battled with. Parents are always trying to protect their kids from the problems they haven’t yet faced. This in turn becomes an extreme vexation for youngsters as they want their own experiences so as to explore who and what they are.

In my perception, hooliganism is more than just – oversized t-shirts, underpants revealing baggy jeans, overly explicit language, engagement in criminal activities and finding pleasure in music with foul language. These are just some of the effects of the real disorder. The core syndrome as I see it is emotional starvation. These people lack love, attention, affection, appreciation and acknowledgment from the people they hold dear to. When somebody’s well-being is emotionally enfeebled, he/she is in battle with the functionality of the world they occupy. Hence the individual is driven into emotional vulnerability and is prone onto informed decisions in proceeds for emotional breakthrough. Hooliganism in turn serves the purpose to overly apprehend this vulnerability and estrangement; it provides a safe-house for the emotionally vulnerable.

Teenagers have a complex way of gathering thoughts and understanding ideas. They operate in a completely different realm to that of their parents. They might grow in a similar environment and experience almost the same situations but their reception and reaction to the encounter will be different to that of their parents. We must understand that we are not coded to react to problems similarly. This encounter has proven to be challenging for parents when it comes to helping their kids deal with problems. They are unable to reach a bridge of flawless communication and understanding. Parents do not always consider that kids have different needs the same way as people. People are different, kids are also people and that makes them different too, therefore, it is out of prudent to treat and raise your kids in a similar fashion, probably one of them needs more attention that the other.

I’ve read a few factual books on serial killers and found a common link between them and hoodlums. Most, if not all serial killers have had a deranged up-bringing; they came from broken families, families that lacked a solid foundation and structure. It is either there was abuse (in all aspects), negligence or otherwise the kid was bullied at school and the parents were so immersed in their own lives to notice. I’ve also found the exact same aspects to carve hooliganism. Usually teenagers will lack a voice at home – no one is willing to listen, care, nurture or make them feel loved, accepted and part of the family. Hence they venture into other activities more togetherness orientated such as hooliganism, where they will feed on their hunger for love, protection but most importantly a voice. They engage in such so as to find the fundamental family connectedness which they lack.

Before the sporting activity ventures to halt hooliganism, I would focus on building the family structure. Families should engage in activities that draw them towards each other, there should be enough hours dedicated to family time so as to increase ties which are meant to connect families. Every member of the family should find comfort, strength, motivation, appreciation and love at home before anywhere else. Everyone’s presence at home should be acknowledged and appreciated. An individual should be comfortable at home to freely express him/herself without fear of judgment and degradation. I believe that if our families are a source of strength, we would not feel the need to seek fulfillment outside the family institution. The number one ingredient in societal problems is family trusses which have dire loop holes. Don’t make home a foul place for your family members, give them love, support, credit where its due, and let them be aware that you’re there for them.

We are human beings and emotions carry us. When we feel that our emotional realm is not satisfied, we engage in acts which the society deems as “attention seeking” whilst it’s just our way of blowing a whistle notifying people that we need emotional support. We live in a world where people are emotionally scared and for that reason we find ourselves in this world of crime, terrorism, drugs and so forth for people are in veagence to heal their wounds and they do this in notoriety (so as to cover the emotional scars of wrath and inferiority) to attract superiority and command.