Tag Archive | love

Once Upon A Lie…

I sat down with an angel whose life experience spans from savage as a demon, devious as a devil to a well of wisdom. From a distance, she sways her being in sexiness and walks like she lawfully owns the land her feet step on. Mesmerising like a true goddess. Her presence is both amazing and overwhelming.

Have you ever been lied to…. As I open my mouth to respond, she continues as though this is a rhetorical question… So often that even the truth starts sounding unfamiliar? That lies bring you more than just comfort? They start becoming you, you in them intertwined; the truth becomes scary. You feel the need to lie even when there is not enough to hide? No? Good for you, some of us have been around; up, down, in, out, hurt, depressed wished upon death longed to live, smiled, laughed somewhat loved but not fully witnessed honesty.

Once upon a lie lived the truth. Once upon a life lived a human. Before you fool anyone else, you fool you. Now this is the realisation, before it was just a far-fetched thought that resembled everything I no longer cared to remember.

I was almost certain she once touched base with earth. This beauty of vividly placing wisdom so magically in ones tongue has to have been schooled by the great ones who witnessed life before we.

When my mom, in the middle of a highly opinionated conversation about men who can’t accept women with children, intentionally squeezed in the fact that the man I had known for then the 25 years of what I accepted as my life was not my father; life stopped and earth spun a little faster. I quickly forgot my thoughts and only the heart fulfilled its duty. My eyes were seeing things I can not in this case remember. Wow! So its true every family has a secret. Now it makes sense, people always asked why I don’t look like my siblings.

I had a lot of unanswered questions. My head was playing endless unresolvable quiz games. I did not know what to want, which question to ask first. It was like a fly was annoyingly going around my head and my hands were too short to distract its motion. At the same time I was in a strange way relieved; I did not have the genes of a man my mother mistakenly chose as a husband. That was great news because according to me, his genealogy needed to end. The world needed not of his kind in its future.

Joking about him probably not being my father – because most of the time he completely ticks even the boxes the future men trashers are still yet to invent, was suddenly a reality and bloody hell I did not expect it to be this shocking but equally numbing. I was unsure about my mother; I couldn’t believe her secret. I AM THE SECRET. Worse part I am instructed to continue keeping this a secret and never bother diving into conversation about my real father. I just have to draw my own conclusions and take joy in that for that’s all I am getting.

From where I was sitting my mother seemed FINALLY relieved. Her eyes had the obviously-this-is-not-a-big-deal look and her shoulders looked less burdened. As I sat on a chair that suddenly felt like it was hardening my butt, thinking empty thoughts, I couldn’t believe the facts of my life. I suddenly felt the need to be silent for as long as the silence can take the silent.

But…

This is life and how I came to is in my case not a big deal. However I have lots of unanswered questions. The people have had the most loveless marriage in the history of marriages. They hardly talk, be it over the phone or anywhere else. They are like cooking oil and the scalp; yes that’s a bad simile but you get my point. They can tolerate each other but the consequences are dire. Now I get it though, my mother puts up with a loveless marriage knowing very well that she deserves better so she continues living her seemingly perfect life and concealing one thing that is obviously-not-a-big-deal so she stands on pedestals she has no business standing in.

She has chosen to live a life of regret, constant anger, hiding behind the church yet knowing exactly what she is worth. Being fully aware of who she is and what she can do.

When she was done speaking I looked at my own life, questioned my existence, looked through the eyes of my head – my own lies. I realised that a smile could be a sham. We walk in pride to only spend minutes upon minutes in toilet seats wondering, crying, wishing things were better and promising ourselves we are going to work harder better, smarter to continue concealing, so that it is never revealed. At the same time, do we really know who we are or do we only take what we’re being told and run with it? What is our truth and how do we weigh its worth? If our truth had to suddenly be rendered untrue, will we have enough will power to reconstruct a new life from there? I too had unanswered questions. I wondered about the many things we’re told we are: lost generation for one. Are we lost because we did not get enough truth? And who was/is meant to bring this truth to us. Anyway what is truth? After so many lies that we’ve been told, how much of unlearning and relearning will be enough? I do not know, life seems to be a LOT. There seem to be less truths and more lies and our facial expressions never run out of memes when truths come out and the heart unfortunately seems to always be caught off guard. 

We really carry so much burden, bestowing on ourselves the weight that comes with lies is unnecessary and rather stupid. Once upon a lie lived a truth and we must ALWAYS choose the virtue of honesty.

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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…

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.

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.

Anyway…

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.

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.

Why I Don’t Like English

I dislike english because I feel she is a complex being for a girl who already has a complicated situation.

I met english at the tender age of 10 (or is it 12?) before then I don’t quite remember any memories of our meetings if there were ever any. She was happily delivered to me via books and sentences I didn’t get why were not crafted in a language I can understand when they were specifically drafted with me in mind.

Anyway, if you must know, I speak ‘partly broken’ english and I absolutely have no vision of improving it even though I day dream of a sexy blue eyed, brown haired and broad shouldered British english speaking close friend that my future promises to deliver when my eyes are closed.

English, besides the fact that she introduced and built a mansion in my territory without my consent, lovely english my dear friend is a bad adopted relative.

Firstly, she doesn’t know her place. She wants to be noticed even on occasions where she absolutely has no business attending. Like when I have to explain to my grandmother who doesn’t understand english the process of sending a fax. I mean I can happily do this in my IsiZulu but no english wants to be there, sticking her english self out, confusing the heck out of my grandmother and rendering my illustrations invalid.

Secondly, english is disrespectful. Everytime I try to have a decent conversation with someone of english descent and all eyes are on me because I’m making some profound point, she without informing me, sleeps away from my tongue and I’m left with the unfortunate journey of searching my messy brain archive for the word I wanted to actually utter because the one in my head doesn’t quite fit the conversation and if it does, it will make me sound like a group of students on a presentation they know not enough about. So I stare into nothingness leaving everyone in that awkwardly annoying suspense like they’re viewing a non-stop buffering youtube video.

Another thing which english does that turns my beautifully brown african skin from navy to almost charcoal grey with anger is directions. Even though I haven’t established it, I’m quite not the greatest when it comes to explaining and describing situations and circumstances in english but I hope I’ve established that I’m not to blame for that.

English always succeeds in making me sound like I don’t know what I’m talking about when it comes to directions. Good thing I don’t say up when I mean down but I definitely say left when I mean right. And I sometimes say isle when I mean passage. My mind always sees it but english fails to own it in my tongue and translate it with my mouth.

English is unreliable and just plain conniving but people still don’t boycott her. She has a whole range of multiple affixes that when given the chance, enjoy a good but unnecessary laugh out of my english learning Africans. In fact affixations take the cup of joyfully confusing me and my people.

Although me and english are still in a tug of war about seeing eye to eye when it comes to daily use, I continue to write in english because (though I say so myself) its the only time I do english some justice and she doesn’t embarrass me that much. And yes, that’s about the only time where I adhere to not only understandable but acceptable english standards.

I am Single Because…

The man who is according to my very long and detailed fantasy list suppose to be cuddling with me at night went down the isle whilst I was busy grieving after being cheated on by a man who was not only all kinds of pathetic but still maintains his highly regarded occupation of being a skillful and discreet serial womaniser.

Another thing is the man who’s meant to be with me is sceptical about the whole of me. He has professionally friend-zoned me by insisting that the five year gap between us makes him too old to have anything intimate to do with me. He keeps referring to an ex of mine everytime things start to get cosy and an inch too magical between us. He asks irrelevant questions like how many guys I’ve gone down with, as if undermining or maybe weighing my womanhood and my ability to receive and give love.

I’m also single because the not so gentle man who wants to be with me is undoubtedly not my type. Type in this particular case implies his very dry and sexually centred sense of humour that gives me cringes and annoyance in equal measure. His dominating demeanour leaves me listening to stories of his success and achievements hundred percent of the time when the only thing I need is to be held and caressed in calming silent. He is undoubtedly not my type because a conversation only makes sense to him if after his acclaimed capabilities to explore the female body (body being an undertone in this instance) ends in nakedness and an orgasm.

In all honesty, I’m single because giving and receiving love has been reduced to dirty talk, nude pics and shagging the living life out of each other’s physicality. In all of this, the heart is sidelined, its attention desired but its whole affection unattended to. Getting a sex partner seems more important than getting to know a person. And here I stand, single because all I really want are little things that grow a person in remarkable ways. Like a pair of ears, that will have interest on the occurrences of my journey and shed light unto my challenges. A mouth and a tongue that will not just be happy to lock with my lips and tongue. But lips and tongue that will create words that will mould not only me but that which we’re trying to build.

So yes I know, I’m single because amongst many other things, I’m asking for far too much from a world of individuals who pride themselves about giving zero fucks and I’m very aware that this can’t be the world I signed up to. I’m unable to adapt and I could very well be slowly dying. Perhaps they are right, I should just get a highly educated psychologist and a good motivational read because times have changed and no one saw it fit to email me the newsletter.