Tag Archive | people

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.

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.

Black People of KFC

“we are KFC”

Today, tomorrow, KFC; everyday is a good day to have KFC in a black household.

KFC is to black people what a discount is to Indian people.

The same way whites believe that Woolworths brings the best produced foods. We black people also believe that no chicken comes close to KFC.

“love is KFC”

 Some black people don’t even care what KFC stands for (and I won’t bore you with the expansion either) as long as the chicken tastes great.

The black middle class has KFC for lunch, on pay day.

In food courts, I have seen more KFC on black people’s tables than I’ve seen in any KFC outlet.

“cherish your KFC”

I’ve seen and learnt that KFC rules majority of black people’s households.

How has the black market taken advantage of their love for KFC? They are employed at every KFC and KFC is hardly if ever robbed at all.

If you hear them say ‘kentucky’, they are saying KFC in codes but it doesn’t mean they know what KFC stands for.

How many KFC outlets are black owned? Probably not enough but that’s not important to us as long as our monthly budget can accommodate KFC.

How many black people want to own KFC? (This is our posterity after all) probably not many BUT I can guarantee you that many want to purchase a bucket of KFC on pay day or wellfare payout day.

If you’ve never seen many black people happy at the same time in one place, you’ve never given a lot of black people in one venue KFC.

We black people like KFC so much we have our own imitation KFC version especially set aside and unleashed for delicate occasions like weddings and funerals.

If you’ve never seen black people queueing for hours for food they are paying for willingly, you’ve never been to a KFC outlet month end.

“we die for KFC”

And some black ladies say if he’s never taken you out to/bought you KFC, they have news for you.

KFC is the light at the end of every black person’s month.

“no weapon formed against KFC and black people shall prosper”

Black people can also be full of it some say KFC smells yuck when you’re finally loaded and pay day doesn’t mean much but smells great when your lips and pockets are equally dry as the undrinkable savanna.

After it all has been written and disagreed upon; there is a KFC story inside every black person.

“glory be to KFC”

Observations. Life. Critical and Sensible Experiences

YOU HAVE TO EXPERIENCE LIFE, MAKE OBSERVATIONS, AND ASK QUESTIONS. Dante Smith.

OBSERVATIONS
The toilet is a room for thought when you don’t have your own personal space.

Its all fun and dreams when you’re sweet sixteen living under your parent’s wing. But reality invades your life, hard-work introduces itself and life begins without your consent.

People are likely to choose money over time and they spend most of their lifetime chasing money. That’s why we have a nation of people who do not have time for other equally or more important responsibilities.

Winning is such a great feeling. If winning is not in your reality, keep it in your brain. Just keep winning.

Courage is everything.

Constant encounter of disappointment is discouraging and very damaging to one’s esteem. Too many disappointments make one lower their standards and expectations.

Laziness is concealed discouragement.

Loud mouths are slackers.

Parents find it difficult to accept when their children have different views to that of their own. Especially where religion is concerned.

Creativity never expires it matures and grows exponentially when nurtured.

New media is prestige and comes with dire consequences when misused.

IF YOU HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO PLAY THIS GAME OF LIFE YOU NEED TO APPRECIATE EVERY MOMENT. Kanye West.

LIFE
Every generation sees the flaws of another.

Everyday has its own plans no matter how strategic you plan.

Money is strength, it makes situations lighter.

Life changing growth results after intense suffering.

When one gets initiated into adulthood, challenges get really tough.

People tend to have more opinions over other people’s situations.

You will suffer greatly for your desires. But when you don’t have basic needs you suffer the worst form of affliction.

You get paid for what you’re good at but greatly rewarded for what you’re passionate about.

When you’re young nobody tells you that anguish is when you’ve given your all to achieving something but still remain JUST not good enough.

Child headed households are due to misfortunes and faults of the parents.

People will always want what they don’t have.

I BROKE INTO SHAKESPEARE’S TOMB AND STOLE HIS REMAINS, GRINDED THE BONES, SMOKED IT, THEN GOT IN THE GAME. Nasir Jones.

CRITICAL and SENSIBLE EXPERIENCES
Annoyed is when you’re living under your parents wing and experiencing a restricted level of yourself.

Sleepy is the condition you get after you’ve spend your bedtime credit social media networking.

Happiness is the totality of your effort coming into fruition.

Constipation is when you want to move out of your parent’s house but money disagreeing with you.

Confusion is when you don’t get what you want and have to work with what you don’t have in order to create what you like.

Freedom is when you do what you’ve never thought you’d do and amazingly exceptional at it.

Peace is when you allow only one hopeful thought to occupy your mind without any physical distraction.