This is a very popular word or let me just say a reinvented ‘phrase’ that has graced our South African youth’s lingo. The phrase’s roots and origins however, remain a series of convoluting tiny puzzle pieces that even Sir Newton would have neglected. For this reason, the phrase is widely misunderstood.
But what is swagga really? To understand this, we will need to first dissect this frog – swagg.
Swagg is shining dopeness, its cool redefined, exquisite freshness and all things pimpin’ in ya capacity. Catch ma drift?
And swagga is attitude, personality and swagg all stashed up in one fix.
You’re probably aint drippin’ swaggu if you think swagga is another one of ‘a youth gone astray’ type of movements. Swagga is a revolution, because it’s not televised, swagga is unclear.
Anyway such a very simple and sophisticated phenomenon does not need to be confusing.
Swagga is cool, it separates the imitator from the originator; it distinguishes pure genuineness from synthetic. It differentiates the winners from the epic losers. But most importantly, swagga sets apart a G from the wannabes.
But how do you know you’ve got some swagga up your sleeves?
I’ve compiled a list of 25 simplistic fundamentals to knowing whether you’re drippin’ swaggu or just errr plain you.
- If you’re dating one of your girlfriend’s exes, you have zero swagga and need a hard-core blow across your face just for control.
- When you leave your home without a pair of manners and a set of dignity, you are most definitely aren’t drippin’ of any swaggu that day.
- If you’re rude to a waitron, you not only deserve more bad days added unto you but the universe has served you with a cold plate of goose egg swagga.
- If you don’t know your HIV status, you’re not only freaked out about most inaccuracies but you’ve no swagga up your sleeves.
- If you’re an African but cannot speak nor understand a single African indigenous language, you only have ignorance and zippo swagga.
- If you have a big tummy but there is no baby growing inside it, you do not only need to love yourself some more but you also happen to have missed the swagga train.
- If you think people who went to university are rich or they have it easy in life, you aint swaggerific.
- If you make it a point to boo Jacob Zuma but did not register to vote, you’re playing a fruitless game and aint drippin’ swaggu.
- If you think getting a lady’s cellphone number means she’s officially yours, most importantly; you do not have swagga but you also qualify as an idiot.
- If you treat church as a fashion showcase, you do not only need Jesus but you also have nil swagga.
- If you’re having unprotected sex but have not planned for a baby, you do not have swagga and you will get STI’s.
- If you’re married but cannot keep your underwear for your partner only, you do not have swagga.
- If you’re still asking for cigarette money, you’ve no swagga at all.
- If you wear cheap cologne, you do not only induce sneezing but you’ve got not a pinch of swagga up your sleeves.
- When you’re texting and driving it does not only mean you’re small minded but you also have no swagga.
- If you wear see-through leggings and a crop top, you do not only look like a cheap hood-rat but you absolutely have zero swagga.
- Teaching your kids swear words before they can even write their names, does not only mean you need a mental institution, but you’ve also got no swagga.
- If you think when a woman says ‘no’, she means you can ‘carry-on-slowly’, you’re a definite zero swagga.
- If you still believe that being in the show business doesn’t require much schooling, you will not only end up a broke artiste but you’ve also have no swagga.
- Being stingy with information or past exam papers does not only mean you aren’t dripping of any swagga but this also reveals your masked idiocy.
- When you’ve worked your way to the top, you’re not only an inspiration but you’ve got swagga too.
- If you didn’t buy twitter followers, you most definitely have swagga.
- If you’ve graduated with Cum Laude, you’ve not only worked hard, but you’re drippin’ of swaggu.
- If you buy your own nail polish and lip gloss, you’ve got a 110% swagga game.
- If you know all the words to your national anthem, than you’re unquestionably drippin’ swaggu.
Get your swagga basic game on before you facebook, instagram or tweet lies about drippin’ swaggu.
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.
When this dance phenomenon hitshores for the first time, it literally left many jaws dangling on the floor. The nation tore into two, with a good half indisbelief whilst the other fifty percent’s eyes indulged the sexy bum shaking motion with appreciation.
Southis an where dance is fully appreciated, women with ‘assets’ are loved, the value of tradition and traditional values is not forgotten and it’s where media and modernity is still trying to find its place.
A considerable number of South Africans who value the integrity, respect and traditional upbringing they were brought up in find themselves electrified with shock, that a dance movement of such kinky element has publicly found a home in this country.
As if that shock isn’t paralyzing enough, South Africa is now home to the self acclaimed professional twerkers; the ‘Pro Twerkers‘. These ladies are blessed with a behind that will see you uttering in languages you don’t understand just by looking at it. I also heard that if you’re lucky to see them on stage, the amount of heat you’ll be releasing is enough to leave those around you thinking you’ve just stepped out of the roasting fire in ‘hell’. And apparently for your sake it is wise to have a leash handy just in case (which is likely to be more often than not) your imagination attempts running faster than a cheetah.
These ladies bounce their above average butts high and low, with an enough sensual vigour to leave you wondering if their mama is where they really got it from. As for that dripping sweat on your face, well, you’ll need ten tons of empty gallons for it.
The Pro Twerkers give Mrs Carter’s booty hop a run for its money.
As you can imagine, these ladies have received both love and hate mail. Those who show them love are not only fond of their bodies but also appreciate the sight of the work these ladies do.
It is absurd but I wish upon indulging on a listening class whereby an almost visually impaired, friendless, ugly glass wearing computer programming geek turned into boring lecturer explains to me the popularity of this sensual movement which is at the peak of its global widespread, making it the most popular move on the dance floors and one of the most talked about subjects on social media platforms.
I would gulp mostly the tiny extracts of this choreography’s origins as I still wonder whether it originated in Southern American clubs, Africa or New Orleans. I would prefer the longer theoretical version which I plan to do absolutely nothing about until the age of sixty where I will look intelligent and turn ‘cool’ in a split second to my grand-kids.
I will mention to my grand children who will sit, surrounding me as if enjoying a thrilling tale around a fire, that before I got introduced to twerking a seemingly non negligible amount of me desired to see what twerking was, for it hammered my twitter timeline in every update and made me feel under-informed.
At my convenience, or maybe belwiderness, my television set gladly introduced to me the mystery behind twerking.
To my jaw dropping surprise, twerking was a phenomenon which required the participator to bounce the butt and hips up and down in erotic motions, extremely suggestive manner causing jiggles and or a shake.
I stood motionless in front of a television set I looked into with eyes which seem to lose their sight. My throat immediately felt like a freshly poured glass of tap water. I knew that if I had asthma, I’d be suffocating.
Since that day I couldn’t help but notice the flooding of twerking home made videos on the internet. Ladies putting their twerking capabilities into practice almost daily like it’s a world competition entry requirement.
I would explain to these kids, which I pray do not drive me to tears with insanity, that life is the mother of changefulness and its main characteristic is unpredictability, hence, one needs to be strategic in all aspects. More importantly, you can be able to live fruitfully as an individual if you have the guts to choose specifically what influences you as much as you should be able to categorically know what does not influence you.
Many say, like any other dance type, twerking is a certain form of expression for not only hip hop influenced individuals and those with a behind enough to send Nicki Minaj for an extra implant on her bum, but it’s an expression that can be freely explored by your average girl next door, even though the big butt acknowledging advised that when you have a big booty the experience is more appealing for their pleasure, of course.
As for me, with an average bum, and many other silenced reasons, I wouldn’t be caught even on a twerking inducing hip hop track trying to pull a twerk.
With all that said and little done, I still wonder, could we be sitting arms folded in a freezing windy weather, sipping our hot chocolate whilst a dance phenomenon that we’re not fond of is being brewed? Can it mature its way into a fully accredited choreography or worse still a credit bearing subject at dance schools? The thought of it drives away my desire to raise kids.
Do not misinterpret me, for my withheld perspectives; I do not like twerking, specifically for my generation. However, anyone else who chooses to engage in it is still my blood from the other father (God that is).