2014 Chronicles: The Year of Drama.

Twenty years of freedom, much has changed and much still remains black and white like the monochromes which are really big and quite annoying (to a certain large extent) if you ask me this year.

After our rallying, staring at the votes being tallied, recovering from the shock of Gareth Cliff’s departure on national radio and ushering Lindiwe Mazibuko into her MBA journey, it was only appropriate to focus on things that were sidelined last year: booty. It comes with no surprise that the bum was in the leading front especially considering that ‘twerk’ found its way into the Oxford dictionary.

Besides the butt though, side chicks were also a very popular subject on #blacktwitter. Most if not all girls were declared side chicks by their tweets or avatars. We went on talking or trying to pin point side dishes but never really had a chance to dissect the subject of side chicks or their  undeniable and not fully understood or ‘accepted’ role. So the subject is still somewhat hanging.

Boitumelo ‘Boity’ Thulo did not only trend for her booty but she sadly trended for having worn the exact same dress as Mama Rebecca Malope, a gospel artist whose probably 30+ years her senior at the South African music awards. Fashion critics say Boity needs a stylist because even her Channel O music awards dress looked like something my mom would have bought at ‘Sales House’ donkey years ago. But that was all none of my business like the very Kermit who took our social media platforms by a hardcore truth which remains none of his business till this day.

Another unbelievable chronicle was that of Linda Sibiya, one of the greatest indigenous language radio jocks of my time being fired from the biggest radio station in Africa – Ukhozi FM without explanation or a send off party. No one was ready for this, it was one of those ‘now you hear me, now you don’t’ moments that leave nothing but unanswered questions behind.  

And then there were some background concert organisers failing to bring Nicki Minaj to South Africa. I’m not sure what’s the story there but it was an epic fail nonetheless.

Onto more serious chronicles; the death of the ‘legendary’ Eddie Zondi. It was a great loss for South African radio especially those who knew him and those who thought they knew him through the wonderful technology that is radio waves. May his soul find everlasting peace. And we’re glad that no loose cannon emerged from twitter claiming to have been carrying his child like it happened to Trevor Noah.

Let’s not forget the biggest beef since the west-side and the east-side saga; the Cassper Nyovest and AKA rival, remembering that we don’t quite know how it really started but the gun blazing subtweets and punchlines are definitely noticeable and a game changer (or a dosage of annoyance).

Another drama this year was that of our girl Bonang B* Matheba and Poppy coconut Ntshongwana, ladies we know a smack down happened there and hairs were pulled we just wish someone had caught it on camera for our eyes to witness. However we’re so glad that y’all sealed that deal with a selfie. Y’all deserve a crown.

Speaking of crowns, Thuli Mandonsela did not only gain momentum in the social scenes but she became famous and a role model. She now has a few awards under her pile of investigations. Congratulations Thuli.

I hope for as long as we live, we won’t forgot Judge Thokozile Masipa who unexpectedly gave us a lesson on law. She failed dismally because we’re still in the dark about ‘dolus eventualis’ and why Oscar Pistorius is a culpable homicidis and not a murderer. Anyway, we know one thing; Reeva Steenkamp is dead because Oscar Pistorius shot her four times in a toilet cubicle. What a bustard!

Mbulaeni Mulaudzi. Rest in peace champion.

Oscar Pistorius unlike Shrien Dewani, finally going to jail where he rightfully belongs. The sad part is rumours of him getting ‘special’ treatment which somehow is not a surprise in this country of ours where money can speak louder than any words in most given scenarios.

EFF stirring the ship of havoc in parliament, I can’t really tell whether this was the beginning of change or the commencement of a joke that is now our parliament or perhaps validation that we’re indeed a banana republic. Either way I now totally get where Baleka Mbete’s phuza face stems from. The nearest shebeen would be anyone’s first stop after calling grown ass people who refuse to obey into order.

By the way, ‘Black Twitter News’ is still going strong if you’re interested on something new.

In all the adventures that Julius Malema is to embark on, I hope he doesn’t forget that Fikile Mbalula is ‘Mr Miyagi’ to him. Speaking of Mbalula, I hope he gets the social butterfly of the year award at the feather awards.


I don’t have the updates about the boycotting of woolworths which turned into the boycotting of pick ‘n pay, many South Africans, who are convoluted like me, don’t really understand the theory behind the two boycotts and aren’t even bothered about studying it either for they happily continue flooding the stores especially this time of the year.

Ebola, I’ve got no words for this culprit the same way I have no words for TB Joshua and his church of all nations.

The death of Senzo Meyiwa (may his soul rest in peace). That was sad and created an amphitheatre of speculations, finger pointing, tantrum throwing and tons of swearing. The cherry on top was as created by social media platformist’s #notsenzosdad and the #samfie. Social media platformists, especially #blacktwitterists and #blackfacebookers went buck wild.

#Bringbackbhekicele sources haven’t yet confirmed whether social platformists are bored of Piyega’s blank stares which are always accompanied by a residing hairline or they are just fed up with her inability to be proactive. Either way, its christmas on the 25th and each of you is liable to a gift which you are to purchase with your hard earned peanuts.

Steve Hofmeyr claiming that ‘blacks’ were the architects of apartheid. I really can’t say if he’s smoking something bad, needs to un-Steve himself, or its just his brain cells deteriorating. Anyway, that twar (which somehow landed in court) with our adopted #blacktwitter news anchor ‘Chester Missing’ was unnecessary Steve and will never un-Steve your boer racist ass.  

Gareth Cliff saying Senzo Meyiwa didn’t deserve a state funeral. We acknowledge and most importantly appreciate the practise of freedom of speech but not when we’re still in practice of our freedom to moan. Locate your chill Gareth please.

We usually throw tantrums, especially in January when we realise that we were not only generous with food but with the money to send kids back to school on that aunt who only comes to visit once in ten years as well. The ANCYL did us some marvel by throwing chairs, whether this was to determine the chairman or express dissatisfaction, its still not clear.

Kelly Khumalo, did some of y’all expect her to hibernate after Senzo Meyiwa’s death even though she has a sizzling single? You might not like her but ‘asinne’ is a dope track.

The come back of the secretly anticipated #GenerationsLegacy. What a confusing first episode, I guess its true what they say, anticipation is the bearer of the greatest disappointment. The second episode was much better so for that reason, we shall drink to hopefully more exciting episodes.

2014 chronicles are not chronicle enough if Eskom remains unmentioned. Let me just say this, Eskom you really, really suck but I kinda like the load shedding in shopping centres simple because it represents a good projection on my bank balance, until your projected 13% increase on electricity tariffs kicks in of course.

I hope Cassper Nyovest and Amanda Du Pont’s kiss seals the deal for much longer than the Mamphele Ramphele and Helen Zille kiss. Speaking of which, compatriots, where is Agang?


***For general enquiries sake, the above chronicles are in anything BUT chronological order of occurrence because when things happen in my country, there’s everything but chronological order.

The Month-end Township Prayer

I’ve never lived in any renowned township or any fully fledged township either. But I have visited one if not two well recognised townships of my beloved rainbow nation.

With my observing techniques, I can without a doubt tell you that month end is a big deal in townships, not only because the thieves are out in numbers or because a group of females paying a visit to the neighbour’s house across the road is a suspected secret stokvel meeting but the mood on the streets is on a level of a different kind.

There are very short mini-skirts here, beers passing from one hand to the next there and a neighbours kid knocking on a door asking for their mother’s long overdue ‘parcel’ over there.

The jukebox is playing all the songs with a heavy bass line, inducing dance moves from the little kids playing on the streets. The spaza shop that is slowly turning into a tavern is opened for twenty four hours and by dawn, you’re bound to hear some off-tune gospel hymns sang by the now very drunk citizens.

Kombi’s are working overtime (read speeding) and giving very little if any damn at all about the potholes, your groceries spilling out of grocery bags or your head bumping the kombi’s roof everytime the kombi makes contact with a speed hump.

Gossip ring leaders are camping outside their mother’s houses scanning every passerby, their outfit, what they’re carrying and have a feast out of their personal story or just create one if there isn’t any.

Loan sharks are on every corner making sure no one crosses their line.

However, everything that happens in townships, even the ones who struggle to be townships, is the prayer of most if not all township dwellers.

This prayer is either prayed internally or in pure action, never out loud;

Our month end who is at the end of the week, hallowed be thy weekend, thy drunkenness come, thy will be done on Friday immediately after work. Give us the long queues, including our beloved KFC and forgive us Edgars for your bills will remain in arrears. Our kids shall knock on doors of those who owe us ‘parcels’. Lead us not into mashonisa’s den but deliver us at the nearest shebeen. For yours is the hangover on Sunday, skipping church and trying to catch up on sleep. The realisation come and thy weekend vanished with our money. Roads lead to ‘Pep loan’ (Capfin) for partying to ‘towner‘ has left us forgetting about our kid’s overdue school fees. We regret you for now and we shall eat bread with no butter until next month end come. Amen.

This prayer is another form of a ‘sad black story’ (there are many of those in townships of South Africa); many talents are never nurtured, too much time is wasted on nothing, skills are neglected, opportunities are missed and many (sometimes unnecessary) debts are created due to a variety of things including inferiority complex and a lack in desire to seek relevant information. Hence we solely rely on a singular source of income that is not only dissatisfactory but never enough to sustain even an average living standard. This is a pit hole we need to rise above from at a much more faster rate than we’re doing right now.

Horrid Stories of a Terrified old-age Pensioner

A few weeks ago I went to visit my grandmother whose amongst many other illnesses is suffering from old age aches. My grandmother is one of those people who can be reserved or very straight forward, depending on which direction the sun rays are shining.

Due to tribal conflicts in the mid to late 80’s my grandmother moved from her place of birth to the city. After a very long while of being a traditionalist in the city, years of being home sick and enduring enough constraints from her passé ways, she went back to her place of birth like she never left. And to this day she proudly uses a candle as a light bulb and makes a washing line out of tress.

The sun was touching the sea shore as the taxi left the tarred road near Port Shepstone, leaving Louisiana behind. The gravel road and all its bare cracks after the heavy rains of the New Year greeted us with its openness. That taxi ride was like being on a car with a first time driver – instable.  

Finally we arrived; dusty, safe and somewhat sound.

I wasn’t shocked to see that electricity was still a dream here, for I knew more  than a decade and a half ago that they would never smell things which we previously disadvantaged South Africans associate with the ‘new era’ – tarred roads, flush-toilets and nearby schools amongst other things.

On the other hand, I was very shocked to hear horrid stories of a terrified old-age pensioner.

As a person who grew up in this village, I have encountered, more than enough times, settings of all kinds of teenage pregnancy. I have also seen young boys dropping out of school for submitting to beyond the pale substances and later becoming young men who petrify the villagers, with the elders taking a greater strain from this.

In South Africa, there is a high rate of grandparents who mother their grandchildren due to many possible reasons, one of those being negligence. Therefore our elders as a country of people, who are likely to be brought up by grandparents, are a prestige.

I noticed amongst other odd things that my grandmother’s old and fragile body worried her as with bereavement and the assistance of two walking sticks she stood up and locked her door immediately after dawn. Dawn to my grandmother is the time when she has done her routine with her chickens, which will be any time after 5:45pm – unless weather conditions are not favourable for the chickens to be loitering at their own free will till sunrise. This was as equally shocking as it was awfully early to be locking doors in the rurals where crime hasn’t been of high regard. And traditionally, people spend most of their time in the veld with their doors left wide open at their homes.

As I questioned her on the situation, a can of worms feasting on each other disgustingly opened, with a bitter-sour taste, I let in a very distasteful tale.

With an almost close to a whisper voice and sharp focused eyes as that of a hyena whose about to feast on a carefree springbuck told me horror stories which till this day, I am struggling to believe.

At her last pension pay out, one of the people she usually exchange small talk with told her that one of their peers was found thrust to a tree in her yard with nothing but her bodice. Her old weary skin indicated that all of sun’s excruciating rays had had their time with her. She had been lifeless for a while. Her bedroom was broken into. The furniture showed that a major search had been carried out and the small box which served as her safe was smashed into pieces and all her old age pension welfare money had vanished.                  

Two days after that had happened; a man in his late 70’s was found with a rope on his neck. The rope had produced marks which had turned from red to navy blue, a clear indication of extensive strangulation. He was pronounced dead at the scene (which was his own home) with all his savings and half his pension pay out in one of those tiny bags old people usually keep underneath the clothes they wear –  gone.

Stories of this sort are common and there is also whispers of young men out to get the elderly’s pension pay-out immediately after it lands on their hands and killing them instantaneously so that they do not live to tell the tale, especially to the community nor the police officers.

As a South African whose been mugged more than enough times, I instantly felt her fear, the thumping of the heart when you know that you could be next, especially more so if you’re the primary target and your knees won’t carry you neither will your fragile body for without walking sticks, your body is your own burden.

I cannot describe the feeling of having your own child, who you bore and nurtured turn against you but I know the thrills of being brought up by your grandparents. The jolliness of having to share in your grandparent’s late life; the fun, the games, the laughter and the stories, it is blissful.

The other day I left for town with my grandmother. She was on her way to see one of her close friends that she was once young with. She was in hospital. Her grandson has knocked her unconscious with a shovel for her money was not enough to buy him these expensive branded shoes that teenagers can’t go without nowadays.

My grandmother locked herself early because one early night somebody paid her a visit. It was a man, who claimed to be blind and looking for a way to his house. My grandmother is uphill, where if you were lost, climbing up to her house wouldn’t be your option unless you have absolutely no option. This man said a surname that was familiar. It was of a man my grandmother knew and he had eye problems. But this was not the man. My grandmother didn’t open the door. The man left. And as he left my grandmother’s yard, she heard that the man was not alone, they were two of them as she peeked out her window.

This might happen again, she is not sure of the day and whether that day she will be lucky or gone. Each and every day, she lives with that horror. 

Every Little Bit Counts: A Story of Saving

Nowadays it seems the only way inflation prefers to travel is on that fast lane freeway best interpreted on an exponential graph, making it almost impossible for the already hard hitten people of this nation to save.

As such, our country is sitting on a disturbing 67 percent of adults who do not save. I prefer not to estimate the number of our young adults, distinctly students who’d rather drink their lives out than engage in discussions of saving. It is our truth, we find saving extremely challenging and easily avoidable. Exceptionally so now that unemployment rate is on the rise and a stable, decent income is a rare luxury to come by. However, it does not take away from the fact that saving is vital and a culture we should by all means habitually practise.

Through these tough times, it has became a necessity to notably distinguish amongst other things that ‘a little can go a long – really long way’ more so if you’re an average – which is likely to be a low income earner. If you save specifically in the midst of averages and low income earnings, you create the above average possibility to yield positive economical prowess for the world you occupy. I’d like for you to keep that in mind, for the sake of this tale I’m about to tell you.

The are quite a number of saving strategies devised for our own (not always) convenience. And in our average homes, we have our own saving strategies which of course may seem absurd from a distance – like partaking in stokvels which yield food enough to last the family (including the extended family) almost half a year. What is even more perplexing is that an average black kid, raised by a very average black woman might tell you the same if not a similar tale; a story of comparison, price negotiating, supermarket hopping, street crossing and queue standing. This is a story of shopping – the pursuit of saving.

Grocery shopping is something dreadful but yet very delicate in our average communities. Saturdays after pay days are also very important. And when your average mother decides this is a perfect day to send you to town for those anticipated fundamentals on the grocery shopping list, she accompanies you with a very precisely detailed note – think of it as an ordinance, comprising of the product you are to purchase and sometimes a specific brand too. Oh and you are definitely warned well in advance of its exact cost and the supermarket it is to be purchased at. Call that the planning in advance part of budgeting where exactitude is a high regard.

This shopping list by the way, is something you have to follow with the same ultraprecision the establishers of the ten commandments thought christians would abide to this decree. Otherwise!

You don’t want to know otherwise. Because otherwise could be anything from a hard-core slap across your face to an awfully awkward silent treatment. And if you think you’ll involve the ‘popo’, you shall find your self in the same state as Whitney Houston in 2003 except you’ll still be a stupid, weak, foolish girl. For your sake, promote peace and harmony and stick to the list.

In town, mind you its that dreadful saturday after pay day in this old-fashioned, tight-knit urbanites playground and everybody came out to submit to their monthly commitments. It is over-crowded. Kgebetli Moele could very well deem this ‘another sad black story’; every supermarket, every bank and every ATM has such a long queue you’d swear we’re all after the finale of food and money on this earth. Taxi drivers take advantage of this, in many ways than one.

Remember why you’re here; the ordinance. It needs to be fulfilled. Take it as the golden ticket to your peace – the absence of scolding. The ordinance by the way is also consorted by a fee that, lo and behold, you are to stretch until every commandment is fully carried home in a plastic bag which its price was somehow not included on this fee. Cuss that intellect who approved the idea of selling us grocery shopping bags.

The road to riches. The path which leads to wealthiness (for some) is a very tough one. It is envied by all and its destination is desired by everyone. Life, being a jolly spectator of melodrama and spirals of confusion continues to hide this road from us.

The Pursuit of Saving - A Little Goes a Long Way

The Pursuit of Saving – A Little Goes a Long Way

When I saw this, I laughed. You know the kind of a past joyful memory relived type of laugh. Then I remembered, something I was indirectly taught; regardless of its quantity, a little goes a long way and wealth – even though it may seem infeasible is accumulated every single day.

Competition Gone Completely Wrong – A Township Tale

We buy nothing that has no name attached to it. We purchase everything that’s beyond the normal price tag. Maybe our whole life is untrue, for everything we do is a show off. It doesn’t matter when we sleep on an empty stomach, as burning money to ashes means a lot for our street credit. This is foolish in your eyes but you’d one day comprehend, for the immense competition that we’re in, is no child’s play.

Everything we engage in is driven by the desire to come out more than victorious. Competition lives in the air we breathe. It swings back and forth within our daily sufferings and accomplishments. Competition drives in us ambitions to constantly remain undefeated and it has the capability to give joyful tingles down a spine like those encountered by a cat in possession of the creamiest of creams.

Sometimes competition becomes a quest to hold a title for being the best at things one is yet to accumulate. This act escalates the competitive bar so high that the competitor is found drowning in boiling water because when competition is at hand necessity becomes more than just a mother of inventions and variety is revealed as nothing but a sour spice of life.

Township lifestyle is probably the most glamourised, verily enticed and a must never miss lifestyle if you ever hit our so called home ground. Township dwellers of this country pride themselves as the most trendy and the originators of everything including life itself. A place where sometimes struggling is embraced as it is ought to bring a better tomorrow.

These dwellers always feel the need to prove to you that they are the strongest of individuals for they’ve endured what you shall never understand. And for that reason, they consider themselves the most informed about life and its applausable short comings that you’d be damned not to see them in their territory.

EKasi (directly translates as home, but it would mean township to you), is the common word to describe our home ground and is directly linked with rawness. This is probably the same coarseness which rendered our fore fathers victims of demeaning job titles. However when people from eKasi flourish, part of eKasi blows vuvuzelas, beams with its best smile, for it means even though Kasi and its dwellers are associated with dirt and nothingness, they are able to flourish regardless.

Well I’m not from eKasi, I hail from a neighborhood where there was no electricity (till this day the village is brought to light by candles) and we had to fetch water in a tap about 1.5km away. I’m not just rural, I’m the kind of girl whose fun was found in traveling miles to fetch firewood, whose joy was expressed in doing laundry in flowing river waters. The kind of girl who earned her childhood education in walking approximately 10 miles everyday. The girl who learnt to put up fire before she could write her name, the little girl who knew how to chase a chicken from the yard just for super.

As a rural girl, I’m told; I can only apprehend hardships of urban life after I’ve been Kasi certified (that’s to learn township customs). If you’re not aware, well allow me to bring into your consciousness. A culture which sees its roots in the townships is given appraisal in this country for I guess those are the people seen as incapable of achieving or attracting greatness that is worthy of any fruition. I also guess that’s where the need for these township bred individuals to always shout out the name of their township comes from.

Which brings me to the topic on the table; s’khothanes, these to you will be individuals who are possessed with enormous insanity that they choose to burn their branded items just as a show off of how much they really have, thus the name skhothane (that’s Joburg Zulu for showing off, KZN people might know it as is’chomane).

If you’ve roughly taken a journey around townships, you’d notice that you are what you’re wearing. What you wear, if you’re a township dweller must do more than just cover your body. It must tell us the amount of your worth. This obsession of branded clothing has given Spitz and the Carvella brand enormous recognition eKasi.

In townships, the shopping bag you carry must speak in volumes through the name of the store it was manufactured for, the worth of that store enable its bag carrier the ability to walk like a billionaire. Branded clothing is particularly big on males as though with time ladies have caught up and take to indulge in branded wear.

Competition in township is like those small leather-like leggings on big thighs – very tight. The neighbors are always in competition. If one of them has a broken window and chooses to replace it, the next door neighbor will have their window glasses renewed just to prove (usually there’s nothing of value that needs to be proven other than superiority). That’s how important it is, its a superiority game.

As I’ve seen it, the s’khothane movement developed through pressure of the state and level of the competition culture in townships. There was a need to acquire a status and obtain to keep the cup of being not only the best dressed but as the most moneyed individual (or group) too. Township competition is a serious business, people end up in debt and sometimes behind bars, its not a endeavour of lightheartedness.

The s’khothane movement took South African’s by storm. I guess we weren’t aware or maybe chose to ignore the magnitude our greed can transverse. For parents the shock was accompanied by fear of how this newly formed movement will overflow into their own territory, their kids. On the other hand it was due to questions that rose and people wondered how can individuals who are seen as severely disadvantaged have so much money to waste.

S’khothane’s is now a movement by individuals with shared attitudes who believe in a lifestyle and thus engage in activities which fulfill the mandate of who/what they choose to be. If successful (if not already), this movement will manifest as a fully fledged pop culture with more affiliated members, raising the blood sugar levels of many parents in this country.

Contrary to many movements that see its roots on the streets, the s’khothane movement has received the worst most negative media coverage in its rise. I doubt that its partakers were taken aback by this negativity rather they saw it as fuel to continue going and causing more disgust to those who feel the need to rebel against its existence.

As it suggestive that there is nothing doable about young individuals who are encompassed by a movement that’s deteriorating to their success or future, we hope that they with time grow out of its bondages as something of this extreme is beyond bearable in this country. I would also in our waiting and hoping, wish we find the urge to resist negative competition and unnecessary peer pressure that embodies our community.

The grass needs to be stopped from growing under our feet, humanity is an act we have to practice in unison for the sake of what we could achieve tomorrow. The mentality we carry does no justice to our image. We do not only need to be struck dead in our tracks by the horrific encounters of our society, we also need to act upon it.

The s’khothane saga is not a township illness but rather a problem that is staring all of us in the face for answers and we need a well informed approach that will spring positive fruits for us as a nation, for if we’re negligent this non terminal illness will get us out of the frying pan and straight into the fire in a split second.

Love, Hate and Justin Bieber

the Bieber is interviewed - bieberism movement.

the Bieber is interviewed – bieberism movement.

Justin, preparing to drive the beliebers wild - as he is prone to

Justin, preparing to drive the beliebers wild – as he is prone to

‘It’s either you LOVE me or you HATE me’ it is an undeniable truth that the 19 year old Justin Bieber has experienced both sides of this phrase. There is an ‘I hate Justin Bieber club’ on Facebook for the dedicated haters of Justin, those if given the change, would shred Mr Bieber into thin pieces of nothing, whilst there is a Tumblr blog: ‘I am a Belieber’ for the die-hard Bieber fever infected Justin Bieber fans.

I do not know the hold Mr Bieber has on people for its either they LOVE him insanely or they would rather have him buried alive. I’m not a fan of his music (something that could unite us) and I therefore don’t care much if he’s coming or going. I must say though, I’ve been looking at his pictures (like everyone else, and he sure is blessed with looks) simply because he seems to be a subject of interest for journalists and their headlines, one thing Mr Bieber does is remind me of that gentleman whose ‘stuck in the mirror’ with a suit and a tie – Justin Timberlake [the 20/20 experience is something to be experienced].

Justin Bieber looking for approval from the Biebs

Justin Bieber looking for approval from the Biebs

‘Jealousy makes you nasty’, that is partially true for jealousy does not only make you nasty, it also deems you a murderer of people that don’t even know you; since jealousy’s capability can stem all measures of evil.

Maybe he’s a jerk and maybe even a brat too but when I actually got to see for myself the amount of hate mail Bieber must be receiving every day, I started to wonder how reliable and secure his security and body guard system is. I mean no child of the universe should be receiving such ‘criticism’ from individuals who obviously did not study the philosophy of criticism (if such a course is offered) for they engage in nothing but degradation.

You hate somebody for what they’ve taken away from you, I wouldn’t know why Bieber is hated by those he has never met. Then again, I guess not everybody will like you even if you’ve done absolutely nothing to them. And in this case not everybody is infected with the Bieber fever.

Justin looking as innocent as a new born

Justin looking as innocent as a new born

It is a defamatory artwork that our hatred journeys to altitudes that our thoughts can only dream of. I always have little to say when matters of distaste towards people are on the table, unless of course I am really not excited about your existence and your previous appalling deeds and or you have stepped in my territory with your mighty ruthless gait that then propels me to throw in a sentence or two.

Bieber with his fashion statement on his birthday - shirtless!

Bieber with his fashion statement on his birthday – shirtless!

Maybe Mr Bieber has also stirred up repugnance from the people who have nothing but abomination to express towards him, and to a certain extent you wouldn’t blame them. How do you tolerate a teenager who has banked more than the money you’ve seen with your naked eye? How do you live in peace with a teenager who can literally buy you and your every bit?

Emotionally attached Bieber

Emotionally attached Bieber

You’re not one of the wealthiest teenagers in the universe nor the most watched by paparazzi youngster, so maybe you can just be a little envious. The idea of you in possession of Justin’s wealth will lighten not only your worries, but it will add a few necessary required zero’s on your bank balance, and we both know how a smile and generosity is automatically yielded by those extra naughts. Otherwise Bieber wouldn’t be worthy of being a subject of disinterest in your sometimes unspoken conversations which occur when you come across his name, which at the peak of the man’s career, it’s likely to be every split second.

It is an undeniable sad truth; we walk with abhorrence on our shoulders, we house disgust in our hearts and our thoughts constantly yield death for one other. All this hate on Justin Bieber is a revelation to me that if you have what people desire, they will ultimately hate you and wish death upon you, thinking that if you die, what was yours will automatically land in their hands.

It has finally been revealed unto me; sometimes people want you to dwell in the midst of daunting, sane confiscating void so as to share and experience the same wrath as them. They are like vessels, except instead of emptiness, there is anguish and revulsion however they still make the loudest of noise.

Justin taking the beliebers to a trance

Justin taking the beliebers to a trance

The beliebers, the biebs those infected with the Bieber fever and drowning in bieberism (anything having to do with Justin Bieber), now these people will stand with Justin Bieber through hate tweets, backlashes about the sometimes not appropriate teenage behavior of the Bieber himself. Before you tweet anything about Justin Bieber make sure it is only good for you shall encounter a swarm of biebs in the defense of the Bieber if you choose otherwise.

Justin on a cover of a magazine I wouldn’t mind being on myself



I can bet you 10cents, you were not on the list of the 53th Grammy nominees, nor did FORBES magazine name you the third most POWERFUL celebrity in the WORLD. One thing that sets you apart from the ‘all around the world’ heat singer is little things, like you not having self-acclaimed critiques dissecting your every move, even if it just an innocent sneeze in public, so face it, even though it’s a hard pill of honesty to swallow, Justin Bieber is a BIG deal. Whether you love him or wish he was your son, truth be told, he is not going nowhere. If you have found association with his music, good for you. If however, you don’t find him worthy of being a subject of interest to anyone then I suggest you keep that to yourself and focus on the things you could do right in your life, for bieberism hasn’t gotten the better of you.

Justin Bieber I wish you all the best as you try to ignore the haters by embracing the love that the biebs are giving to you. You have embarked on a tough journey and I hope you have the strength to endure and sustain yourself.

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.