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
Tuesday, May 31, 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
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
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
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.
Friday, March 18, 2011
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.
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.
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 |
Monday, March 14, 2011
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.
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.
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