Somalia and her apathetic audience

Last week I took Twitter user @Sentletse to task for tweeting that South Africa need not bother giving Swaziland aid because Somali’s were starving. I tweeted back “there are starving people in Swaziland as well”, we tweeted back and forth about this and after I logged off Twitter I read up on the situation in the Horn of Africa and I was shamed. My stomach has been in knots since.

He was right to compare, if only to highlight how urgently Somalia needs Africa to hold them. I am an African and I don’t apologise for the fact that my face matches the soil, I celebrate it. But for as long as I can remember I have always had to defend it. It struck me that these beautiful Somali people have been reduced to begging for international aid on their home ground, you’d think it would be readily given. However mutterings of pirates and kidnappings are punctuating the speech of foreign countries that look on. This is how they rationalise not being quick with sending aid.

I hate that issues such as these are often whittled down to race, but you cannot ignore the fact that Japan received aid, Haiti did not or that New Orleans, a predominantly black area still bears the scars of Hurricane Katrina. Somali poet/writer Warsan Shire asked, why does the world seem to believe that suffering goes well with brown faces?

I’ve been nervous about looking at the images of the effects of the drought and famine in Somalia. I’ve read about a woman who lost her children while walking to find food. I’ve read about a woman who could not produce breast milk for her infant son because she herself was malnourished. A mother’s instinct is to nurture and to protect, but how do you do this when nature is unkind?

I have been obsessing over what I can do to make a difference, even if it is to one child, one mother, one family, how can I alleviate the plight of a desperate nation. Even if it is to raise awareness through a blog. Even if it is to harass people to look up and care. It rained alot in Big Bend, Swaziland yesterday and I was anxious about whether it would stop and when it did I became anxious about whether it would return.

No water in Somalia, no food in Somalia but we’re terrified of the pirates. These are Africans, these are our people and they need our assistance – 2 sides of the same coin, one heavy with fear the other laced with compassion. I’m not asking that people go on a fast but I am asking for you to care. Care enough to imagine their suffering as your own and then finding out what you can do to help from wherever you are.

I can’t rationalise apathy, I can’t be comfortable with complacency. Do something. Pray for rain and resilience for the Horn of Africa, food and fight for Somalia and her people. Sitting makes me nervous and anxious and it isn’t making the knots in my stomach go away.

If you’re in South Africa you can call Gift of Givers on this toll free number 0800-786-777.

Long time loves

It's been a long time since I've been here. I've been doing some exciting things and buying some gorgeous shoes. I've been loving in capital letters and in colour. The world has been good to me and honest to Allah I love my life.

I have been thrilled and simultaneously shamed by the world I live in - the turtle-like speed with which the crisis in Somalia is being handled makes me nervous. The blonde, blue-eyed, Christian gunman who opened fire in Norway and how the media has no idea what to do with this information because the man doesn't fit the description they've calved out for villains. If he had a turban and prayed to Allah there might have been a greater uproar from the US, maybe even an invasion on his home country. If he had brown skin it might have been twisted to justify why the help to Somalia is so slow in transpiring, because blacks are bad. Ah God's earth and her people shame me.

I wish I felt less but I come from a line of people who empathise as easily as they draw breath. My grandfather keeps a journal to this day and writes in it every single day, I have words too, though I may misuse them from time to time, they are always there to express my outrage at the things we've accepted as commonplace.

Yesterday I said that I acknowledge that sometimes I'm too serious for 23, I'm working on it. How can I not be serious and ashamed when I can't look Earth in the eye?

Love and ease to all you beauties. I've missed flooding your timelines with my ramblings :)

No. 6

It took me a long time to say that “I deserve to be loved”


I had to go through a street lined with men who knew too much about carnal pleasure

And not enough about love

Men who thought having more than me on his arm was necessary, was a symbol of his manhood

I’ve had to go through men who collected hearts like stones on a pebbled beach

Men who didn’t know how to talk to me

Who thought I’d answer when they called me variations of “bitch”

Men who didn’t know how to hold me

Their hands chaffed me, lips bruised me, everytime they laid me down

It reminded me of Sithembile, a girl whose man only loved her when she was on her back

You could see the reflection of the stars forever imprinted on her eyes from counting them on dark nights while her man loved her from the inside before he moved to another.

Narcissist trumped naïve

Cold, calculated construction of the lowest self esteem

Convincing me that I was too ugly to have expectations

That the scar on my thigh is the reason men can’t look me in the eye

I’ve had to walk through this never-ending, nebulous haze of men

Too young to be called Sir

Too bearded to be set straight

Like calf on new legs

I was unsure of myself

Neophyte at beauty mistaken for brazen nymph

Like clothes that were too big – my confidence was ill-fitting

It had to be altered, I taught myself to keep looking down when a man shouted “slut”

To not flinch when a man raised his hand

To demand more than the missionary when I’m being loved

The men who cracked my heels, sipped my blood and encouraged my tears

Do not understand that being a man is more than just being male

When I get a son I will teach him how to hold a woman’s heart

And how to love her to confidence

Women, we need to love our sons with hands warm enough to keep them from looking for kinship from the guy on the street packing the most heat.

Hug, kiss and encourage freely

Anything to stop this generation of men who treat pregnancy like it’s an STD

Anything to make girls know they deserve to be loved

Not on their backs, or with the ball of a fist

But slowly and patiently till pain bursts into pleasure.

©Nontobeko Tshabalala 2011

Writing and pink hearts...

I am back froma  temporary and necessary hiatus. My life has been going on outside the blogosphere and it has been interesting. new developments that have me excited are happening, opportunistic old men who continue to hit on me are a constant, my family continues to warm my heart with the comedy shows they provide daily, I'm still in love with an amazing man who sees me.

I'm blessed to be here, to be in love with you, you with me and to have words to cement that love. Forgive me for being gone so long. I wrote poems which I would like to share... This one isn't really poem number 5 I just forget the numbering, but for the purpose of this post let's refer to is as that.

No. 5

It’s not that I hate men


It’s just that one of them took something that wasn’t his to take.

Nubile naivety

No guile but all grace

I was new to womanhood and fitting it on for size

When he helped himself to myself.

I’ll never be a blushing bride, or maybe I’ll blush because I left my hymen at the door.

He helped himself to myself and gripped my back as I gritted my teeth

I wouldn’t let him hear my tears. I swallowed them till the saltiness of the Nile ebbed and flowed deep in my belly

How do you raise a boy who takes the life of a girl and flips it over.

Enters without being let in

Drinks without being offered a glass

Turns over chairs and leaves the place in disarray.

And no, I didn’t lead him on

I wasn’t being coy I was being cautious

As he slammed the door and made himself home in myself

Groaning and stretching till he was comfortable

Packing pieces of my dignity in his pocket

I clenched my teeth and thought of my mother

Who never let a man see her tears because daddy didn’t hang around long enough to be introduced to me

She knew men

I was learning.

My heart is like a fist in my chest

And I can’t unclench my teeth long enough to ever let a man kiss me.

To ever make himself home in myself.

©Nontobeko Tshabalala 2011

Dear Gemini

May 21 – June 20


I’m not a big believer in horoscopes but everytime I read about my sign - Gemini, I can’t help but find undeniable spot-on descriptions. The most dominant characteristic of this air sign is versatility. Other character traits of this sign include;

• Good communicators

• Witty

• Intellectual

• Eloquent

I once had a friend call me 2-faced, okay no need for discretion, Pusetso Tlali it was you! I was offended because I loathe duplicitousness and I always try to stay true to who I am no matter what company I’m in. But I guess with age comes self-awareness because I realised that I am 2-faced, but not in the “gossip about everyone and their mamas to everyone who has ears” way, for me it comes in the form that I can blend in with whoever I’m around. My personality’s adjustable. I adopt accents, inside jokes, gestures – it’s a complete transformation, and it’s not a conscious thing on my part, it’s just my need to put people at ease and do the analysing, rather than be the one being analysed.

I wear a lot of different hats and they all fit me well, the only thing that travels with me as I flit from persona to persona is the incurable wit and the need to learn about things, about people.

When a Geminian falls in love they are drawn to a person’s mind, intelligence is attractive to us. This is the most apt way to describe any attraction I’ve ever felt for anyone. My mind craves to be challenged, I enjoy intellectual repartee – to get as good as I give is a quality I look for in everyone. This was honed considerably by being terrifyingly shy as a child – I had conversations with myself, laughed out loud even and as soon as I realised that this was socially frowned upon I began practicing my charm on people. I’ve never looked back.

My bedroom looks like a library, I collect anything that will increase my knowledge. Words, language, eloquence, intellect – that is the way to woo me.

Adversely people who fall under this sign are also;

• Nervous

• Tense

• Inconsistent

• Superficial

• Cunning

This is true because when things go even slightly off-course I obsess about the outcome until I feel I have a handle on the situation.

I am tense only when I’m waiting on something.

The inconsistency can be attributed to the fact that Geminians get bored easily. Restlessness is a part of our nature.

I plead the fifth on the superficiality I really have no time to be, articles need to be written, football coaches to be swooned over, Presidents to be loved.

Cunning – apparently we lie with ease and cover it with our charm. Maybe.

People born under this sign sound flighty and indecisive but that’s hardly the case. I know who I am and I stand firm in what I believe. The versatility in my nature does make me more open-minded to things, people, occurrences and the like.

To play around with common quote “Find my soul and you can have my body, seduce my mind and I’m yours forever”

Date of birth: 4 June 1988. Even at my worst I could never be dull

Poem for her

My mother gave birth to infidelity
Breastfed her till her nipples bled
But Mama, steady heartbeat like an albatross around her neck, she learnt to love her.
That's the only way my father would stay
Mama had to learn to look away.

Mirrors gave me my mother’s eyes
An abyss which echoed the cries of women like us
Women with hips a man can't hold
Women with haemorrages where wombs should have been.

Is it the light as air love I give you that makes it okay for you to come home smelling of her?
You know she left traces of her presence on your back right?
Night-kissed marks where her nails dug into your shoulder.
The moon taunts me with stories of your dalliances, she sees it all.
An audience pregnant with secrets, her biggest ally.

Mama's heart broke around the time her hymen was shattered.
Stars were ripped from her eyes, romance was for fools, she knew this.
When I cried about you her comfort was given through clenched teeth, balled-up fists, tapping feet.
She had no patience for stories of how perfect it was in the beginning
She knew they all ended the same. We're all Eve, we’re all even.
She let my tears fall, let myself give in to the pain she knew intimately
Then she bitterly reminded me that I suckled from the same breasts that bitch did.

Brilliance of mind, cowering of spirit

I made a brave decision today. I'm going to go for something I've been too scared to start. It's scary how much the brilliant truth about ourselves is difficult to face. I'm still scared but I'm venturing regardless. Nothing to lose, everything to gain.

Tell me why

Why is your love so heavy?


Why does it weigh him down?

Why do you give it to him wrapped carefully in your heart when he doesn’t have hands soft enough to carry it?

Why do you conjure up his face and silently wish upon a star for him?

Why does your heart threaten to explode from your ribcage every time he looks at you?

Why do your wine-swirling hands crave to touch the hollow of his neck?

Why does the sunset remind you of the one time he said he loved you?

Why do you love him with your body?

Why did you allow your teeth to be stained with his name?

Why does his name live at the back of your throat?

Why do his promises mean the world to you?

Why is it that when he goes back on his word it feels as though someone has ripped the sun from your sky?

Why do you stretch yourself so thin for a man who cannot teach himself to love you?

Why do you want to write love letters on his stomach with your hot pink nails?

Why is it okay that he loves you in parts?

Why do you let his face live between your thighs?

You gave yourself to him and because of the way you have let him grip your hips you can’t quite look your father in the eye – not when you screamed “daddy” to a stranger.

Your face was buried in a mattress and you let him slam into you and leave his mark on your body, you whispered “I love you” long after he was gone.

I want to know why.
Tell me why.

The lovers who stole my lonely

"Mommy the paper's here" that was me every Sunday morning when I saw the worse for wear company vehicle finally make its way to our house to deliver the South African Sunday Times. I lived for the Sunday lifestyle magazine, frantically turning the pages to the Blondie cartoon strip by Chic Young, Dean Young and John Marshall. Once I found Blondie I walked around the house looking for whichever parent wasn’t too busy to read to me. I was 2 years old and I couldn’t read but those little yellow people fascinated me. I started pre-school in that year and I’d take my magazines, worn and dog-eared from me staring at the pictures and touching Blondie and Dagwood, to school so my teacher could read it to me again.


Like all good stories, that was the beginning of my relationship with words. I’m a journalist and I always tell the story of how I became a journalist as though it were by pure chance. I matriculated in 2005 and I was still delusional enough to think I could be a lawyer – my skin’s not tough enough, I moisturize too much. In 2006 I took a gap year to find my purpose and I stumbled on journalism. That’s how I tell the story but the evidence of me being born to be a journalist was always there.

When I was in Grade 1, my mother left us and left my dad knee-deep in raising 3 girls. My dad loved us but he couldn’t relate to us so that messed me up. I was the poster child of insecurity, like my own secret albatross it hung around my neck and hid in the crinkles of my smile. In Grade 1 my teacher was Mrs Penny Boden. She was friends with my mother because we were neighbours at the time so when mom left I turned to her hard, I don’t think she knows that. Every time she gave me a gold star for acing a spelling test I took that and hid it in my heart, I translated it into still being loveable. She gave me confidence and her belief in me fostered my non-compromising attitude towards perfect spelling. She ruined me for everyone.

In Grade 6 I was taught by Mrs Jenny Barbour, she had a shock of dirty blond curls on her head and was always humming a tune, every class in the school looked forward to being taught by the eccentric headmaster’s wife whose speech was constantly peppered with “old English sayings”. Mrs Barbour nurtured my writing of horrible poetry, she entered me into local and international writing competitions, even though I never won anything she believed my talent was enough to share with strangers. She lent colour to my writing. She gave it weight.

When I got to High School, all short natural hair, small inquisitive eyes and shy unassuming amazing I wasn’t ashamed of my love of words, they served as a refuge when fickle friends weren’t there, they stayed constant when in grade 7 my skirt started to blush and my school tunic became tighter around my chest. Towards the end of Grade 10 an American teacher walked into my life, he was heavy on that Texas swagger. Mr Dixon Barry changed my entire life. He did things with Ian McEwan’s Atonement that I never thought the English language was capable of. He pushed my mind; he asked me questions that I fought to answer long after class was over. I woke up at night because I finally had answers. They always came in a rush and it was always more than one answer with Mr Barry. When he passed on I felt like my writing would always be hollow, echoing with the memory of a man who gave my love of words wings.

By the time I got to the Durban University of Technology and met the breathtakingly beautiful Ayesha Mall I was damaged goods. All these teachers who had loved me with words, kissed my mind till my lips bled they left me for her. She came into my life when I understood what it was to hide behind words. I was a student number and submitted assignments. Ayesha was always strict with me, if I submitted work even an hour late she would deduct marks. She listened patiently, sympathetically to how my memory stick had been formatted or how the printer refused to work, then she’d stretch out her arm and accept my assignment but still keep 5% for herself. I couldn’t be frustrated with her, she used silence the way Mrs Barbour used “old English sayings” I wanted to be perfect for her. I wanted her to sit down to mark assignments, tie her curly dark hair in an untidy ponytail, curl her feet under her, perch her glasses on her nose and walk away remembering my work. I don’t know if she did but I know that her style of teaching made me want to better for me, better for us, in my mind we were a team her and I, relentless on our path to making me the best writer I could be. When I told her I got an internship at Soul Magazine, she gave me a reaction only she could “Oh, well done Nono, work hard and enjoy it. Don’t forget to write to us” knowing her taught me that that was the equivalent of her jumping up and down like I did when I realized she had successfully protected my commas and full stops to finally pass me on to someone else who’d get a chance to add to the page with still too many blank places.

Every time I write these are the four people who split me open. They force-fed me words until I swallowed them willingly. My heart bleeds onto a page everytime I write, I love them more than I love myself sometimes, because they loved me before I could stare at the mirror, look into the insecurity that never quite moved out of the eyes that stared back and loved her anyway. They loved me first.


I love her now



The art of compliments

Giving someone a compliment is the quickest way to boost someone's confidence, this is what I've been told all my life. Everyone likes to hear how smart, pretty, talented and sexy they are. Unless the sexy is accompanied with cat calls and is given by a group of sweaty men at a construction site, I digress. I give compliments all the time, I love it when people smile, I love it more if I had something to do with the smile.

I believe that compliment giving is an art, or at the very least; a talent. Not every one is adept at stroking egos, some compliments leave you cold. Imagine hearing this "you're so smart" smile, blush and do all coqquetish things girls are taught to do right and then "just like your sister, she's so hot where is she by the way" womp womp womp!

I don't know what it is, must be my new perfume but I've been getting a lot of these back handed compliments of late.

Conversation 1
P: Have you thought about kids?
Me: Yes, can't wait to have them.
P: They'll get the looks from me, what are you bringing to the table?
Me: Ah I don't know I can't even guarantee brains.
P: True they'll also get that from me. Babes you have to bring something to the table otherwise we'll have to revisit the contract.

Okay in the light of day there was actually no compliment in there. He boosted his own ego and completely confused mine. Presidents!

At work I get:

Conversation 2
78yr old engineer: My foster daughter's name is also Nono
Me: Pause
78yr old engineer: She's also black
Me: Pause
Then he walked out. I swear he was waiting for me to say thank you!

Conversation 3
Indian Lady: Nono's pretty for a black girl, like with eyes that small, a nose that big and lips that pouty you'd think it wouldn't work. But it does.
I laughed because really...? I thought she was joking, but apparently with features like mine I shouldn't own a mirror. But it works dear anonymous person from Conversation 1! It works!

Then I filed my nails, flicked my weave and winked at myself in the mirror because no one else gets the compliment thing quite like I do.

By the way, you're all just as beautiful as you were the last time we met up here.

My name is Nono and...

I'm a 22 year old black woman who believes in people. I blush when I'm embarassed and cry when I'm happy. I laugh when I'm sad and my heart refuses to desert my sleeve. I walked into confidence when I was 18 years old and it has loved me passionately albeit intermittently for 4 years.
I'm new to womanhood and new to loving what I see in reflections so when I meet you and the colour of my skin offends you before the sparkle of my wit can charm you then confidence walks away from me.

It's upsets me that you don't know what I'm showing you. That you can't see that you're in the presence of insecure perfection. My skin is not just me it is the beauty of a people who bleed when you hurt them but are strong because there's no other way to be.

I love with my heart but yesterday that heart bled till it hated. And the confidence left me.

I love him because...

...The hollow of his neck tastes like a sun kissed April morning.

12 year old sisters

Men look at you with hungry eyes.
They gulp down saliva to quench thirsting throats.
They want to taste the swollen bee stings on your chests
and cup your ass the way only grown men can.

They want to love you with their manhood
it's tumescence will make him murmer all the right words prematurely.
Your pride and purity will deflate at the pace of his turgid intruder.
He'll kiss you till your belly swells
then zip up his pants
and walk out the door with your smile in his pocket.

The broken heart of a lover

She has always been a lover. A beauty too.
She clung onto places so dark her smile shifted
desperate to be loved back, she wouldn't let go.
She lent her radiance to the night until it embraced her
She looked up so expectantly until it kissed her back.

He was what she wanted
but the tears he forced out of her eyes
are never what she deserved.

He didn't fill her mouth with his fist
or cover the pretty blush on her cheek with his palm
he sharpened his words and cut her with that,
the words he spat at her cut me too.
Beauty shouldn't weep.
I, with my too big nose and my too small eyes, I'd cry for her.
Her job was always only to caress the insecurity off my heart.

He may have broken her smile so she left to fix it.
Yes I remember now, that's why she left.
I never forget that she's a lover,
naive because she believed him when his fist was full of her hair
and he drew promises of a future on her stomach with his tongue
a tongue that nudged her closer to the subject of hushed conversations between women with hunched backs and knowing eyes who could spell o-r-g-a-a-a-s-m with their legs closed, and virgins with fingers buried deep inside their own bodies.
Bitter because she didn't care if her lilting laugh, and the breasts that fed a writer made grown men weep if only to have her look at them again.
She would be the one breaking hearts now.

She was 20 and that's how it began. She left her smile with him and moved out with his heart.

Untitled

The girls. They bent to your kisses.
Danced at your touch, a jagged, painful, hopeful dance.
They believed your words when you said you'd call.
They hovered near the phone
took a little longer than necessary to dust around it,
checking if fate hadn't unplugged it as they swept under it.
Fussing, waiting, urgent whispered prayers
till mama shouted "Girl get in here"
Then they ripped themselves away
realising that it was the 4th day after your promise
and like all the honey-tongued others before you,
the phone is where you went to die.

Grammy fashion

This will be one of the rare times I post anything fashion related on this blog, mainly because I know so little about it but also because this isn't a fashion blog. I haven't actually watched the Grammy's yet but I did google the fashion from the event...what makes celebrities think they can??

Anyway Grammy hits and misses below.

Beyonce and these damn sparkly shorts! A few years ago it was a gold ensemble very similar to this. You'd think a woman who works as hard as she does to get "it" would be much better turned out to the Grammy's. I blame Tina!

'Cause Rockstars can! Get it Lenny.



 Mya also showed up. I like her (so does my broom) I mean she gave us "Case of the Ex". I like the dress, but I'm not in love with the accessories.

 How is Diddy still even relevant! At least he took off his shades. Small mercies.

I always want to like Ciara's red carpet looks but this dress just did not convince me to spread the love. Looking like Wonder Woman's 2nd cousin on her mama's side. You're better than that Cici! Hair and legs are smashing though! 

 Janelle Monae stayed true to herself in her signature tux - works every time!

I'm uncomfortable looking at a skinny Jennifer Hudson. the dress is alright, the semi-circle cut-off thing at the bottom is very 90's. I die for the shoes.

 JLo's entirely too beautiful for her own good, doesn't hurt that her body is tighter than a miser in a mall!I love everything about this outfit.

Where do we pray? Nicki we let you be Barbie give someone else a chance to do the leopard thing. Or whatever National Geographic is about. Just no to all of it!

Musiq I don't even care 143 boo 143!

 Paul Wall and his wife. I don't even know where to start. What's going on with the beard area! My heart's too young for this.

Who gon' even check these two? I love them. Heidi pops a kid out every year but she still gets to look like this. Hate if you must.

Ah Toni babe...so much is wrong with this dress. 

Marriage definitely suits Miss Monica. This dress is to die!

Lol! Tyrese and his church suit. Go transform something.

Anyway enough hating I'm starting to grow horns.

 P.S Miss Keri "don't hate me cause I'm beautiful" Hilson. Noted I'll hate you for something else.

She looks cute though I shouldn't even lie.

Kalaedoscopic living

I haven't blogged in such a long time. Mainly because life was going on and I was trying to live it. but also because I've had a lot going through my mind, I couldn't settle on just one thng to write about and I also failed to seamlessly connect the myriad of thoughts going through my mind.

A few weeks ago Mr Amazing Boyfriend tells me about the star signs shifting - I can't remember if they moved one up or one down but basically I wasn't a Gemini anymore. Me, Angelina Jolie, Marilyn Monroe and Joan Rivers all of us all amazing women weren't Gemini's anymore, we're either Taurus or Cancers or something else less awesome.

I refused to change. It wasn't just about me, this was bigger than me. How would Angeline feel if I didn't fight for us. Anyway the conclusion of my dreams of celebrity grandeur ended with me as the hero (naturally) and Amazing Boyfriend finally told me that it only affects people born from 2009. So I'm still a versatile, 2-faced (that's not what it sounds like), creative Gemini.

Everyone who knows me well understands that cowardice is a part of my personality. I avoid confrontation but if ever gets to that I fight to win. This little brave philosophy was put to the test on Friday when I was almost dragged into the sugar cane fields. I left work early because I had a dentist appointment I had to get to so I had to walk about 5 minutes to get to the main road and catch a taxi because that's just how rural the Bend is! Anyway to get to the road I had to walk past some sugarcane fields and I saw 2 labourers in the distance, I remember mentally rolling my eyes, as if being harassed Monday to Friday isn't enough now I had to deal with this mess and one of them looked like he was staggering. Thursday night was clearly more fun than it should have been for a man who has to report to work the next day. As I approach them they stop and continue having their conversation and I had to walk past the drunk one, you can't buy this kind of luck, really. *The conversation will be translated to English for audience purposes*

He says "Hi, I didn't know such pretty people existed"

I might have blushed if he wasn't leering. Or staggering. Or ugh never mind I can't blush anyway. I respond with a preoccupied hello and hurry along.
Then he says "Can I just have 2 minutes of your time"
I keep walking and I don't look back.
Then I hear his uneven, heavy footsteps coming after me.

And I remember thinking I can't go out like this. I can't be murdered in my safety shoes.
My macabre journalistic mind started reporting the story of the cute girl found in the sugar cane fields. Which is when, God bless it, the cowardice took over, I woke the hell up and picked up my pace. Which is when I felt his calloused hand on my arm. Pulling, grabbing at whatever he could touch. Then his friend pulled him off me. And well my name is still uttered with reverence in the corridors of my old high school I ran like there were pretty shoes at that main road.

On Saturday I went to Mbabane to spend time with Amazing Boyfriend and I was wearing a white vest, shorts and sandals. When my sister and I got off at the rank we had to walk across it to get to town. I got stopped 4 times before we broke free. One guy said to me the type of thing I'm wearing isn't allowed in Manzini and I mustn't complain if I feel a man's genitals touch my ass. Pause. Okay that one went right over my head.

These are the offensive shorts.

That's basically what's been going on in my life. I'll share more once I've lived more. Tomorrow basically.
I typed this so fast I hope there aren't any spelling or grammatical errors. If there are, count to 10 and remember tomorrow is still Tuesday.

Stay beautiful.
 

I am a coloured girl

I was 21 when I discovered Ntozake Shange. I read an excerpt from her book "For coloured girls who have considered suicide/ when the rainbow is enuf". I was excited, inspired and nervous at finding someone who wrote about being a woman of colour so fearlessly, so passionately and so openly. I hunted that book down everywhere, I visited second hand book shops religiously in hopes that I would find a copy, battered and worn from years of reading, years of inspiring, years of affirming. But I had no luck, so like I always do when all else fails I turned to Google. There I found bits and pieces of the choreo-poem written in 1974, it blew my mind to think that the issues Ms Shange wrote about then were still relevant to a child born in 1988.


I am a black woman. I am an intelligent black woman. A woman who by virtue of her skin has no choice but to be tough because the world doesn’t believe that black can be beautiful. Ms Shange’s writing tells women to be reliant on themselves, to love deeply but carefully. Her writing is so necessary for women of colour who have been disinherited and dispossessed. She deals with issues that all women go through whether inadvertently or directly.

Rape, abuse, abandonment, incest, abortions or promiscuity.

I have family members who have been raped, Aunts who have been abused, friends who have had abortions and my whole tertiary experience was punctuated with the sounds of girls too young to know better screaming in all the right places during sex. The world is a tough place especially when you’re made to feel like an observer of life, never invited to participate in the living. I’ve written about my own insecurities after being “abandoned” by the most beautiful woman in the world, how difficult it was to be the woman I wanted my sisters to model themselves after. I was 6. I had big shoes to fill, but I grabbed those size six pumps, slipped my pampered little feet in and wore them till they fit. Because as a woman life demands you to cope, it demands you to smile through pain, it convinces you to lie to the world and cover up your bruises – talking ‘bout “I fell down the stairs”. Women are soft, beautiful, delicate beings; tough, fierce, strong things – things of resilience, stories of their strength repeatedly told over the years but woman is handled carelessly, her laugh is taken for granted, her tears aren’t a thing of importance. Ms Shange’s poem “Dark phrases” state simply what I’ve always known to be true;

“Let her be born

Let her be born

And handled warmly.”

All the people woman encounters in her life should strive to handle her warmly, should seek her smile, should walk to the ends of the earth to stop her eyes from brimming with tears.

I was nervous when I was settled down with the DVD about to start. I was wary of a man effectively telling the story and struggles of black women. A story that needs no hysterics, that is ugly because it is simple, beautiful because it is not. I enjoy Tyler Perry’s work and I did so with no discernment until I realized there was a formula to all his movies. I didn’t need that formula here.

The cast was made of 9 well established actresses; Thandie Newton, Whoopi Goldberg, Anika Noni Rose, Kerry Washington, Loretta Devine, Phyllicia Rashad, Janet Jackson; Kimberly Elise and Tessa Thompson. The stand out performance for me was Anika Noni Rose, when she recited her poem about “the nature of rape has changed. We invite them into our homes, cook for him, kiss him goodnight and are caught unaware when the stranger we expect the intrusion from doesn’t show up. And we are raped. By invitation.” It broke my heart.

This movie had some rough moments but it was definitely uncomfortable at times to watch, as well it should be. It shouldn’t be easy to see;

a woman get raped in her own home,
a young girl who has sex for the first time have to face the harrowing decision to venture into a shady house in Harlem to terminate her pregnancy,
a woman facing a life with HIV because of an unfaithful husband who’s all too accustomed to fixing everything with “I’m sorry”,
a woman who uses sex to feel powerful over men.

Tyler Perry took on a tough challenge but he pulled it off. It wasn’t flawless but it worked, it was captivating, heart wrenching and so very beautiful.

I went to sleep thinking about all that life has in store for me, not because of the colour of my skin, not because of my gender but because I am and I can and I do and…the rainbow is enuf.




www.thenewsworld.com





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.