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.