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No Love Located

But still you persist
And consistently want to be part of me.

I’m not afraid to love.
But I am ashamed of giving love to a human whom I thought was beneath my fabricated blissful life.

Yet you completely and unreservedly love me.
Fabrication and all.

Cynical and fear bound.

I starve the poor soul of my existence in hope that she’ll pack her bags and vacate my life with immediate effect. But sorrow and misery is effective immediately in MY life.

So, I reach out.

And still, in her authentic gift of extending affection unreservedly, she remains consistent.

Ashamed. I shudder. And think.

This is exactly the kind of love I need and deserve.
If only it came from the person I want to receive it from.

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Untitled…

Stuck in the inbetweens.
Hurt.
Angry.
Disappointed.
Ihleli ngentombi.
Can’t put ma fingers to it.

Ever noticed?
Hunger does that.
Plays with your mind. Heart. Feelings.
Cravings.
Especially when your pockets are unhealthy.
Bank balance empty.
Tummy just goes crazy.

Stuck in the inbetweens.
Hurt.
Angry.
Disappointed.
Ihleli ngentombi.
Can’t put ma fingers to it.

Ever noticed?
Love does that too.
Frees and shuts your thoughts.
Sends your heart racing in anger and awe.
Leaping and limping in one journey.
Especially when you’re hung-up; swinging from giving it all back to shielding all agony.

OMG!
Poverty does that as well.
Gives you hope and despair.
Fuels and depletes you.
Makes you want to hold on to and let go of things.
You’re sent to sleep in your own tears to be woken by someone elses sorrow.
You have insufficient energy to sufficiently suffice.

Stuck in the inbetweens.
Hurt.
Angry.
Disappointed.
Ihleli ngentombi.
Can’t put ma fingers to it.

Oh what the heck!
Cellphones do it too.
Typing and deleting. Smiling and frowning. Loving and holding back.
Time travelling yet in the present. Marriage. Kids. Inlaws. Yet you’re not even pregnant.
Dying batteries when conversations are eyeing climax.

Life is but the inbetweens
Finding solice in the strangest deeds
Loving the intricacies of being
Learning to be a human in need
Lovely and conniving indeed.

20-fit-in: A Very Happy Valentine’s Day to You

This message is dedicated to those who understand that forever lives but not in every occasion. These individuals understand that bonds break, things change, people grow but the heart’s capacity to love keeps expanding with every occurrence. Therefore their capability to love is not clouded by the occasional deep sadness which can seem eternal and ongoing.

I particularly wrote this post to pass a special message to people special enough to find themselves worthy of unquestionable love. And of course to rebel against those who see no specific need in selectively appreciating the one’s they hold dear to on this very valentine’s day.

Without withholding any love for you, I would like from deep inside my very ability to share love wish you a valentine’s day not short of a happy, beautiful, unapologetic, obsessive, mind-blowing, eyes glowing, smile showing, incredible polite, truly giving, strengthening, heart beating, hope giving, courageous, trustworthy, unconditional love.

I want to remind you that you deserve love because your main constituent is love. Your sole purpose is to love and share love. Hence do celebrate valentine’s day without fear or shame because in doing so, you’re nurturing and growing your heart (and someone else’s) to love more. You’re teaching the heart to be love.

These words are to remind you that love is above everything we’ve ever known. It is the only root that can bear strength and power when the tunnel gets too dark and the journey to destiny seems too long and hard to bare. Yes, along the way some bonds break and its honestly okay to drift apart because some things are long term but not quite forever. Just find new ways and continue to live in love with love for love.

A happy valentine’s day to every heart that beats love, every soul that gives love and every individual that unmistakably knows they are worthy to be loved regardless of their past, circumstance or sin.

Much Love
DevynStella

20-fit-in

Compliments of the season, I’m probably a tab bit late since some of us have gone back to work, hated it and loved it in the same day. However, I do hope that all of us have managed to implement strategies to take us closer to our dreams.

While the year was beginning and I was busy conceptualising and implementing my 2015 intentions, I realised that indians, besides the fact that they abhor sharing restrooms with black African people [they wait until it has been cleaned by a very black African – in all cases before entering the same loo] indians don’t quite fit in anywhere. According to them, they are not black and as we all know, they are also not caucasian. So as I have sensed it before, they feel like they are dangling in the middle of greatness (not quite reaching it) and tininess (almost touching it). Anyway let’s save this tea bag for another day. What I really want to talk about is association.

Since 2015 is dubbed by quite a large population of the year naming league as 20-fit-in, where do YOU fit in? I know I don’t fit most of the categories people of my standard (whatever that is) are meant to occupy. I remember late last year my indian colleague asked me what do I do with my salary [never-mind the connotations this nonsensical question comes with] because, according to her ‘many black girls go do their hair’. And since I don’t have hair (bald) what else could I use money for?. This is the same colleague that had eyes popping out in amazement when she saw that my under-arms were shaven because as she claimed she has never seen a black girl that shaves [feel free to excuse the ignorance of my colleague who has lived all 23 years of her life in a place where almost 80 percent if not more of the population is black Africans but has NEVER seen a single of them with shaven under-arms]. In all her attempts of trying to make me feel like an exclusive black, she failed dismally because the only thing I felt was being undermined, undervalued and regarded as inhumane because of being ‘black’.

Anyway… Getting back to 20-fit-in some kids will be fitting into first grade; touching school grounds for the very first time and learning to sit down and not scream ‘mommy I’m hungry’ whenever they want some attention. I can’t say it will be easy but I won’t say it will be difficult either. One thing I can tell you is that it will be confusing at some point. Sometimes (or most) you won’t see the point of the things you’ll be taught but it will all be great and worth it at the end of the day (unless you have homework). One thing I’ve decided not to fit into this year is a kombi, I’m just tired of arguing over a R1 one morning, waking up an hour early the other morning and I’m just sick of being squashed into the back seat in between people who have ten times the size of my hips (which by the way are almost only visible through binoculars).

One great 20-fit-in discovery I made this year though was drawing a conclusion (with the help of a book I was reading) to a question many black South Africans (myself included) have been asking since their emerged democracy (being very questionable); why is black South African history not included in the school curriculum? Well the answer to this question is the same as enquiring to your parents about their personal decisions that have gone wrong. They know the answers, you understand the answers but you still want them to admit they’re not perfect. Our own history is not taught in school because we people who have looked into it know; it fuels anger, it manufactures hate and it makes one realise that the ‘history’ that we’ve been taught is too twisted, too diluted and very untrue. The history which we’re meant to be taught is hidden, carved and shelved because in its true form lies a dark hurting truth; it leaves many unanswered questions. Our history if taught in its natural order of occurrence and truthful form, it can endanger our perceived already crumbling rainbow nation.

Anyhow, my greatest fit-in this year is my first taste of democratic freedom; moving into my apartment and out of my parents house for good (praise gawd). Doing more of me, answering to nobody. Darling it smells great, the true smell of democratic freedom and fresh paint. Happy new year to you, make 2015 great.

Much Love
DevynStella

Xmas in the Hood

There’s no christmas tree or a chimney. You won’t find grandfather frost or any snow man. There’s no going from house to house singing christmas carols or the serving of mince pies as dessert. Its very anormal (and quite disturbing for some) seeing a house with christmas lights and decorations. And just so you know in the hood, we have absolutely no use for christmas crackers and there is also not a single drop of snow just an abundance of sunshine.

You will find presents, they are just not in a stocking under some christmas tree. If you’re hoping for a delicious taste of some good fresh roast turkey, forget it. There is however a variety of tasty meaty dishes. You also have the option to have all of our most favourable salads (mashed potatoes, coleslaw and a beetroot salad) in one plate to form part of our rare ‘seven colours’ meal.

There’s a tradition of love, sharing and ubuntu but how each of these is practised lies solely to the specifications and desires of each household. One thing’s for certain is most urban dwellers return to their ancestral villages to taste that rare embrace only found in each ones roots.

There’s pure smiles, great laughter, through-back stories, catch-up conversations and a real great feast. If you’ve never celebrated christmas in a South African kasi style, I’m sorry to be the bear of bad news but you don’t know life.

We celebrate christmas in a way that only we know how. The christmas trees, decorations and santa claus does not form part of our christmas, its just something we see western people do on western movies and fortunately we haven’t made it part of our traditional way of embracing christmas but that doesn’t mean the commercial world has stopped trying to enforce it unto our lifestyle.

In the hood christmas means an excuse for the kids (and everyone else) to get new clothes, be swagged up and connect with loved ones. Neighbours gather around a table and exchange not only gossip about whose lost a lot of weight but share delicious homemade soul food. Kids walk on the streets to show off their new clothes. ‘Bakers choice assorted’ and a glass of expensive juice is what you get if you go to the neighbours for whatever reason. You also get to be invited for ‘christmas’ by that very friendly neighbour you haven’t seen in a while. And for once, you get to have a well balanced meal.

Christmas is mostly celebrated because it brings families together and love is the main purpose of the day. Some families start the day with a morning church service and others dive straight into christmas lunch preparations. At the end of the day, everyone just wants to be merry.

So still on that christmas(y) note; merry christmas to you, I hope you eat, drink and be very merry.

Dear Halloween

I’m not hundred percent aware if you know this fact but I have not the slightest clue as to how you made your way into my life and your intentions with me thereof. Either way, I think if you have plans of staying in my life, you better introduce yourself anew.

Looking from a very far distance, I can tell that the hood isn’t really your cuppa tea. I say this because I’ve never really seen you there and the ‘hood people’ don’t really know you or your purpose – if you have one that is. In fact they seem not to give a cent about you and the fact that you exist in some supposedly creepy dress-up party. And that’s really the business of this address.

I want to enquire about your guts, because by the looks of your eeriness, you seem to have a bus full of those.

I was rather taken by an unsettling spookiness when an email about you was on my work email address from my superiors telling me to make an effort to dress up for your I-don’t-really-see-the-need do. Darling me! I thought to my self.

Where did halloween come from that I’m now suddenly reminded to dress up for by the same people who didn’t bother to remind me about buying charcoal for braai day, dressing up for heritage day or even reminded my indian colleagues to dress up for their ‘diwali’.

I’m definitely not being told to dress up in some demonic looking outfit when there’s no pay cheque to match or a cake for that matter. Because amongst many other things this could put my life inside the gun line and I could end up enduring the life threatening eye of disapproval from my very born-again-christian mother who might in the process arrange me some counselling sessions with the pastor.

I don’t want to lie the I-will-penetrate through work via her wardrobe and straight into her life method proved that your guts are sprinkled with an overdose of confidence but truth remains, you’re not my cuppa tea especially because you have no solid roots that I can associate with.

Just so you know, I outgrew horror movies a dinosaur years ago and I find dress up occasions with an outfit you-will-never-use-again time consuming and financially unsound. As such, my understanding of your relevance (that’s if you’re even relevant) is peaking at zero-point-zero. Why are oversized off-ish, not so spooky and cut into almost creative shapes pumpkins the centre of your celebration? Wait…*palm hand*.

In a sweet, natural and very short format; halloween, what is your claim to fame? And why are you at my workplace over-working people’s imagination on unearthly outfits?

I am Not Ready to Forgive Oscar Pistorius

I can recall the first time I truly felt the spark and connection towards the treasure that soon became our heroic ‘blade-runner’; Oscar Pistorius. He ran like a beast. He made the race tracks seem like they were engineered solely for his fulfilment. He was the spectator’s inspiration. Our very own African dream.

Oscar without knowing, made watching the paralympics a proud moment for most if not all South Africans. I and many of my compatriots were very proud of him.

The 14 of February 2013 was a shock that due to twitter became a subject of comedy. I couldn’t believe it. Because Oscar could do no wrong even that murmur of him complaining about his blades, I couldn’t take that serious.

How could a harmless looking fellow be a woman killer? My head is struggling to make sense.

I didn’t know Reeva (I will never know her) or even heard of her before. There were pictures. She was beautiful and there was a sense of calmness visible through her face. Her pictures revealed a well thought-out, humble and loving soul. A woman more worthier than taking her last breath in a toilet cubicle.

The Oscar trial revealed quite disturbing news about our heroic blade-runner; a gun enthusiast, a bully and an anger fuelled man. This was a beast. A beast that out of God knows what, shot and killed a woman that ‘wish-fully’, had dreams to nurture and love him for the rest of his life.

The way I had felt about Oscar Pistorius the double amputee runner took a complete turn when I met Oscar Pistorius the culpable homicide convict. The passion was gone. The inspiration had disappeared and I could no longer look at him with adoration. I had been deceived, betrayed and convoluted. But most critically, I had overworked my imagination trying to make some sense of the situation in my head.

At some point, I thought Oscar would take time out of his then messy schedule and apologise. The same way he took time out to remember his twitter password to write inspirational words. But this time he would apologise to us, the people who never knew Reeva but loved and supported him; the people he unknowingly deceived and traumatised. But I hope he will see the need and clarify to us someday.

In my mind and heart, I can’t forgive Oscar Pistorius because besides the fact that he killed someone who had no means to escape the shots and then oddly screamed like a woman, his side of the story infuriates me more than it should put things into perspective. Secondly, Oscar is proving to be a lousy bugger that sees absolutely no business in ‘veritas’ and makes very little if any attempt at all to acknowledge his flaws.

Even though I pity him at this stage, I cannot picture Oscar running like he can, flying our South African flag high and passionately singing our South African national anthem in a certain paralympic game. My mind won’t allow it. And I’m ready to allow my mind to allow it.