Write a letter to your best friend

I don’t have a best friend. I have a 2-woman army consisting of the sexiest, most intelligent, most loyal, most anointed women in my corner; every day of the week, every hour of the day. They love me when I don’t deserve it, forgive me while I struggle to forgive myself, they smile for me when I’m too busy crying and cry for me while I convince the world I’m okay through a blinding smile. This is my army, my girlfriends, my sisters.

Dear Sizo

You and I were unlikely friends. I remember I was feeling out of place in Durban. The city didn’t embrace me, didn’t evoke the “home away from home” feeling I so desperately craved. We lived on the same floor in our first year of varsity; I remember always walking past your cubic and mentally cringing at the sounds of loud conversation punctuated with raucous laughter. Always wondering about this girl who always had people around her, while I was busy wondering about this I walked past you and a friend of yours, I was trying too hard to act like I couldn’t see you that I kicked your glass containing your special beverage over. After you fainted in mock horror we became friends. You’ve been there for me so many times, more than I’ve even tried to be there for you. You’ve defended me when people tried to deny my awesomeness. 2 years younger than me but always protecting me like I’m the younger one (I may have acted it a few times as well). I love you hard, publicly, selfishly and completely.

Dear Coco

My sassy, streetwise, sharp-tongued friend, I fell in love with you the first day I saw you. You had a curly hairdo, wore a loose-fitting pink top and black cropped shorts. You seemed to know everyone, you breezed into the registration room like the hurricane of sunshine that you are, flashing smiles and flicking hellos with your hand. I couldn’t help but smile when I looked at you. You and I became firm friends as soon as you decided you wanted a Swazi friend in your life. I learnt from you, I still learn from you. There have been times when I’ve had problems only you can fix. I remember one time, I had the curtains to my room closed, door locked, Beyonce’s “Resentment” playing loudly and I was crying like a baby on your chest, you didn’t ask, you didn’t judge, your arms were amazing at making me feel like it would be okay, the tears that ran down your own cheeks promised me it would. My life wouldn’t be the same without you. When you’re around I laugh harder, I always feel protected and always feel appreciated.

My army!



Introducing me

I grew up as an average child. I say that with no trace of self-pity at all. My grades were average, my looks were average, my athletic abilities were average, I’m sure you get the picture, I just didn’t stand out. I was friends with an overwhelmingly smart girl, Nolwazi Gumbi, she intimidated me because I always felt like one day she’d see that she’s talking to someone not quite as clued up as she was; so more often than not I kept quiet whenever classroom topics were being discussed and mulled over my opinions in my head. In grade 1 I won a book prize for academic excellence, I’ve never won one since because I couldn’t allow myself to be that smart, couldn’t allow myself to be under scrutiny. I wanted to remain unthreatening. At least I hope that’s what it was.


In Grade 7, which is where the opinion of boys starts to matter, no? Just me then. Okay. My best friend was a precociously beautiful half-Portuguese, half-Mozambican girl who was never fully aware of how her looks affected the people around her. Carla dos Santos was all amazing everything in my eyes, the most astounding thing about Carla was that she actually wanted to be my friend, she thought I was funny (I was hilarious), she’d call me after school and we’d talk for hours about nothing and boys. The fact that my dad was super strict and wouldn’t let us go anywhere or do anything didn’t deter her. When we were together naturally she got all the attention, which was fine with me, at least I was next to her. In Primary I had another friend, Siviwe Motsa, even before I knew what “sexy” meant I fully understood that Siviwe was it. Small pert breasts, flat stomach, perfectly tapered hips, legs that went on for miles and she was as skinny as a lamp post (she also carried nice lunch to school). Siviwe, Carla and I were friends a clique of sorts. I was the average Jane in the group, which was fine, because I had a group.

Carla dos Santos, Primary school everything

Hlengiwe Mahlalela, the stray friend

I was also friends with a group of girls I went to pre-school with and another girl we picked up in Grade 5. Nolwazi Gumbi, Nomkhosi Dlamini and Hlengiwe Mahlalela, they all had niches, I was the background music, the “and friends”, they were Diana Ross and I was the forgotten Supremes. But it was fine, I had friends. When we got to High School I remember we solidified our friendship by coming up with a name for ourselves, armed with this totally idealistic name (which I’m deliberately not posting because we’ve all made mistakes) we made the decision to dance at one of our school’s talent shows. I have no coordination whatsoever but I got up on that stage and danced. I shudder just thinking about it. So much for remaining in the shadows.

My whole way of thinking was, because the world didn’t see me I wouldn’t try to make it. I was fine in the background, observing. Insecurity has always been safe for me. I forced myself to be aware of my flaws so that by the time people realized I’m flawed at least I got there first. I forced myself to be insignificant so whenever people treated me like I was it wouldn’t surprise me. I refused to have an ego so people would have nothing to hurt. I was all jokes, Queen of comebacks and no self-esteem. My teachers didn’t help either because they kept saying “Nono you’re such a good reader” which just confused me, because what does that mean in the real world. But when I was alone I took out those easily given compliments and looked at them against myself and tried to reconcile them, make them match.

When I got to high school I suddenly became good at sports, I tried not to shine too much though because I was just as surprised as everyone else. At the same time I was also dealing with Carla not going to high school with me, I inherited the tragedy that struck her family and it stayed with me for the longest time. My 12 year old self was used to being there for people so I was there for her as best as I could. I was confused then when I seemed to gain athletic powers way beyond my hand-eye coordination capacity. But here it was, I was good at netball, I was a good runner, I played good volleyball, I was chosen to represent the school for long jump. It was an unfamiliar neighbourhood; it was hard to move out of Average Avenue. In Grade 9 I was asked to play for the senior 2nd team netball team, suddenly I was a little bit better at something than my peers. I couldn’t cope so I played it down in front of my friends, when I was alone I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered how. Could it be that the magic I read about in my youth about the loser becoming the hero was happening in my own life? I didn’t dwell on it for too long but when Linda Dlamini, the captain of the junior netball team and Seanne Boxall-Smith, the captain of the junior hockey team started playing tug of war with me, each trying to convince me why I should play their sport, it blew my mind. I didn’t know how to tell them that I wasn’t worth it.

Suffice it to say Seanne’s promises of the hockey team travelling more than the netball team didn’t work, Linda won me over and about 2 years later we became one of the best netball teams Sisekelo High School has ever had. We have trophies to prove it. It wasn’t only on the sports field where I gained confidence, in my English and History classes as well my teachers began to take notice, they began to engage me in discussions. It was nerve wrecking to have Mr Barry read my essay on Atonement to the class because I was “the only one who seemed to understand what he wanted” that mark that made me blush and smile behind my file was supposed to be my secret. It made me break out in a sweat when Mr Oakes wanted my opinion on Stalin and his five-year plans. But they were relentless they forced me to accept and admit that I enjoyed these subjects, that I enjoyed thinking and I was definitely much better than average when it came to them. Who cares what 2x is anyway?

I haven’t always known that I’m awesome. It’s taken me a long time to accept that I’m an amazing human being (with pretty feet), so when I say I’m awesome all the time, it’s not gloating or vanity it’s because now at 22, I finally believe that I am.

Please find your awesome and share it, unashamedly, unapologetically, loudly and all over Facebook.

Stay beautiful awesome.

10 things I'll never share

I've got the luck of the Irish. No really my second name is MacKensie, mom's side. So anyway I have so many things that I'm grateful for, grateful and take for granted. I'm not big on resolutions but I made one this year, to be more grateful and less entitled. Love someone and tell them, have something and share it. Not in any particular order I want to list all the things I'm grateful for, all the things I want to continue being grateful for.

1. Inappropriate books: I love reading books that poke fun at stereotypes. I was reading an excerpt from "The racists guide to the people of South Africa" a brilliant tongue in cheek book which outlines why black women can't drive, why white men believe they are the most amazing gift to society and how the best way to identify Greek and Portuguese people is by their overzealous hair follicles.

2. My friends: I love them so much, I hardly ever tell them because I assume they understand that I tease them so much because I love them. Isn't that what Primary School was about? When I'm feeling less than my usually fabulous self they share their stories of drunk grandmothers, cheating toy-boys and so on. Total pick me up. Also they think and I'm awesome and I agree.

3. Stupid people: listen stupid people make my life so awesome on bad days. They don't know how to think logically and they assume that just because there's so many of them that I'm the crazy one. The voices and I find this amusing for hours on end. I'm not crazy you're just an idiot.

4. People who take themselves seriously: I'm so grateful for these people because without them I probably wouldn't be the proud owner of my sense of humour it might have gone to someone half as amazing. People who refuse to make fun of race relations because "it's a sensitive issue" make me laugh. It's sensitive because no one wants to rip the plaster off. If you call me black you won't offend me I’ll be happy for you because you're not blind.

5. My Parents: We don't see eye to eye, mainly because I'm taller than my dad and my mom's taller than both of us. I see my parents, see their faults, their shortcomings and because of how acutely I see this I struggled for the longest time to recognise their virtues. I do now; I understand them more, appreciate them more and really just want to give them gold stars for doing the best they can. I didn't turn out too bad did I? Save for that brief spell of juvenile delinquency I'm a child with a halo.

6. My sisters: These girls are the foundations that my whole life is built on. I blog about them constantly so I'll leave that there. They are amazing, amazing is them.

7. The President: Kindred spirits. When someone's been in the periphery of your life for as long as we've been in each others you don't expect for love to live there. I don't know enough words to explain how grateful I am for this blessing, just a bursting heart, a challenged mind and a fulfilled spirit.

8. Inappropriate humour: At our Christmas party last year my rainbow nation inspired colleagues and I were talking about black women submitting to their husbands and George says when he worked in some Middle Eastern country he realised that Indian women are also very submissive, then Candice says "See that just blows my mind. Waking up at 04:00 to make curry just so my husband can have a piping hot lunch! I'm sorry babes you're having a sandwich" I laughed till I cried thank goodness we weren't sitting with sensitive Indians, they proceeded to make derogatory white girl jokes. Joy.

9. Google: I want to find Larry Page and Sergey Brin and personally thank them for being undisputedly amazing.

10. Cook books: I'm a good cook when I'm not fighting off laziness. Cook books make me better and I love them for that.

I promise to love harder, smile more often, cry when it hurts, learn lessons and hug for longer. If I forget do it for me.

I love you. Stay beautiful.

Dear 2010

I loved you. I anticipated your arrival. I had plans for you. You were to be a year of firsts for me and you had no choice but to go along on my ride, adhere to my plans, and bend to my will. If only I knew then what I know now.


I am horrible at sticking to a plan, I get bored with routine but I crave the normalcy of sameness. Either way I was prepared for you. You tried to distract me when you brought me back to Swaziland at the end of your equally sly sister 2009, but I was unperturbed, I was talented and sooner or later someone would have to take notice, I had you on my side, you gave me 12 months, each filled with a generous 30+ days to execute my plan.

What I regarded as a celebration of the hard work I put towards being counted one day happened in April. With my qualification in hand the real world seemed a lot more tangible, a lot less beautiful. I could almost hear you chuckle at my naivety. The qualification meant people expect you to be a contributing member of society but you refused to open doors for me, refused to show me where they were. Still I rise.

You finally opened a door for me in June. Not what I expected, not what I wanted. I sulked, I kicked, I screamed and eventually I thanked God for knowing what I need and for not raising a spoilt child. Blessings are blessings no matter where or how they come into your life. You taught me this.

You presented my family with sickness, turbulence and discord, they hung on us like ill-fitting clothes, we couldn’t shake them off, couldn’t hang them up. We started to accessorise these things you brought us with earrings of laughter, necklaces of stolen joy and bracelets of unconditional love. Oh how we needed that love to be at its most unconditional when you taunted us.

You whittled away at my spirit, your green fingers removed the non-fruit bearing branches in my life, like a perfectionist potter you worked at me, shaping the stubborn clay till it listened to your touch, till it followed your direction. You bullied me, you hurt me, you loved me, and you consoled me.

I lost a grandmother and a brother to you, relentless in your lessons of life. If you didn’t take my gran I would have remained a stranger to my extended family, if you spared my brother’s life I would have kept on taking the little things for granted. Grudgingly I thank you, reluctantly I respect you.

Cloaked in all this pain my heart was still lined in faith. I couldn’t believe you’d be so cruel, so I waited. Then you did something which completely took the winds right out of my sails: you opened my eyes. And then I saw him. What a beautiful surprise. I didn’t know how to thank you for bringing me this man who understood when to cover my heart, when to PG18 my life, how to make my crying face smile and how to make my bleeding soul believe in tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.

This was October when you brought the smile back to my life. Forever in my heart October will be our month. The month you proved you still loved me, that you still craved my smile.

2011 has big shoes to fill, big dreams to walk me to and through. I’m not nervous though, 2011 is related to you and I know you’ve already whispered the desires, fears and aspirations of this faithful heart. Because it still beats, I know I’m in good hands.

I'm not a "dick pleaser"

I hope the title caught your attention. Allow me to demonstrate why Young Money must be quarantined.

I feel I owe it to the world (read: the President) to explain my dislike of Young Money and their jailbird President Lil Wayne.

Where to start; I love words. That's where everything begins really, they excite me, they surprise me, hurt me and soothe me. I love music, the way the melody and the beat curves right round the words to bring about an end product that leaves the listener with a smile, tears in their eyes, anything just evoke some sort of emotion. I'm slightly squint in one eye from side-eyeing anyone who sings along to Young Money, I wasn't born like this so naturally someone's got to pay. My love of music is directly proportional to my love of words, I'm not a jazz fan (which sucks because I've tried so hard to be cultured) for the simple reason that I need the words to connect.

Weezy has a song titled Dick Pleaser feat Jae Millz. Catchy, I'm sure but I could never sing along;

"she dont suck dick but expect for me to eat her.
That hoe crazy man and you dont wanna meet her.
But her home girl Nita swallow cum by the litre."

He doesn't even have the grace to be subliminally mysogynistic. Really if anyone reads this and doesn't understand why Wayne must burn, there's space for two in that fire.

He has another song, which was written for Mother's day and celebrating the wonder that is woman. I was hopeful for a minute there until I read the first line of that song, feast your eyes on this;

A Dedication

"Yo This Is The Dedication To The Bitches To The Women ya Digg

A Bitch Is A Female Dog (Preach)

And They Say A Dog Is A Mans Best Friend"

I'm not equipped to deal with this kind of back-handedness. Besides the fact that his metaphorical use of likening a bitch to a woman is completely ill-advised and in bad taste the last line of this allegorical masterpiece is;

"That Was A beautiful Dedication Right There

To The Women Shout Out To My Daughter Your Daughter Too."

I admit, on some days I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed but did he call his daughter a bitch, excuse me, a female dog which in Young Money Narnia seems to be a compliment? He's got songs with titles like, "Alphabet bitches". Of course he's a genius, I'm just a prude.

Then there's the wonder that is Nicki Minaj. Her song Did it on 'em is about how great she is and how far ahead she is in the game in comparison to other female rappers.

"More talent in my mother fuckin left thumb

She ain't a Nicki fan then the bitch deaf dumb

You ain't my son you my mother fuckin step-son"

Turns out I'm a deaf dumb bitch, I don't even know what that last line means! Seriously though I love female MC's, worship Queen Latifah, Salt 'n Pepa, MC Lyte, the list is endless. Women who understand that fitting into the male dominated genre is not as important as celebrating the beauty of womanhood, keeping your you-ness. MC Lyte has a track called Beyond the Hype, it has the same sort of message as Nicki's Did it on 'em but in a different way, a way the real Hip Hop warriors do it. I recognise a good gimmick and Nicki's awesome at being a temporary distraction.

The reason men populate Hip Hop more than women is because they don't conform to what they think their female fans would want to listen to, they rap regardless, whether or not their flow is sick you'll have ladies in the club, hands in the air talking about how his genitalia will make you say his name.

I have a 12 year old sister, Tema, who loves music, she's not discerning yet so she sings along to what she sees on TV. One day she asked Anele what Beyonce means when she says "it's too big. it's too wide, it won't fit". Anele's mumbled answer was "his ego" Tema, not deterred by Anele's non-committal response asks "but why would she sing about his ego and where won't it fit?" Sincere curiosity in her eyes, she needed to know. Kids need to know and because of this people need to be responsible for their lyrics.

Anyway this was about Lil Wayne, Lord forbid Tema develops a liking for dreadlocked rappers, fresh from dropping soap; however will I explain that when a man calls you a bitch he just means you're a female dog, and dog is a man's best friend so always give him a hug after he says that. Or lick his face. Or pee on his shoes.



The Young Money Crew
http://www.globalgrind.com/

 Thanks Lil Wayne.

Facebook faux pas

I hate surprises. I love the sentiment behind them but the whole not knowing what people have planned is unsettling to me, I wish I could read minds. Anyway because I hate surprises and I'm considerate if nothing else I feel it necessary to outline things which may prompt me to surprise you one day. There are certain qualities I find unacceptable in friends, naturally those same restrictions will be extended to my cyber buddies. Here are a few examples of things that will get you deleted by me on Facebook. Pay attention, you all care about this very much.

•  Posting naked pictures of oneself



http://www.telegraph.co.uk/



My abhorrence of this practice has been widely documented on my own Facebook profile. If you send me a friend request and you look like an upstanding (fully clothed) member of society then as soon as I click on "confirm" you start posting PG-older-than-me pictures, you will be deleted or sat down for a come to Jesus talk.

• Misspelt anything



http://www.websitehustle.blogspot.com/



Another widely documented habit. Seeing misspelt words annoys me to no end. Ryting lyk dis makes no cents2mi eitha (do you have letters missing on your phone/keyboard?). I should also point out that "quit" and "quite" mean completely different things, as do "lose" and "loose". It gives me a headache to decipher what you were trying to say so I delete.

                

•  The TMI updates



http://www.toughcookiemommy.com/



  

These always make me cringe. It's fascinating I'm sure but I really have no interest in just how horny you are, and how you plan to solve this err stiff predicament.

 

•   Invites to events



http://www.ebooke.com/



I am a proud hermit. I have appealed to the Facebook masses not to invite me to functions unless you're sure beyond reasonable doubt that it is something I'd go to. To whoever sent me this bizarre invite last week, a Kama sutra event is not something I'd attend (on Wednesdays).

 

• Weird fetishes that go against my beliefs



http://www.consequenceofsound.net/



I firmly believe in anything that supports the burning down of Young Money headquarters. Everytime I say this it gets me side-eyes but I'm too busy collecting TnT to care. I saw a status update this morning posted by a beautiful girl which read, "Weezy's voice really turns me on". I prayed. Then deleted.

 
 
 
 

• False middle names



http://www.sodahead.com/



Don't give me that look I know for a fact your name is not Sifiso Bedrock Mazibuko and there's no way your girlfriend is Lihle StomptheYard Vilakati. You have coital alignment techniques that result in the bed rocking and she likes the movie we get it.

•    Racist rantings



http://www.morrisonworldnews.com/



Almost immediately after Eugene Terrblanche's death Facebook groups sprang into existence, white people calling black people uneducated, murdering monkeys and black people threatening to rape the mothers and sisters of white people. This perpetuating of stereotypes made me sick to my stomach. I have no time for this, if your fun is found in slurring people of other races, differing sexual preferences, and religious beliefs don't call me. Ever.

You're all too good for this type of behaviour, if you're guilty of any of these things, purge yourself if you don't know how I'll help. Get a 2l bottle of water, a Nora Roberts book, a camp chair and a beach umbrella for you to hold over me while I think of ways to cleanse you.

3 days to the new year!

Stay beautiful.  

Carbs are good for you...taste my loaf

Words have been swirling around in my brain, bubbling in my chest, building up in my stomach but not quite making it to the tips of my fingers so I can find relief. I'm almost suffocated by the goodness that is my life. Through the worrying, the tears, the neuroticism, the bouts of hypochondria, quickly made cappuccinos and fits of uncontrolled laughter my life is all good. So good I wish I could spread it on pieces of bread for everyone and just share a loaf with you guys, or better yet delicious croissants (which I'm learning to make) with a topping of my life.


My dad has been ill for a few days or months depending on whether or not I count the length of time I was in denial for, but he hasn't lost his acerbic sense of humour. He's always been sharp-tongued, quick witted and unhealthily arrogant. So his tongue has been sharper because I imagine it's a sobering thought when Superman realises he's mortal, when he comes in contact with his kryptonite. He has spent the whole week telling my sisters and I not to let anyone come and pray for him because often the people who come bathed in the cloak of concern have really come to grab your cape and show the world. I don't know where his paranoia comes from. "I'm not cultured enough to stop people who come in here with a song, how's about Hi, how're you feeling." Dad.

I inherited my dad's bad eyesight, my mom's naivety, my grandad's insane intelligence (no really) and other awesome things I went shopping for in the gene pool. I didn't realise though that paranoia was inherent. I promise you my younger sister probably has exclusive rights on this. She believes everyone is out to get her and her all amazing everything, her and my dad are a glitch in my "benefit of the doubt" radar. She refuses to share blankets whose history she doesn't know, she won't eat food if your hands look suspect (of if your eye twitches), she won't take a bath unless she's filled the tub or mopped the shower floor with Domestos first. She finds herself turning that cynicism onto members of our family. She is like a wolf with her cubswhen it comes to her family, warding off perceived enemies with a single flick of her perfectly arched brow. She was protective with my father's ailment because people really do wear concern well.  "Game recognises game and you're dressed funny!" Anele.

My other sister, the queen of amazing, the ruler of a land called awesome (I just live there). She is a warrior, a fighter who doesn't need heavy artillery. You look at her and you're thrown by her sweet and child-like demeanour. Put her in hot water and then you cower but not because of her imposing her awesomeness on you but because of how swiftly and effectively she deals with anything that may pose as a disturbance in her pursuit of awesome. Her one "flaw" like everyone in my family is her sharp sense of humour. Whether or not her heart is pumping tears and her intenstines are knotted from worry she always puts other's before herself. Like she did my ego this one night, I tell her about Anele likening my athletic skills to Caster Semenya and she says "sorry what, did she say you LOOK like Caster?" and I blank stare her, flick my hair, file my nails, pat my weave, click my heels (which my superpowers allow me to put on in 0.35 seconds) and through my pout I said "not look like but talented like" and she says "no wait take your glasses off..." then she walked out guffawing the whole way, she may have been mumbling "strike one" the whole way, I can't be sure being one-upped affects my hearing.

The jam on my bread

I've got other siblings, blessings, delicious somethings I call family. I'll blog about them next time, I told you I wanted to share my loaf of life with you, these strong people who dare to find humour where it has no right to exist. This is home. This is my heart.

Stay beautiful.