Raising the Dust

A Song For You.....the Donny Hathaway way!

2009-01-29T07:51:00.000-08:00

I've been so many places in my life and time
I've sung a lot of songs I've made some bad rhyme
I've acted out my love in stages
With ten thousand people watching
But we're alone now and I'm singing this song for you

I know your image of me is what I hope to be
I've treated you unkindly but darlin' can't you see
There's no one more important to me
Darlin' can't you please see through me
Cause we're alone now and I'm singing this song for you

You taught me precious secrets of the truth witholding nothing
You came out in front and I was hiding
But now I'm so much better and if my words don't come together
Listen to the melody cause my love is in there hiding

I love you in a place where there's no space or time
I love you for in my life you are a friend of mine
And when my life is over
Remember when we were together
We were alone and I was singing this song for you

You taught me precious secrets of the truth witholding nothing
You came out in front and I was hiding
But now I'm so much better and if my words don't come together
Listen to the melody cause my love is in there hiding

I love you in a place where there's no space or time
I love you for in my life you are a friend of mine
And when my life is over
Remember when we were together
We were alone and I was singing this song for you
We were alone and I was singing this song for you

Celebrating Love

2009-01-27T17:39:00.000-08:00

I once met a “chick” called Lelethu whom I later nicknamed Lulu. My Lulu was a truly phenomenal one, who, at an age far younger than mine, exceeded my fierceness, confidence and optimism about life, love and everything in between. Totally in awe and inspired, I started this blog and assumed the pseudonym: “Lulu Nation” as an ode to her ability to speak freely about anything, at any time, with anybody, in any situation. If you knew this Lulu, you would know this to be true and would have experienced the many gems she spit, and, the equal amount of faux pas that she would later kick herself for. What was most amazing about her was the way the faux pas always facilitated lessons for her, and this, is what I admired most about her – the fearlessness to say the wrong thing in aid of learning something new. And so the spirit of this blog and my latter published work was birthed…

If you knew Lelethu in some way or other, you probably experienced a person who was full of praise and compliments. You probably also knew a person who arrived and then arrived and stayed there until she had to leave. She paid attention. Lelethu was also a person who loved fun, laugher, silliness, dancing, music, movies, books, exercise, people, travel and everything life had to offer– she not only wished she could do all these things, she actually did them. Lelethu’s days were full – so fully that we would complain because our time with her was always limited.

Lelethu was a giver. She gave me many “things”, out of the blue, because she thought of me. But the best things she ever gave me, and continued to give me until her very last day on earth, were the endless compliments and recognition for the many things I did. Lelethu gave props. She gave me props on my beauty, my work, my silly jokes, my style – everything. It is because of the things that Lelethu saw in me, that I began to learn that I am as great as I believe to be. If you are anything like me, this is a very hard realisation to come to after a very long time of self flagellation. This, dear friends, is not a romantic memory of a friend who is no longer here but a testament of a true gift from above.

I am not quite sure why I am writing this. Perhaps it is so as not to forget, because to forget would truly be spitting in the face of this great gift that was bestowed upon me. Perhaps it is to share what I believe was a divine experience from above that was always meant to be brief.

On the day she died, I bumped into Lelethu on her way to a meeting. She was just on time but insisted that she give me a lift to the next building where I was to have my meeting. I thought it was rather absurd as she was going to be late for her meeting and the building was just a five minute walk away. She insisted…

We caught up for as much as the time would allow. At the end of that drive, as I was about to step out of her car, she looked at me and said: “Follow you destiny, my friend…I love you”. And with that I said goodbye and went on my merry way. That was the last time I saw my friend alive.

I dwell in cynicism, you see, and have, in the past, looked for every reason to not succumb to mushy, romantic ideals about life. “It’s a self preservation thing, you see?”

After all the tears that never seem to run out and after all is said and done, I can truly say that I have changed, for I now know love and what it feels like to be truly blessed. I know that optimism about life and its possibilities is something to be cherished, nurtured and celebrated. Call me mushy, idealistic and romantic. I truly don’t care....

Chom’am, “my friend”, Looksie Love, Love Lam’, My Lulu…Your love lives on!

Matchmaking

2008-03-26T06:47:00.001-07:00

What's up with that ish?

On the real, though....

What's up with that ish???

Am i just too cynical to open myself up to possible "magic" or is it cause I'm mature enough not to open myself up to weird weirded out weirdness that gets weirder and weirder?

Hmmm.....

matchmaking......

Sturraaaange........

Lulu Nation is...filled with glee...

2008-03-18T07:19:00.000-07:00

...despite the frikkin' wet logged Super 14 game...

....despite the torture of watching "No Country for Old Men"

...despite the rain..and the cold...

....despite having no clean clothes....

...despite the impending broke ass long weekend...

...despite her own damn self...

Lulu Nation is...

2008-03-17T06:50:00.001-07:00

....apparently forbidden fruit. HAYI BO!

A little thank you note…

2008-03-13T00:55:00.001-07:00

Thank you for making me laugh!

Thank you for not pinching me back as hard as I pinch you

Thank you for your wisdom and your interest in mine

Thank you for being honest (I’ve never liked them games either)

Thank you for not ever dissing my Jay Z obsession (even though I know what you really think)

Thank you for farting in my presence and letting me do the same in yours (even though mine are much more bearable than yours)

Thank you for the breath of fresh air...the cynicism desperately needed some diluting

I don’t really know where this is going…but thank you for the warmth and the now, I guess!

Fear

2008-03-13T00:54:00.000-07:00

If you were to ask me, on any given day, what I’m scared of…I’d probably give you a list of all sorts of bizarre things ranging from pigeons all the way to ghosts…but on the real…this is what I’m really scared of….

I’m scared to wear it, in case I look ridiculous

I’m scared to tell them they suck, in case they ruin my career

I’m scared to tell her I think she’s a racist, in case she misunderstands me

I’m scared to tell him what really happened, to seem stronger than I really am

I’m scared to know the truth, because it might change everything

I’m scared to tell her to stop talking so much, because I love her too much

I’m scared to speak out, in case I sound stupid

I’m scared to pack up and go, in case there’s nothing to come back to

I’m scared to say I’m sorry, in case she thinks it’s ALL my fault.

I’m scared to tell him I dig him deeply, in case he doesn’t dig me back

I’m scared to see him again, in case I can’t forgive him for leaving us.

I’m scared to tell her I no longer want to be her friend, in case she goes over the edge.

I’m scared to say hello, in case he does not remember me

I’m scared to fall in love in case it ends

Most of all, I’m scared to dream big, in case I cannot reach them….

PS: I’m also scared to post this on my blog in case I sound downright pathetic…..

The battle....

2008-03-13T00:53:00.000-07:00

After 3 hours of trying to come up with a clever line to start an article that’s due tomorrow, I’ve decided to give up and resort to writing even more bullshit for the blog.

Topic of the day:

Can men and women be friends?

Yesterday, I would have answered: “Of course”, and laughed at the absurdity of the question, today my answer is: “Yeah, until they fuck.”

So is the question then: Are heterosexual men and women who are supposedly friends, just working their way to fucking or at least, almost getting there? Are we inherently just plain old animalistic when it comes to relationships, of any nature, between people of the opposite sex?

I am an intelligent young woman who does not see the world in black and white, but truly appreciates and lives off the grey. But my experience, something I have come to rely on more than theory these days, has taught me otherwise. I have recently realised that my friendships with men, most that is, are fraught with sexual tension. Am I, in my subconscious, secretly lusting for them? Are they, in their subconscious (or perhaps deliberately) imagining what it would be like to do “it”? As we sit there, supposedly doing normal friend things, is our animal instinct constantly at work, patiently waiting to be unleashed? Am I mentally fucking my male friends? SHEEEEEEEEEESH!

This brings me to this here question: “How are same gender friendships different from friendships between men and women?” If men have this brotherhood that ensures that their secrets and escapades are closely guarded, and women have the same kind of thing, how can both sides ever be friends? Does the female monkey have a male monkey friend from the other side of the mountain, who is only interested in listening to her rant about her boyfriend or her fight with her best friend and nothing else? Is it absurd to even begin to see the world and human relations through purely scientific concepts? Is my denial of the basics of human genetics and behaviour directly related to my constantly fumbling my way through the world? Is my belief in the existence of platonic friendships tragically naïve?

If I were to stop asking so many questions and rely on what I truly know through experience and the conversations I’ve had with my female friends, I would come to the conclusion that men and women cannot be friends because it really is all about sex, at the end of the day. Imagined sex, dreamed sex, possible sex, planned sex, suppressed sex, almost sex…..Sex, sex, sex sex…

So where does that leave my grey-area-loving self? I guess high and dry, slightly saddened and mostly mourning my notion of male friendships. You can probably tell that I’m skirting around the issue, which is purely for self protective reasons. But the point of it all is that today I decided to dedicate the little conservatism left in me into being more cautious when it comes to my friendships with men. I’m about to get downright old school!

.....

2008-02-20T00:51:00.000-08:00

I'm in hibernation....more like a rut....more like confusion.....EVERYTHING STANDS STILL...It's nice here...limbo...full of excuses to not move forward...I will be here for a while...maybe until the month ends...maybe I'll hold it off until the beginning of April...It's nice here...

Friendship....

2007-11-26T04:52:00.000-08:00

...can be extremely tiring and confusing.

This weekend got me thinking about this ish. What the fuck is friendship and what does it entail? I looked at my so-called friends, and found that I had 4 types!

1. Good time friends
I have friends who know how to have a good time aka "Good Time Friends". I see them during the weekend, when times are good, and the money's in the bank and the party's on and that's where it ends really (and we like it that way)!

2. Parasitical Friends
I have friends whose shit I listen to every fucken day. Friends who take up my time complaining about their fucken priviledged existences. Friends who hardly ever ask how I'm doing and when they do, it's just to be polite! Very often, I feel like screaming "SHUT THE FUCK UP, I GOT BETTER SHIT TO DO", mid conversation. But I don't. I sit my ass down and listen and hope that one day it will be okay and that the topic of conversation will change. I now think that day is never coming.

3. Fake Friends
I have friends who pretend to listen, but never remember a gahd dang thing about me. Friends I love dearly but I could never ever count on! Friends who I would never call if shit went down and I needed help ASAP! It ain't cos I'm judging, but cos I've tried it before. Friends who are too self-involved to have my back. Friends who will only be there when there's nowhere else to be. Friends who will never tell me what's going on in their lives, no matter how much I ask. Friends that make me question why the fuck I love them so dearly.

4. "My Heart"
I have friends who listen to my shit, give me sound advice about men, sex, work, money, depression, outfits, errthang. Friends who comfort me when I'm down, share my sense of humour, forgive me (eventually) when I've fucked up or fucked them over majorly! Friends who will never forget my birthday, what food I eat, or don't eat...Friends who will remember to send me a good luck sms on the morning of my interview and remember to ask how it was later that day! Friends who never ditch me and if they do, they give me enough prior notice! Friends who have my mama's number on speed dial. Friends who tell me the truth even though I don't want to hear it. Friends who will buy me Nando's when I'm ass broke and still take me out to dinner even if I got paid! Friends who and still party with like crazy!

I guess I AM bitching but there comes a time when you have to start calling a spade a spade in case you get mad confused. Growing up ain't easy and what makes it difficult is naivete and pleading oblivion. I don't blame you for being a bad friend or a non-friend. I blame myself for letting you do it!

And so at the end of this weekend I decided to get out of that mode and start using my energy, wisely!

"The Ground Beneath Her Feet"

2007-11-14T01:26:00.000-08:00

For Lulu, who inspired this Lulu Nation and much more.......

A passage from "The Ground Beneath Her Feet" by Salman Rushdie

"For a long while I have believed … that in every generation there are a few souls, call them lucky or cursed, who are simply born not belonging, who come into the world semi-detached, if you like, without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race; that there may even be millions, billions of such souls, as many non-belongers as belongers, perhaps; that, in sum, the phenomenon may be as “natural” a manifestation of human nature as its opposite, but one that been mostly frustrated, throughout human history, by lack of opportunity.

And not only by that: for those who value stability, who fear transience, uncertainty, change, have erected a powerful system of stigmas and taboos against rootlessness, that disruptive, anti-social force, so that we mostly conform, we pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities we do not really feel, we hide our secret identities beneath the false skins of those identities which bear the belongers seal of approval. But the truth leaks out in our dreams; alone in our beds (because we are all alone at night, even if we do not sleep by ourselves), we soar, we fly, we flee. And in the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the non-belongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks. What we forbid ourselves we pay good money to watch, in a play-house or movie theatre, or to read about between the secret covers of a book. Our libraries, our places of entertainment tell the truth. The tramp, the assassin, the rebel, the thief, the mutant, the outcast, the delinquent, the devil, the sinner, the traveler, the gangster, the runner, the mask: if we did not recognize in them our least-fulfilled needs, we would not invent them over and over again, in every place, in every language, in every time.

No sooner did we have ships than we rushed to sea, sailing across oceans in paper boats. No sooner did we have cars than we hit the road. No sooner did we have airplanes then we zoomed to the furthers corners of the globe. Now we year for the moon’s dark side, the rocky plains of Mars, the rings of Saturn, the interstellar deeps. We send mechanical photographers into orbit, or on one-way journeys to the stars, and we weep at the wonders they transmit; we are humbled by the mighty images of far-off galaxies standing like cloud pillars in the sky, and we give names to alien rocks, as if they were our pets. We hunger for warp space, for the outlying rim of time. And this is the species that kids itself it likes to stay at home, to bind itself with...what are they called again?...ties."

I've had a lot of fun watching these:

2007-10-04T07:06:00.000-07:00

1. I can't do without a daily dose of Recess
2. Big Brother Africa has just become completely too embarassing to even watch on my own
3. BBC Prime has some of the dopest doccies I've ever seen on TV
4. SABC 1 will surprise you: I caught Bus 174 and Do The Right Thing (again)
5. I'm strangely addicted to Zone 14
6. Entourage is the shiznit
7. Sex and The City (BOX SET) ---- ENCORE ENCORE
8. America's Next Supermodel - VIVA TYRA, VIVA SISTERHOOD
9. Crime and Investigation to be avoided at all cost - it will make you paranoid, gloomy and could even cause nightmares or even worse, make you lose faith in humanity! SHEESH! BUT VERY ADDICTIVE
10. Tarantino's newest release "DEATH PROOF" - I haven't had such a mindblowing group movie experience in a long long time! FOK!
11. Muvhango - why do the scenes always seem like there are about 30 seconds a bit tooo long. I still watch, tho!

Spring has come my way!

2007-10-04T06:49:00.000-07:00

"I haven't been this happy and content in about 3 years" I just said it, without thinking. Just after I did, I was like "my my my, that is sooo true" SO, I'm happy! Despite my constant battle with my demons and mornings when I can't wake up to go to work simply because I just do not have the energy to face this shit. Despite my Joburg angst, that eats away at me every day...and this habit of doing the same thing over and over again at the same places with the same people. Despite the fact that I have no freakin clue where i'm working or living next year.

I'm freakin over the moon. A major contributing factor was the miraculous realisation that I'd been falling for "men" who had very little self esteem. I remembered that I like that I'm taller than most women you know and that I like my overzealous behaviour. And my inability to keep my feelings to myself. And my particularly large feet. And my choice of clothes. And my dislike for particularly childish, oblivious behaviour.

I guess I've been terribly cruel to myself. I guess I stopped a long time ago looking at me through my eyes. As silly as it sounds, if feels like i've been living in a huge, thick grey cloud and spring has just decided to come my way.

FUUUUUUCK!!!! What a waste of time....but we learn and grow...and buy freakum dresses..and look fab and remember the teachings of Sex and the City and realise that we live in one of the greatest cities in the world..with some of the gutsiest individuals in our history...and that life ..ooh this life...has sooo much to give...and that whenever we like...we can take a break from it all and go somewhere far far away...but not to run away...cos we might just not come back...or see just how good this is!

Back to Blog

2007-10-03T06:02:00.000-07:00

I had a crazy weekend and bumped into many delightful peeps and beloveds. I love this city!

I finally got to meet my cyberfriend Phantom and it was freaky how it felt like we'd been hanging forever. I guess we have. But it's strange to meet someone you already kinda know, for the first time, in person. Have you eliminated the need or importance of the physical? Cyberfreaky...!

I saw my nephew and I always almost lose my breathe every time I see him. It's frikkin amazing how beautiful and innocent and peaceful he is. He's my inspiration.

I am having a good time. A time of clarity. A time of plans. A time of absolute waving of both middle fingers in the air.to every cynical, pessimistic, frontin' mofo in the world.

I thought of something about myself and people I have been observing.

"A superiority complex might just be a not-so brilliant way of masking an inferiority complex"

That kinda makes things clear for now...

This week...

2007-08-15T08:25:00.000-07:00

...I became an aunt to a teeny weeny leedle baby boy (I have no words)

...I let go a bit too much, a bit too quickly, a bit too spontaneously....( I still have no words ;-))

....Moses Taiwa Molelekwa came back into my life in the form of "Genes and Spirits" (I cried tears...in the office....oy vey)

....I finally put "it" behind me, for good, and it felt right, brought me much needed peace...Thank the Lawd for clarity!

...I found out, for sure, that I am a monkey, a metal one apparently...(Thanks V!)

Aaah....this life.....

!

2007-07-31T07:12:00.000-07:00

I can't escape this life that I'm livin'...I'm in a mix I'm in love with 1, 2, 3, 4....SNAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(*HIDES*)

TICK FUCKEN TOCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2007-07-10T02:52:00.000-07:00

It's more than 7 months into the year and I can't help feeling like a failure....again..Don't get me wrong, I've done a whole lotta ish that I've wanted to do for a while but that given, I was still not able to put together a banging short story for a competition I've wanted to enter for the past 3 years. Should I be banging my head against the wall for not, yet again, being able to meet this deadline? Damn straight! I freakin lack focus.

I spent way too much of my time putting my energies on bullshit! Even tho I'm over the fucken bullshit, it keeps haunting me.....Now I'm fucken paying for it! Over and over and over again...Will I try to bang together something HOT over the coming weekend? Probably, but it'll be crap I'm not proud of....What if I can't let this one go...again? What if this feeling of failure will haunt me forever and ever..? What if I never get the chance to enter again? What if I can never ever forgive myself for that fucken wasted energy I can never get back? WHAT IF I can't fucken let go?

TICK FUCKEN TOCK...I can hear the damn clock ticking away...And I can't stop it!

FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I've run outta things to say.....

2007-06-26T07:35:00.000-07:00

I've been so caught up with work, day and night, that I didn't quite realise that I was FINALLY FEELING GREAT after a long, torturous, terrible terrible spell!

And so I wanted to stop by and say, just so I don't forget, that today I woke up to the realisation that I've got my mojo back!

I hate and love, just as much, the way ups become downs and ups again....and downs...and so on! But I can never quite get used to it!

Welcome back, dear mojo, I've missed you...I hope you stay a little bit longer this time!

Now back to work....it is, after all, the year "2000 and Sebenza"

HOlla Black!

Living in the music...

2007-06-07T00:50:00.000-07:00

I love music...I can't function without it. I don't know where it comes from, but i always have. Perhaps it was my mom's obsession with it...she had it all....with particular bias towards Ms. Flack (aaaah....) or my grandmother's singing, all the time, everywhere, she'd even sing instructions to us...she was always singing....or my late aunt's Brenda Fassie craze...boy did we hear enough of Mabrr...or my youngest aunt's obsession with everything soul!!!! aaah....Sunday mornings.....or my cousins messing with making beats on the computer all the time every day....or my other cousin and his turntables taking Pheli by storm or perhaps my brother's taste in music....wide, varied....great, amazing!

I breathe it ....it oozes through my pores...there's a song for every day, every feeling and I still haven't heard a fraction of all the good music of the world. It irks me to no end....

And so I found a mix cd a good friend made for me the other day which inspired me to go on a crusade to ask people to share what they like with me. A sweet workmate's just given me some suhweet tunes! (noooise)! My bro has promised a banging selection (you rock)! And the buzz has promised me some too (she's got great taste)!!!! And I'm dedicating the whole of Sunday to searching for old classics at the music shop!!! I shall soon have enough to go underground with and hibernate!!!

In my solitude...

2007-06-07T00:29:00.000-07:00

I got home last night with no intention of lying on the couch and watching TV...again. So I took my jacket and decided to walk to the coffee shop at the mall for some alone time before a possible movie date with malaveeng, and perhaps a second chance at saying hello to lone sexy cappucino drinking, book wielding, cigarette smoking dude! It was fokken freezing, so you can imagine just how much I wanted to leave the couch and tv situation. I took my book and a notepad, not quite sure how long i'd survive chilling there on my own. I got a seat at "our" table and started reading and reading and thinking and thinking...the world around me dissappeared and I sat there thinking, wow, this is so cool!

Me myself and I getting by, just fine! For the first time, in a long time, I felt just fine being on my own. I ended up coming up with a brilliant idea for the film that's mos def taking us to the next level. I ended up thinking about myself and what it is I want in life. What kind of people I want around me. And what it is I want to do with this life! You gotta love the cheeze!

And so Malaveeng arrived, beeming as usual, and we go watch this movie that she apparantly heard amazing things about. "The Breach" WTF? The cinema at the pensioner's mall is empty! So we start watching this movie and it's really not going anywhere...so we start chatting, because we can....and soon after decide to take our catch up session to a more social space! Viva Gin and Tonic....nice one!

I guess my point's that it's nice to be alone, at times, and comfortable with it but it also feels great to have people to be with! I love mapeeplez!

NOTE TO SUCKER PUNCH: You know i love you and everything, but please bring back my laptop...You are standing in the way of great things! Mnxim!

Lulu Nation is...

2007-06-05T04:29:00.000-07:00

...on a cloud left of nine, chilling hard!

It's nice here...a cool small cloud with very little activity. The few people that are here are kinda special. This cloud is very much unlike 9...this cloud is VIP! I hope they let me stay....

PS: !i wish i wasn't so allergic to punch! Eish....

2007-06-04T01:07:00.000-07:00

High school reunions are weird. So, who are you married to? How many children do you have? What car do you drive? What is it again that you do? Watch how much wine she’s drinking. Oh, she smokes too. She’s gained a lot of weight. Where did his front teeth go? Are tenders really how he bought that car? Dang HE still fine!

Smile, smile, take pictures. Dance a little bit…useless chit chat…and then everybody grabs their cell-phones eager to escape this weird situation and get back to normal life. Strange, very strange these things.

I get over the highs...I think

2007-06-03T23:44:00.000-07:00

I found some much needed clarity late Sunday evening. My panic stricken self could not sleep. My mind was racing through all the possibilities. I felt the foolishness rushing back into my system. I was losing again. As my heart pumped a bit too hard and too fast, and my hands shook uncontrollably, the tears refused to stream down my face and hence depriving me of much needed relief...I asked for strength...Over and over and over and over again....until my prayer became a chant...until my heart beat calmed to its normal tempo, until my hands stopped shaking, until the anxiety that kept me awake melted away. I knew that no matter what the actual details were, I would be okay. I took a stance to not be swayed by the actions of others. It's okay...I do, really get over the highs, I think....

I shall continue to ask for more and more strength...I think I'm going to need it!

One of those days....

2007-05-28T07:42:00.000-07:00

I am a bad blogger, yes! I only seem to use this space when I am in trouble. I guess I've found my shrink.

Anyway, I have a problem with merging/synchronising mind and heart. Have you ever said or done something you were so sure was good for you (and all involved), only to realise, soon after, that your heart was not really in agreement with your actions in the first place? How much do you have to think things through before you take action? Why is it that what seems right to me at a certain point, turns out not to be so right after all?

I guess it's a hit and miss situation. In your head, it seems perfectly right, but in reality, it is not! Then there are those times, when it is right in your head and in practice. Perhaps it is denial or what we perceive to be the safe manner in which to deal with things. Or maybe it is the process of dealing with shit you don't know how to deal with or dealing with them too soon or....

Embarassment! I find this emotion particularly difficult to deal with.... FUCK! It makes me feel so stupid. So crazy! Like no matter how hard I try, I'm just not growing up! Put your foot in it..blush blush....develop amnesia...delete delete....Or pretend it never happened, pretend you are so over it! Or crawl underneath something, and stay there until the feeling goes away. Come up for air, check the coast, if all hasn't cleared, go back into hiding. Or just grin, and bear it! Life goes on?

On some days I feel like a foolish and incoherent, social misfit who is better off living like a hermit. This is one of those days!

2007-05-21T04:16:00.000-07:00

and so i'm off to the hospital tomorrow. i'm scared. and worried that my cute abdomen will be marred by this ugly scar for the rest of my life, just when i was considering hitting a mozambican beach bikini clad. there goes that plan...anyway, shall have to keep my fingers crossed that all goes well. my mom says it's like pulling out a tooth...somehow, i think she's just saying it to make me feel better!

What a day…

2007-05-13T22:58:00.001-07:00

I had just gotten back from a long overdue meeting that literally sealed the fate of our documentary. I was proud of myself. I had been able to lift myself from my customary Sunday vegetative state and actually got something very important done. I came back to a flat filled with the aroma (no, not just any old smell) of barbecue spatchcock (thank you, flat mate), a fitting meal, in light of my mild hangover. I dug my nose deep in the Sunday Times (thanks again, flat mate) and ate my heart out, bones and all. It was the perfect end to a productive day. I couldn’t wait till I got back to bed to read a novel that was turning out to be quite a find (eh, thanks flat mate).

Flat mate departs leaving me with the entire couch to myself and most importantly, the remote control. Ah…what a day. As I’m trying to decide whether it was cold enough to go fetch my blanket from the bedroom, I hear a series of very loud bangs. The kind of bangs that are accompanied by images of head on collisions or a car rolling over and over along the road. I am shit scared. I’m thinking my flatmate has just left and I know at least 10 other people who live in the neighbourhood. After attempting to call flat mate several times, I decide that this is something worth investigating. I walk out of the flat, phone in hand (thank God), but without shoes or a jersey. I bump into several neighbours sprinting down the stairs. Okay, this is scary. I eventually get to the bottom of the stairs, walk out the building and find a small crowd gathered on the road. Fok, okay, this is scary.

I soon find out that some drunk prick crashed his big four by four into most of the cars parked in front of the building. This prick found the time and energy to pull out of the mess and drive off. Thankfully, no human beings were in or near the cars. The car owners are understandably pissed off but I’m glad that the entire ordeal only amounted to material damage. Cool, now back to the blanket, the couch and the remote control. Yay, for Sundays. I get into the lift, and listen to the familiar whirring sound as it makes its way up the floors. The crank of a thing stops on my floor but alas, the doors don’t open. Okay, I’ve never been stuck in a lift before. I press the alarm button and fortunately, somebody is there to hear it. I scream “Help” through the closed doors, and soon after, I realize what a clichéd movie-like thing it is to do. The caring voice on the other side of the door yells back that they will call the security guard. I’m thinking, I know the security guard on duty, and his blank face does not strike me as one that belongs to somebody who can get me out of here. He just doesn’t look like the bright type.

Always remain calm, I think. I’m not scared. Just buggered that I’m not wearing shoes and it’s getting pretty cold in there. This mild irritation is compounded by the fact that my medical expert mother who has been in the nursing profession for almost three decades convinced me to take seven pills towards the fixing of me. She had to explain the whole thing to me four times before I bought into it - once in person, and three times over the phone. I had never ingested so much medication at one go. I could feel the tingling sensation of medication and blood traveling to my brain (at least that’s what I think it is). I’m thinking that if this medication and my body don’t make the best of friends, I’m better off outside this lift.

And so I call my brother to hear a friendly and soothing voice. I proceed to tell him about the accident and that I in fact suspect it was one of his friends who smashed into those cars, the one who drives a silver four-by-four and lives in the vicinity of where the car came from, of course. Ah…eye witness accounts…In the conversation, I mention, in passing, that I also happen to be stuck in a lift. The poor guy shrieks in a panic, not forgetting to mention how weird I am for not telling him this in the first place. He calls my mother, who calls me back, also in a panic. His girlfriend calls me, in a panic. His friend calls me, in a panic. He calls me back, in a panic, just before he calls the lift company, in a panic, I’m sure. He thinks the lift is going to go plummeting down the floors, with poor me, in it. This is all very sweet. But I’m thinking if the phone stopped ringing, I could actually find out about my rescue mission, if it did exist in the first place.

Thirty minutes in a stuck lift on my own, feet freezing, and antibiotic overdose induced nausea and constant calls of panic from beloveds, and all I could think about was the fact that I had something to post on my blog. Weird, this life.

And so the lift company takes its time and the not so clever looking security guard wrestles with the unrelenting door until it pops open. I’m glad to be out of there, especially because there was no handsome stranger to offer me his jacket and a shoulder to rest my frazzled head on. I ’m feeling even more nauseous. I’m very glad to be out of there.

As I write this, I’m thinking, why did that happen to me? What could it all mean? I came up with several answers that seemed just right:

When you leave the confines of your home, always wear a pair of shoes, take your cell phone with you too.
The lifts in my building are old and should be avoided at all costs
The security guard with the blank, not so bright look, can in fact, rescue one from a stuck lift.
It feels so so good to be loved.

Peace, love and light!
K!

Untitled

2007-05-11T01:36:00.000-07:00

NOTE: This guy lives mostly...in my head...

It had all ended in a non-dramatic fashion, not at all what he had imagined. She was worn out by the drama. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time when it was not there. The humiliation had turned into something he couldn’t deal with, something that he could not name. He felt like everybody they knew, had heard about it, her side of the story, of course. They all looked like they were pretending not to know. Their smiles looked strained, like their jaws hurt. Serious facial muscle exercise all for the sake of not showing him they knew. How considerate. But he could make out fake smiles from a mile away. He could just imagine what was going through their minds and it ate him up inside. He knew how to play the game, though. His mother had taught him well. Never ever let “them” know that you are not okay. Wash everyday, shave like it was your wedding day, walk with a perfect posture, always…always strive to look “okay”, whatever “okay” meant. He was trying. Every single day, he tried.

But slowly, that feeling started crawling into his mind, invading every space he had tried to protect. It was no longer only when he tried to sleep or when he had a flashback of that fateful night. These days, it came all the time. Like the time he was called into the boss’s office for the “disciplinary hearing.” He could see his lips move, and the look of concern on his face (yet another great performance), but his voice somehow floated far away from his ears. He kept on mulling everything over and over in his head. He had done this so often that nothing made sense anymore. He knew that this one-sided memory of the entire thing was fucking with his mind in a major way. The more he thought about it, on his own, without a second opinion or an interrogation of sorts, the angrier he got. It was the kind of fury that drove people to kill cold-bloodedly. It scared and frustrated him all at the same time. He was too much of a woose to take his own life, let alone anybody else’s. Besides, he wouldn’t know who to kill, really. Her? He knew he had fucked up majorly. Him? He was just some other guy who was there at the right time.

Why couldn’t he have been the perfect boyfriend she wanted him to be? Why couldn’t he have grown up in a normal home like other people? The word ‘normal’ was beginning to get to him, too! She kept repeating it, over and over to him, like she was doing it on purpose. It was almost like she knew that he would never be normal. She kept demanding the impossible. He had lost the understanding of the word. What the fuck is normal anyway?

He needed a drink. He had tried to stop, for her of course. But things seemed so much better when he was drunk. No, tipsy didn’t quite describe the state. Motherless would be the appropriate adjective. He wanted to drink everything, anything, just to get a taste of that freedom again. He didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him when he was drunk. The fake smiles didn’t bother him so much. In fact, they cracked him up. He didn’t care if they thought he had lost his mind. But most importantly, he didn’t care how he looked. They could talk about it all they want. Him, rugged, having been drinking since the sun came up, samples of his various beverages of choice all over his white shirt. It seemed the best place to be. He could taste yesterday’s alcohol, that sourness stuck in his throat, head pounding. There was only one thing that could take that away and that was more alcohol.
He couldn’t stop. His so called friends showed a lot of concern. Even those who were not close to him, showed a lot of concern. A bit too much, when he thought about it. He knew he was flavour of the month. Their boring lives had suddenly been made mildly exciting by his crazy antics. He thought he should get a Nobel Prize for it. What would Joburg North suburbia be without a charity case like him? He reminded them of what they used to be. Reckless, was the word. Behind their masks of stability, lay envy. Of course they would never admit it to themselves or to each other. But they yearned to let go, like he had.

Yes, he loved her. He had never loved so much. It was the kind of love that was doomed. It was just too much, almost unbearable. Sometimes he couldn’t breathe, at the thought of it. He knew he could never ever shake it off. It was like some plague he had knowingly contracted and now no cure in the world could rid him of it. He couldn’t imagine how she could move on like that, get engaged to the first guy who came along. He was prissy. The kind of guy who would laugh at the sight of an obese woman trip and fall. He was the kind of guy who could hold an entire conversation about how cheap the next guy’s shoes were. His face just screamed “punch me, hard” and it seemed like however much or hard you punched, the idiot would never wake up to the fact that he was a fucking loser. He had no substance, he thought. Perhaps she was doing it to hurt him? Perhaps she was going to come right back when she realizes that she could never love anyone else.

Perhaps he had worn out her heart so much she couldn’t love that way again.

All he knew was that he couldn’t afford to love that way again. He had been a victim of big love way too many times. This sensitive shit made him too vulnerable. He couldn’t run away. He couldn’t kill himself because he was just plain chicken shit scared. He hated to admit it, even to himself.

There was just one thing left he could do. He could be the asshole that all women seemed to fall for. He could try out an entirely new image. Nobody would fuck with him, now. It could be his little experiment. He could finally get a taste of what it feels like to be normal, be one of the boys. Yeah, perhaps that’s what she had been saying all along.

And so I found a lovely little hair salon…

2007-05-02T23:45:00.000-07:00

And so I found a lovely little hair salon (AKA salunu AKA ko moriring) there by the bundu burbs of deep Pretoria North where my mommy has settled down. I'm thinking, this is going to be an interesting experience, when I walk through the dark and lovely/sun silk poster-filled-once garage-now-budding-hair emporium. I’m thinking, I seriously need to get these braids done here cos I know I ain’t gonna find them cheap ko Rosebank.

But fact is, I’ve never liked hairdressers simply because they tend to have a whole lotta attitude despite the fact that you are paying them a considerable amount of money for their service. It's a freakin business transaction for crying out loud...But the more I blog the more I realise just how traumatic childhood experiences have had a significant influence on how I turned out as an adult.

FLASHBACK TO THE GOOD OL’ DAYS: I have an aunt, who once, after deciding that teaching wasn’t quite for her, went with the tide and got herself a hair dressing certificate from some fly-by-night establishment in the city centre. Back then it was all the buzz so you ’d find one of these at every corner you turned. So after successfully completing the (very short) course, she came back home and alas, there was no long line of people waiting to pour their money into her newly acquired skill. Left with nobody willing to pay for her services, she started “practicing” on her helpless nieces and nephews. And so “the soft and (oh so) free” was bought in bulk and the honing of a recently acquired skill began.

I always had my hair relaxed when I was younger. It was just the right thing to do for any dignified female, young and old, alike, ko lekeisheneng. I never liked it. And it’s not because I didn’t like the way it looked on me. I just couldn’t stand the heat! The damn thing was hot. Too many times the thing stayed on for so long that it fried my scalp leaving me with pieces of skin peeling off of it, scarred for life, I tell you. Ouch…and then there’s the maintenance…All that oil moisturizer everyday, everywhere, on your pillow, for pete’s sake please can I play in the sand, water and run in the rain, without worrying if my hair is going to get ruined. But what I hated most was that I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

You can imagine that when my aunt started experimenting on our heads, I was livid. Now my mother didn’t have to pay for my hair to get done. Happy happy Christmas, the salunu was right in our house 24/7. So every time my aunt noticed a little bit of growth (AKA kaffir haar) starting to show, it was time for a relax. And so we suffered through the fire, the combing out of the growth to make it as straight as possible before you jump off the chair and run to the nearest tap to wash the damn chemical off cos it’s burning now and you feel like your brains are about to pop out of your skull. No matter how much we cried from the pain, she’d keep at it. Because: Bopila bo a llelwa (basically, you have to suffer for beauty). I remember my brother cried once during an s-curling session. The biggest challenge was to try your damndest not to cry, no matter how much it hurt, because you’d become the laughing stock of the entire clan. Believe me, we always sat there and waited for the tears to come. It made us feel better about our own pain, I guess. Shame, the s-curl must have really really hurt. I don’t think he ever let anyone do that to him again.

So when I could finally leave home and live on my own far far away from the tub of soft and free relaxer, I too vowed never ever to do that to myself. I guess the older I got, the more the reasons transcended the pain it involved, what with newer inventions that only burn your hair and not your skin along with it.

FLASH FORWARD TO 2007. I’ve just done a bad job of cutting off my own hair and I desperately need a professional but not expensive braiding job. At the sight of my hair, the lady (my only hope), pulls a face, starts scratching her long nails through my “kaffir haar” and asks: “Wena, ke eng mo?” like she’s touching an old piece of fish. I don’t answer because I’m pretty sure, from looking at and touching my hair that she knows exactly what it is. My pride’s telling me to walk out of there and make another plan. My vanity on the other hand…

So, we agree on a price and the easiest, least painful style she can pull off with such a disappointment of a head of hair. I’m like, cool sister, I shall stay here and listen to you moan about the texture of my hair while Michael Buble and Atomic Kitten blare through your speakers (stru!) It’s fine. I want look nice, nice! I shall go with the groove.

And so, throughout the entire ordeal, she moans and moans. I keep quite, fighting back the feeling to get up from that hard, ass-numbing chair and walk right out of there, straight home. But I can’t, what with a quarter of my hair with these things attached to it. I didn’t have the energy. And my mother would have to explain my behaviour to them long after I was gone. She’d probably have to find another garage to do her hair. That wouldn’t be nice. These are the thoughts that go through my mind as I sit there listening to this not so nice lady talk about my hair. And then, to top it off, she starts going on about how big my head is, how she’s never going to finish, as if it was the first time I was made aware of the largish nature of my head. In my head, (yes, this big one of mine) I’m thinking, I’m paying this woman. Where in the world does she get the nerve to say these things? But I sit…because of my vanity of course and the fact that the shit she’s doing with my hair is starting to come together in a really nice way.

The entire experience is made even more unbearable when they ask me what I did with my severed locks. HUH???? It turns out that you can sell or donate them, once you’re done with them of course, so that they can be attached to someone else’s hair, so they don’t have to wait years and years for their own hair to grow. HUH???? Ewwww…!!!!! Just as this whole thing sinks in, I notice that the other hairdresser is spotting a full head of locks but the hair closer to her scalp doesn’t quite look like the hair at the end of her neatly tied ponytail. I am freaked out and decide not to find out any more about this new technique in the world of hairdressing. Tjo!

Eventually she finishes the job, and it looks damn nice, and I’m glad despite all her bitching. I leave, but not without giving her a big tip to compensate for the texture and size of my head of course. Emotional blackmail, I tell you. When I get back home and look in the mirror, I’m glad that I didn’t lose my temper, like I normally would when getting really bad service.

I guess it’s the nature of hairdressers. They know that you want to look pretty and that if you throw a tantrum, you just won’t. Straight and simple, really. It’s one of the biggest power trips in history. I guess those of us who choose not to get our hair relaxed are worse off. The choice to keep my hair in its natural state makes me a hairdresser’s worst nightmare and it irks me to no end. Solution: I don’t know, man. I could slap somebody, but my mama didn’t raise me that way (plus I’m probably the biggest sissy in the entire world)! I could keep my hair locked forever, which is a great beautiful long term plan. Or I could, during this experimental phase, find the biatch in me and reciprocate the nastiness. But I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t help. I found out, after she had left, that the very respectable looking lady who sat next to me while getting some kick ass West African type do, came crawling back in shame after once telling these people she was never going back to do her hair there. Of course, they laughed at her after she had left – an evil, nasty shriek, it was. Bopila bo a llelwa, ka nnete!

2007-05-02T08:47:00.000-07:00

I woke up early on Friday morning, in desperate need of some good ol' mommy love. The desire to escape was overwhelming. Despite the millions of big city long week activities that were before me, I just didn't want to be here. So much so, that the chill of that winter morning couldn't stop me. I knew that if i partook in the partying, I'd go right back to where I no longer want to be and trust me when I say, that ain't no place to be for anyone. And so I wept, because my decision meant that I would not get a chance to see friends I haven't spent time with in a while, people I missed dearly. But I knew that it was something I had to do....

And so I went home in an attempt to escape the rush. I don't go home often, despite the fact that home is just in Pretoria. So it's always quite a thing to go back there and be in a completely (nicotine and alcohol starved) mode. I never think I'll survive, but somehow, I always do.

It was great...All I had was my very funny mother who keeps me entertained and knows when to let me be when I just want to chill. And so I read, slept, cooked, laughed, chilled hard, drank a lot of green tea and felt completely at peace with myself. I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to think about coming back to whatever I was running away from. I started thinking that it would be great if i just stayed there for a while. Wouldn't it be nice to just run away...and never come back?

And then Sunday comes. My brother comes to fetch me, taking me right back to Jozi mode. I have a good ol' time with the boys and long after everybody has left, myself and my beloved brother from another mother, start drinking like there ain't tomorrow, as we always do when we're together. I can feel my weekend of sobriety quickly slipping away.

The next morning, comes the hangover from hell and the realisation that I can't run away forever...and that I have to deal with shit.....But I know that my mother is there when I need her...and that I have my brother from another mother too...and my beloved wise friend who always knows what to say...but above all, i have me, my shit, and a whole lotta dealing to do, on my own...

The Light...

2007-04-23T00:52:00.000-07:00

I'm obsessed... again...with Pharoah Monche's "The Light". I happen to think it's one of the most legendary love/lust/mack hip-hop tracks in history!

"no cock-blocking please, this one's mine" LOL!!!!!!!

"She could serve me pain all night...And I could tolerate....I'm her horizon, right...But in the night, though...Night glow type shit"

Ha ha ha!!!!

Killa killa lines....

Remembering Koko…

2007-04-23T00:36:00.000-07:00

Remembering Koko…

I remember her very vividly. I remember her scent...a mixture of onion and cocoa butter. She was a large woman, full of warmth. I remember how I used to lie on her bed, resting my head on her big arms. It was damn nice.

I remember how she woke up at the crack of dawn, every single morning, to do whatever it was she thought she was supposed to do. Sweep, make porridge, make lunchboxes, sweep some more, get on her knees and scrub the floors. I always wondered where she found the energy. I guess it kept her going, even though, we told her numerous times that we had in us enough energy to get all the chores done without her. Despite how tiny that one-bedroomed apartheid structure of a house was, there was always at least a dozen pair of hands at any given time. But she never wanted to relax, she didn’t see why she should. I don’t think she knew how.

I remember how she called oranges, oronjes. We always used to laugh at the way she said things. She didn’t like that.

I could get the whole idea of keeping chickens. There were the eggs and of course, a chicken for those Sunday lunches just before payday. But pigeons? Who in the world keeps pigeons? Well, she did. They went off during the day to do their own business and came back at night to sleep. Weird, my grandmother was.

I remember her stories. I remember how she told us about the days of Marabastad and how they were eventually bulldozed to Atteridgeville. I remember eventually reading E’skia Mphahlele’s ‘Down Second Avenue’ and literally being able to smell her off the pages. I could see her chilling somewhere on the street corner right in the middle of the story. I remember how she told us about the various boogie men that terrorized them in Atteridgeville. I always found it weird that all the boogie men came before any of her grandchildren were born. I felt cheated that I would never be able to tell my grandchildren about the boogie men of my time.

I remember how she told us about her children’s shenanigans, about how my mother, in her heydays, was the diva of the hood. There are loads of pictures of her Afro donned fineness. I remember the stories of the ghost ridden village she came from. And of her two sisters that did not live to meet us or our parents.

I remember how she loved cooking for us. My grandmother made the best ‘dibeibi’ (some call them magwenya) in the entire world. I’ve never come across better, and believe me, I’ve searched. I remember her gemmer. Dope ass fermented brew best served ice cold. She made it even when there was no special occasion, all because we loved it so much. And then she’d make cake, cookies, milk tart, everything! And then we’d eat and shower her with compliments. She loved that a lot. I remember her curried fish! Damn! That was nice. It had a thing to it! I’ve searched and searched, and have still not tasted such. My mother tries, my aunt tries, it does not come close. And her mageu…okay, I’m getting really hungry.

I remember how everything had to be done in moderation. When there was all this food and drink, it could be enjoyed, but one day at a time. When there was a sack of “oronjes”, we’d never get one each. She’d slice it in four and distribute the pieces amongst us. If there were six of us, same story, but six pieces. We’d savor the taste and get on with the day. We never questioned it because like she always said, or sang rather, “Tomorrow is another day”. That was her mantra. The food would still be there tomorrow. There was absolutely no need to indulge today, and have nothing tomorrow.

I remember how she loved singing her favourite song with everything she had. “Kgabo Mokgatla” Ha ha…We used to laugh at that too. There was a special jig that went with that song. But she also loved Whitney Houston. She dug the Bodyguard soundtrack deeply. And with every trend that my aunts got into, she joined in. When Boom Shaka was big, she was right there doing her jig. Who can ever forget the New Year’s parties and my aunt’s annual kitchen parties? My very with-the-times grandmother took her groove out and got down with the young ones. We laughed at that too. She liked us laughing at that.

I remember her fahfee days. I remember how we woke up every morning to the question, “O lorileng maabane?” (“What did you dream of last night?) I always felt bad because those days I could never remember my dreams, no matter how much I tried. All my other cousins would have an answer. I never did. I always wondered if they made these dreams up. And so she betted, sometimes won, sometimes didn’t. I remember how our alcoholic neighbour who had become the designated fahfee runner, tried to cheat her out of her winnings. My grandmother knew a lot of fahfee players so sooner or later, word of the winning number would reach her. It turned out that that particular day, my grandmother’s dreams were aligned with that of the MoChina and our not so trusted neighbour decided to claim that another number had come up. As my grandmother would say: “There was hell to pay”! It was hilarious, to say the least.

But mostly, I remember how one day, I woke up and remembered dreaming that I was on a plane to somewhere, I don’t know where. The first thing I did was tell my grandmother, not thinking it would help, but ecstatic that I too could dream. And so she placed a bet on a “big bird”. And what do you know, SHE WON!!! Ha ha! I was the star of that day and many more to come. She bought us something nice with the money, I don’t remember what it was. Unfortunately, such a lucky dream never came my way again, despite constant pestering from my grandmother and our alcoholic neighbour who had also caught wind of my ‘gift’.

I remember how there were so many people at our house, all the time. If it wasn’t her sweets and ice-cream customers, it was the ones coming to buy cold-drink. She had great business acumen. I guess it’s because she had so much warmth. They kept coming back, some so often, they practically became family. I have many many uncles and aunts to prove it. I remember when she used to sell beer. Most of her clients bought and took ‘take-away’, but the most privileged got proper VIP, restaurant type service on our garden furniture under our big big tree. I could never understand why they didn’t just go to their own homes. The spot under the tree was our favourite, so on these days, we could never play there. We were always being sent for something…an opener, glasses, cigarettes, wallets that people had forgotten at home, and things that were totally unrelated to the beer drinking session. “Here are some children. They look bored. I guess, I can send them to go pay the rent that I was supposed to pay, while I chill here under this cool shade and have a cold one.” It had its perks, I guess. We got to leave the yard for a while and often got a 50 cent coin or two out of it. These became my uncles too.

I remember how she cried when my grandfather died. In her heartbroken state, she woke up early the next morning, to collect his pension. It was money much needed for the funeral, she was the only one who was allowed to do it and she knew that if word of his passing got around, it would be months until she’d see that money. It just had to be done. And so she stood in that long queue, straight-faced, pretending that it was just another normal pension-collection day. I was astounded at her strength. But I also remember, how happy she was, when we unveiled his tombstone the following year. Her jig had returned, we’ve got the video footage to prove it.

But these days, I remember her death, mostly. I remember how helpless she looked on that hospital bed. I remember how she hated it so much she no longer wanted to be of this world. She was not used to being helpless. I remember how I cried for her even through my mother’s friend telling me never to cry for the living. I couldn’t help it. I knew, for sure, that she had died. I cried and cried and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. I just knew. I knew when I was with my mother and we were driving past Kalafong Hospital where she had been admitted. I remember the gigantic chimneys on top of the ugly building. I remember the light, white smoke churning out of them. I remember imagining her spirit floating out of the ugly, terrible building where she didn’t belong, right into the air and all the way up to heaven. I remember not wanting to tell my mother that I had just seen my grandmother go to heaven. I knew it would upset her. We got to the house that day, and found out she had indeed passed away. I didn’t have much crying left in me.

All the hundreds of uncles and aunts were there, filling our tiny house, heartbroken. Some heard the news months later, and they came. I remember one particular afternoon when a woman, I did not remember, knocked on the door saying that she had come to see “Mama”. When we told her that Mama hadn’t been around for a while, she broke down in tears. I was amazed at how many people my grandmother had touched.

I miss her, especially on very bad days. I miss feeling like in her death I lost a home. I miss the feeling of finding her in the kitchen. I miss her a lot.

I write to her sometimes. I’m also scared that she can see my shenanigans from up there wherever she is. I wonder what she thinks of me…

The Pursuit of Normality

2007-04-19T00:58:00.000-07:00

The Pursuit of Normality

I was eleven when my life stopped being the perfect picture. I guess the perfect picture is a myth, but my life then, was pretty close to it. It was a dramatic kind of stopping, the type that even eleven year olds can notice as a major life change. I wasn’t ready. I was literally having the school break of all school breaks. We had discovered and invented new games that kept us going from morning all the way until we had to bath and watch TV. The games were so cool that even television had lost its appeal. I was happy and the only thing I could think about was the looming end of school break. It was a perfect time though, a time during the school break, when all the ads are still about Christmas. A time when school seems far far away…..

And then smack in the middle of that high, it ended! Who is ever ready, I guess.

But since then, I have carried this uneasy feeling. The feeling that anything could change overnight, so I better be cautious not to get attached to anything or anyone. After my premature life-change, I grew very weary of humans. My mother was pretty much my only solace. But we all grow older and at some point, leaving the nest is inevitable. And so I went to varsity, scared as hell, wondering whether I’d make it on my own. My brother was always there, but the poor guy also has a life, and it doesn’t always include making sure that little sis is not crying again or coping with adulthood.

And so I made friends, and sort of unconsciously became part of a tight click. I had invested some emotion into other people with whom I do not share a bloodline. Cool, dandy, I am after all, normal. But these were still females, of my age, with similar types of backgrounds, likes and dislikes. It wasn’t too hard.

Of course I was nowhere near thinking about having a boyfriend. Good Lord, I thought, that would mess me up for real. I was happy observing my now close friends’ ups and downs and on and offs with relationships. Such drama! Even though my very limited experience with such did not make me the best advisor or comforter, I was okay with it.

And then, as all things go, I fell for a friend. It was beautiful. Amazing…we had so much in common. I fell hard. I did all those things I swore I’d never ever do in my life but I loved every bit of it. But somewhere between a magical romance and the most hectic break up in history (my limited history, of course), something happened. I guess I became attached. That was never the plan. I did the one thing I feared the most and it had come back to bite me, or so I figured in my head. Mister was all too happy to find magic elsewhere, and me being me, went berserk! I will not withhold the fact that I, too, made many mistakes. It was a crazy feeling. A feeling I always knew would come if I let go, even just for a second. I had…and I didn’t like the results, especially because I had predicted it.

I got a better job and moved cities. REMIX: I found a better job in order to move cities. Distance would sort me out. I’d forget. I closed my doors and never let anyone in again. I moved alright and so did he, soon after. The time between the moves was long enough for me to grow detached and apparently hotter than I was when we were together. And so I tortured him with all I had. Flirted, seduced, lured him in and dropped him as I pleased. If moving cities was not going to cut it, revenge surely would. But even after all of that, I still wasn’t healed. I became even more cautious of getting attached. No matter how much I tried, I’d never let anyone in, except on a physical level of course (way too many times)

Time passed and as all things go, I eventually grew attached again. There was nothing but warmth. I liked it there. It was a nice place to be. So nice that I developed some form of tunnel vision. All I saw was this awesome warm place and nothing else. All I saw was this place that apparently only existed in my crazy mind, I later discovered.

This, as you can imagine, brought out the crazy in me, again. I didn’t like it. This time around, it was messier. It made me feel like I didn’t want to be here anymore. I couldn’t leave. There was nowhere to go. And because this thing apparently only existed in my mind, I was the town madman. All my emotions were laid bare as everybody looked from a distance, in empathy. Shame, she really isn’t coping. Perhaps she’ll get over it. Perhaps it’s a chemical imbalance. And all around me, life went on, except for mine.

And so I did all the embarrassing things I thought I’d never do again. And all those things came with their own hangovers making the whole thing a huge mess. But the will to get over it fast in order to get on with the business of life, dawned on me. I had to let it go and reinvent another security measure. I’m still trying to figure out what it is, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be letting people in on a physical level. I’m glad that I at least grew out of that one, thank God.

But I’m obviously wounded and have no sense of relationships. I’ve just never known how to do them with caution or restraint. I truly think my DNA is faulty. When the almighty was handing out the ‘normal’ gene, I totally got skipped. I must have been out partying or perhaps I overslept that day. It scares me to no end. It scares me that I have a fear of intimacy and that I view giving into it as a sign of weakness or failure.

I cannot imagine who in the world I’ll click with. I cannot imagine that they won’t see me as a psychopath. I cannot imagine wanting to ever entertain the idea of it. I cannot fathom, no matter how much I try, being in a normal relationship. I’ve heard, over and over again, that one needs to be okay with oneself before they can be with another. Perhaps I am okay with myself, when it’s just myself and myself alone.

So on that note, I pose these questions: What if I am not wired to be okay with myself in order to be with another? What if it is in my genes to never be comfortable with my own insecurities enough to show them to somebody else? What if, there is no one in this entire world, who’ll be able to accept me for the psychopath I have proven to be?

Some would suggest psychiatric inspection while some would try to comfort me with clichés like “there is someone for everyone”. But I know I have issues. I guess the problem is that I’m not okay with the idea of normality. Perhaps my resistance to be normal will eventually lead me to eternal spinsterhood. Me and spinsterhood wouldn’t work out, either. I’d be companionless for the sole reason that I’m just not a pet kind of person.

I mean, is the very act of posting such a personal blog, not psychopathic in itself?

PS: I foresee that this hecticness too shall pass and I will be writing about arb things like birds and traffic, sooner than I thought!

Today I love more than I don't

2007-04-16T23:43:00.000-07:00

I love...

I love the scent of rain and soil
I love that most people love the scent of rain and soil
I love sunshine, in all its forms, with all my heart
I love the sound of my mother’s voice on the other end of the line, on a bad day
I love the impending birth of my very first niece (or nephew, of course)
I love being in the middle of a heated, often crazy, funny discussion with “the boys”
I love it when people who know me well say things I am already thinking
I love laughing about absolutely nothing...and about bad times that have now passed
I love cold fresh pineapple juice on a hot day, when I least expect that the restaurant of my choice serves it
I love those who keep me in check, tell me the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it.
I love the phrase: “I get over the highs…”
I love music… a lot…
I love memorable movies that I can watch over and over again and never get bored
I love the memories I have of my grandmother
I love that my brother is my memory bank, lest I forget
I love fresh grapes….and red wine
I love a good party, so good that my body hurts the next morning from all the dancing
I love taking long walks...
I love meeting new, crazy cool people that I never thought existed
I love uninhibited fantasizing sessions with my friends
I love waking up to the memory of a crazy, out of this world, complex, Matrix type dream
I love our flat…it’s big and sunny...and I have a room I can retreat to and be with just me...and someone else, occasionally.
I love the fact that I am able to take time out of my days to do something as self-indulgent as blogging
I love the fact that I can type almost as fast as I can think

I don’t like, so much:

I don’t like, so much, that I smoke so much
I don’t like, so much, that I hardly ever do what I plan to do
I don’t like, so much, that I live in the now so much
I don’t like, so much, that I am afraid so much
I don’t like, so much, that I can be very self indulgent
I don’t like, so much, horny construction workers that hurl nasty come-on lines at me when I’m taking the walks that I love so much
I don’t like, so much, cold feet
I don’t like, so much, the idea of me wearing heels
I don’t like, so much, mean ass hairdressers with issues (mnxim!)
I don’t like, so much, my mother being broke…
I don’t like, so much, being ill….and hospitals
I don’t like, so much, the fact that everyday I find it harder to recognise my own hand writing.
I don’t like, so much, the creeping claustrophobic feeling of living in Jozi
I don’t like, so much, that I cannot afford to travel
I don’t like, so much, the phrase: “I don’t like, so much”
I hate that this post is much longer than I intended it to be…

One more thing that I love? I love that there are more things I love than there are things I don’t like so much….today, that is!

I cut my hair...

2007-04-16T23:42:00.001-07:00

I had been toying with the idea of cutting my hair for months for purely cosmetic reasons. I kept postponing it out of the fear that the flat back, dropped-on- the-head-in-infancy shape of my head would not be too flattering. On this particular morning, I woke up feeling the urgency to cut it all off. It was post a crazy episode-filled night. My emotions were high but this time around I could not cry, no matter how much I tried. I couldn’t send rage-filled smses that would leave me embarrassed the day after, either. I thought about jumping off the four story high balcony of our flat but I knew I wouldn’t make a pretty corpse and “a girl must be pretty at all times”. I couldn’t bring myself to slit my wrists. I didn’t know how, and deep down inside, I feared I’d survive the whole thing and end up with really ugly wrists….people would stare…and wonder…..why did she do that to herself? Perhaps it was the feeling I had long been waiting for. I knew I didn’t want to die. I knew that the craziness was way too crazy to die for. I knew that the craziness had finally ended and I had to start putting it behind me…

It is then that I took a pair of sharp paper scissors and began dabbling with the idea of cutting off my long beautiful locks. I looked in the mirror and noticed a certain beauty about my hair I hadn’t noticed before. My locks were long, even-sized…they had a glimmer to them that seemed to scream: “Don’t you dare do it” Without thinking too much about it…I put scissor to hair and started snip-snipping away. After cutting off the first chunk of hair in the front, I realised what I had done and wished I hadn’t done it but knew that I did not have the courage to go out in public with five locks missing from the front of my head. So I continued and the experience suddenly became very liberating. I felt like I was peeling off a layer of skin that had gone dead and had been hanging on my body for way too long, making me look old and haggard. After a while, it became a more practical exercise. Does the right side look much higher than the left? Is it too short? And most importantly, do I look like I was dropped on my head when I was a baby?

I guess all of this didn’t matter. My hair was off my head. I was probably not going to be greeted with “Greetings, irie sister” when I walked through the Rosebank Rooftop Market. I would probably not get the usual “Ooh, your braids are so beautiful. How do I get my hair to do that?”, from ignorant white people. I wouldn’t be able to have my hair in a ponytail and let a few locks fall onto my forehead fringe-style which always worked for evening events. My head no longer had much hair on it. To top it off, there was a visible bald patch just above my left ear (everybody makes mistakes). This was hairless me and sooner or later I had to get used to it and bring my sexy back quick and a fast!

I’m not going to go on about it like it was a life-changing experience. But I do believe that our hair does carry our burdens or the energies that come with them. There is a great feeling of control that comes with cutting off one’s hair. There is also a feeling of lightness and the hope of new beginnings. I don’t regret it one bit. It served its purpose…

Next time you see me on the streets, though, I hope to have gotten the hot, sexy braids that sometimes come to me in my dreams! HOLLA!

I'm going to be an aunt

2007-04-16T23:41:00.002-07:00

AKA The boy who cried wolf is about to be a daddy!

The news came as a surprise. People were going about their lives and then all of a sudden there’s a baby coming. This happens to everybody though, so at some point one accepts it and hops onto the ‘celebrations and excitement’ bandwagon. Yay for baby! But not when it comes to this particular person.

My brother has been pranking me from the day I was born, I believe. We are three years apart and my mother says that she always had to keep an eye on me because she thought he’d do weird things to me. He was playing jokes on me way before I knew what a joke was. So as the seasoned prank victim I have grown to become, I did not buy this baby story for one bit. I was not about to fall for yet another one. I knew better! I’ve been pranked many times by this person. I’ve run around googling things I believed to be true when they were actually things he had made up to entertain himself. Let me give you a very brief background of my run-ins with the master prankster himself.

Flashback: This then naïve, sheltered and closed-minded chick from the depths of Pretoria, (“ko bo daai man”), was once, on the eve of her first trip to the mother city, fooled into thinking that the south westerly blows so hard that there are rails lining the streets of Cape Town for people to hold on to when they go about their daily business. (to avoid being blown away, of course). I was told, in detail, of a particular unfortunate fellow who forgot to hold on to the rails and subsequently got blown away, right onto the front of a moving bus. You can only imagine what became of him. “The story was even in the newspapers.” I was told. It was only when I got to Cape Town that I realized, with a lot of embarrassment, just how ridiculous the whole idea was. But I’m not the only one.

Many can attest to the perfection of these pranks. I once colluded in one. My poor younger cousin once had the misfortune of visiting us for the summer holidays in Soshanguve. Nothing much happens in Soshanguve if you’re not allowed to play anywhere beyond the confines of the fence that surrounds your house, which forced us to be very creative with how we entertained ourselves. On one very hot weekday, the prankster himself decided to climb into our broom cupboard, chilled in there for a while and emerged with the most amazing news. He had been transported to a world far beyond the boring one we were stuck in. By then, I was a seasoned prank victim and could spot them from a mile away. So I decided to give someone else a taste of the oh-so delicious prank pie that I had been force-fed for way too long. I too went into the cupboard and verified this story about a world where houses were made out of chocolate and all sorts of goodies. People slept on beds made out of cheese, using polony as blankets. What a world it was! By now, my cousin was dumbfounded and couldn’t wait for his turn. Being the sucker punch he was, he went into the cupboard, and emerged a couple of minutes later with a look of disappointment on his face. You’d think it ended there, right?

My brother gave me one look of shock and asked: “Where did he go? I can’t see him” This here seasoned prank victim responded in a fake panic: “I don’t know. I think he’s here. He’s just touched me!” My poor cousin began to weep his heart out thinking he had gone invisible. The seasoned prankster did not let it go at that. He proceeded to go into a fake hysteria, pretending to call my poor cousin’s mother to break the terrible news to her. If the poor boy hadn’t thought the matter was serious, that sure brought everything home. He started going into a frenzy, trying to touch us to prove that he was indeed there with us. We kept running away from him, to make the prank more interesting. And so my wailing cousin chased us around the house several times. This was only met with comments like: “He’s here. I can hear him”. I don’t quite remember how we finally gave in to his desperate weeping, but we did and we thought it was the most hilarious thing ever. I don’t think my cousin ever got over that one. I can’t quite remember, but I’m pretty sure he opted to stay home for a couple of summer holidays, much to his mother’s surprise.

So when the very same prankster phoned me some weeks ago to tell me he was about to be a father, I laughed my heart out thinking, “you not going to get me again, bastard” I laughed hard at the parents to be, making sure that they knew I was on to them. They proceeded to tell me that if I didn’t believe them I should ask my mother, whom they had apparently already told. I called my mother and told her that I knew my brother was trying to pull a fast one on me, but I wasn’t buying it so she better come out and say it so that we don’t unnecessarily waste my airtime. My mother sounded shocked……Jesus, these people are good. They had even gotten my poor mother to lie for them, in the name of self-amusement. Sies…! But the poor woman was not budging. She was good…very good, it seemed. So I pulled the ultimate prank breaker and called the perpetrators back to tell them that my mother eventually broke and told me it was all a prank. Nice try, but they needed to try much harder. I waited for them to accept defeat…..Nothing! “What do you mean?”, they asked, “It’s not a joke.” It was then that I started thinking: “Okay, enough now. This is too crazy for a Sunday night, could these people be that bored?” So I called my mom back to try one more time to get the “truth” out of her. Nothing…

It eventually dawned on me that these people had actually genuinely just called me to let me know that I was indeed about to be an aunt. I was embarrassed, to say the least. I mean, who in the world reacts to such news in that way? I begged them not tell their baby that this is how her aunt reacted to the news of her existence (I really think this one’s a girl). What in the world would the poor child think of me? I must admit that it only started sinking in when other people started talking about it. But to tell the truth, I only really really really believed it when I saw the scan prints and the bulging tummy. The boy who cried wolf is about to be a father, indeed.

I am ecstatic. I can’t wait to meet her (or him, of course).

But even after all… this seasoned prank victim is still very cautious of the master prankster and his tricks.

I fell ill a couple of months ago

2007-04-16T23:41:00.001-07:00

I fell ill a couple of months ago, landed up in hospital and stayed there for four days. I will not go into the details of this excruciating experience but hope that the torture will spawn a hot movie script or drama series. When I did come out of the hospital though, apparently healed and ready to get back to my old self, I had lost a whole lot of weight. My clothes no longer fit. Not even my panties fit! I was depressed. I was no longer the fresh faced chubby cheeked me I used to be.

And so I went into the real world…with my clothes hanging off my body. I was met with compliments about how hot and lean I looked, these days. Which diet was I on? Was I not happy that I had lost so much weight? Ooh, aaah…blah blah blah. SHUT UP! I am ill! I do not like this body I am in! I saw the pictures and that is not my idea of sexy. My boobs have deflated. The little booty I used to have has sommer net disappeared. The clothes that I love do not fit anymore. My eyes have sunk into my skull and that’s the worst thing that could happen to these beautiful big eyes. No, I do not want to be rake thin.

But mostly, I was met with shock from people I know. I could not bear the endless comments about how thin I looked. Was I ill? What did I have? I had to explain this terrible experience I wanted to forget to everyone I knew, over and over again. I was told that I did not look myself (like I did not know that already.) Was I on vitamins? Am I eating properly? Do I have AIDS? Yes, some did ask this even if it was in jest. And I know some asked themselves in my absence. SHUT UP! I already know these things you are telling me so I don’t need to hear them over and over again. Stop bugging me with your concern about my health, weight blah blah blah! Yes, I am well aware of the fact that the little booty I used to have has sommer net disappeared. And no, dear friend, I do not have AIDS not that it’s any of your business.

I know I’m ranting and have sorta lost the point. I guess that is the point of a rant but the initial purpose of all of this was to say something to this effect: Losing this much weight has taught me to love the body that I have (or used to have?). I used to wish to be thinner, be able to wear things I couldn’t wear. I thought it would be great if my curves would be just a little narrower. I thought it would make me feel better about myself.

Now? Well, now I want my booty back and I want my boobs to go back to their original upright full position. So I am going to take a friend’s advice and use this as an excuse to “munch munch munch”. Yummy yummy, indeed….I’m working on it!

He probably wouldn't notice

2007-04-16T23:39:00.000-07:00

It was morning….it didn’t matter ….the deed was done…if she took another swig of that wine from last night, she’d feel just a little bit more numb. Nobody had to know….what was the big deal anyway? Shit happens…Now, where in the world could her panties be? If she hadn’t gotten them from Victoria Secrets last Christmas she was in New York with you-know-who, she’d leave them behind. She knew that if she sneaked out now, he’d continue to snore his life away. He wouldn’t notice, would he?

Yeah, he probably wouldn’t notice …the deed was done…what was the big deal anyway…

She did not like the way he sprawled himself across the bed as if he had been sleeping alone. It said to her that he didn’t even care if his smelly un-pedicured foot was resting on her newly facialled forehead. Who raised him, anyway? Glancing across the immaculate bedroom filled with expensive but predictable objects, she scans for her 200 dollar pair of panties. You’d think that the orderly nature of the room would make them easier to spot. She was getting annoyed now. Her mother would harp on about how late she always is and seeing that she could always distinguish her yesterday clothes from her fresh-it’s-a brand-new-day-I’m ready-to-conquer-the-world outfits, she had to go home and change before the big family lunch. Her sister would be there, on time, with the perfect potato salad in hand and the adorable children and doting husband. She’d have to do a huge panel-beating job to get rid of the hangover.

He stirs, slightly. A few seconds pass ….and he’s back to snoring…She stares at him in a slight panic and notices the pair of panties neatly wedged between his clean shaven head and the silk cushioned pillow it rests on. Fully clad in the silk black number her well-adjusted older sister bought her for her last birthday, and the stilettos she borrowed from her best friend, she tip toes towards the bed, and slides the underwear out from under his head. He startles out of sleep….takes one look at her….what seems to be a “you’re leaving already?” look. For a second, she expects him to beg her to stay….He goes right back to sleep, this time spreading his long, athletic legs right across the bed but not before mumbling: “Lock the top latch. There’s some expensive shit in here!”

She gives him a zap sign, but he’s already back to slumber, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? Yes, as much as she knows he’s a prick, it hurts. She’s pretty. Not bad looking at all. She gets the guys to look, every single time. She’s not stupid either. Holding down a new managerial position at one of ABA’s biggest branches is no small fry. And she spends just enough time on the internet to hold down a conversation about “issues of the world”. Mnxim…his arrogance makes up for his pinky sized dick. Shame…money can’t buy you everything, she thinks.

She walks out of the fancy, inner-city apartment building, not forgetting to lock the top latch, of course, and into the hustle and bustle of taxi infested Johannesburg. She stumbles onto a hawker’s vegetables stall as the hot Sunday sun blinds her vision. Fuck, how she wishes she’d hadn’t left her Chanel sunglasses on her office desk! The judgmental stares and sniggers from older women coupled with the sexual hooting and tooting from the men lining the street, force her to take out her box of Stuyvees and light one! Let them fucken judge her now…She was planning to quit…but work’s so hard these days, and it’s the only way she can be ‘friendly’ with her subordinates …If she hadn’t written off the Tazz, she wouldn’t be subjected to this bullshit. What was she thinking? That he’d take her home…? Where the fuck are the taxis to Bramley anyway……?

The dust had to be settled for a while

2007-04-16T23:37:00.000-07:00

The dust had to be settled for a while

…it had reached storm proportions.

But with every chaotic experience comes some sort of lesson, right?

This is mine:

I have come to learn the purpose of blogging and clarify mine.
1. This blog is not done out of malice

2. This blog shall not be used to hurt the ones I love.

3. This blog shall not be used to inflate undeserving egos.

4. This blog is for all to read (hmmm…think I should take this one back)

Now that that’s out of the way, I’m putting up new posts. I have decided to keep all the old posts in the private domain except for one. Even though I kept my thoughts out of cyberspace, I kept a private blog on my laptop. Please bear with me as I am posting a whole chunk at one go. Enjoy my craziness!

And in the words of Jay-Z (or what I remember them to be): “These are my thoughts…just my thoughts, ya’ll.”