Tag Archive | Death

Indeed, I Do NOT Walk Alone

I have been away for far too long, so long I forgot my password in the process. I was going through things I did not know I was going through when I was going through them and as such, it was confusing, dragging, draining and I just needed the phase to end. Fortunately for me it’s a beginning of completely newer phase. The life I had longed for in the darker hour is collectively becoming my actual life. It’s beautiful and unbelievable in equal measures.

It feels like I was away from everything, even this very world I live in and technically its true. Things seem to have changed in some cases; the streets that used to be hailed as dusty now have stinking shallow water puddles sitting on them that come from nowhere but are never go anywhere either. At the same time, things have stayed the same; a white lady walking into a bus selectively scans everyone inside the bus and almost without fail chooses a seat next to her white counterpart even if the seat next to that lovely lady of colour would have been a much better option.

Nevertheless, we continue breathing and pay little attention to pettiness because our generations deserve better options and the reasons we are here is to create those options in question without giving too much focus to unnecessary distractions.

During my time of absence, I could not do even the things I know I enjoy, writing for instance. Although I was alive, life had escaped me; I was suffocating but breathing. Some days were worse than others; I wondered, cried, slept less, did not eat enough, wondered, and cried some more. The more I tried to make it seem like I was okay, the more I knew I was not okay. Worse the feeling became.

I am back, with stories obviously because though I did not know it then, the eyes were still vigilant, mind open and the pen ready to do its magic with the paper. I am healed and happy. Thankful for the process whatever it’s called. One thing I am grateful for is knowing I do not walk alone; I have my whole clan (including you) looking out for me; the angels, both living and those who have lived providing and protecting me. That alone is a feeling I fail to properly express since it does to me things I cannot explain. It gives me overwhelming strength to continue representing them and those who will take over from me and continue the lineage.

This life thing is beautiful. We do not always see its beauty however its beauty is not taken away by our inability to see it. It soldiers on. I guess that is what we can learn from life; continue being the light even if our brightness is not always appreciated. So, let the stories continue…

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.

RIP Robin Williams

I have thought about death more than once. It could be lingering in my subconscious as you read but you’re allowed to overlook that because such thoughts are sinister encounters experienced by those who fail miserable to face life head on.

Depression is a serious issue and its a pity that our society sees it as ‘state of mind’ for the weakly.

I may have not known what Robin really battled with but I’m saddened that he couldn’t overcome it.

I can’t imagine the dark pit hole he found himself drowning in after a ‘magnificent’ day of making nations laugh.

The worst part about depression is that the sufferer tries so many times to internally and personally deal with it before the rest of the world takes notice. Sometimes people remain quiet because the stigma associated with the condition is so enormous you’ll only feel it once you personally suffer from depression.

I respect that through all your silent and spoken battles, you were still able to make others laugh.

Rest in everlasting peace Robin Williams and I pray that your loved ones have enough strength not to question your decision but love you always.

Dear Diary (17/10/13)

I read a story of another hard hitten soul today and I want to share it with you:

‘I went to a majestically, all white inclusive location today. It was beautiful, with the occasional stares from the glides of the sea which always seem to be displeased about some matter. There was also the lovely, best possible view of the world’s wonder; tafelberg.

I was misplaced. The stares which I got from the human species of a different but same kind questioned my whole existence. Especially then at that place. It could have been anything, including the hand down clothes which covered that which is left of me. And then I knew; I should have stayed at home. Where my walks by the seaside are unquestioned and the content in my bag is not a scary thought to come by.

As I sleep on this floor, rats walk all over me. I have gone really low – its not saddening anymore. That which still lives within me, is on its own a mighty burden. A memory flashes and tears run down.

I was in a place occupied with overpriced buildings where everybody uses a car or those exclusive city traveling buses to get from one point to another. The heaviness of my inadequate blackness sat in all its density on my shoulders and settled on my face.

Sometimes I wish I was not me – that I do not carry the wholeness of my black nation in my head. Sometimes I wish my heart was not inscribed with their faces so that I could walk by, freely without wondering about their future and their lives. I really do wish that I was not a mirror whose portrait is that of every single black being who has struggled, gone to war and fought battles head-on but never won.

The exhausting game of rat and mouse that this blackness comes with was questioned in silence. As I wondered if its conquerors will ever reach such high value and exclusiveness. Its conquerors – those who through barefeetedness, whose childhood promised no prosperous economical value, have gone to get PhD’s and executive titles.

I’m probably bitter, for I’m one of those whom life has given a hard kick on each and every body part and getting up is a premium expense.

In my life, there are more painful smiles than joy. I smile because I’m human and I’m also without joy because I’m human.’

Mother earth, nurture that black child who will rise above her own blackness. Let her remember the pit hole of the blackness in which she came from. Guide her into providing that pit hole with more than enough blossom and ever shining light.

The blackness we carry is sometimes a reminder of things we ought to forget. And the blackness we embody is also a path of brightness.

DevynStella

June 16 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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