Erykah Badu - 1997

Tea

There’s nothing particularly black about Mandela, TM or Cupcake. All 3 are loved by those who would wish to wish away inconvenient blackness in the likes of Zuma or Malema. The 3 are diplomatic, eloquent and amicable. 

The times we’re in though, they call for something a little different. Mandela’s reconciliation is laughable as we realise how he was duped with the sunset clauses, Mbeki’s intellectual rhetoric is meaningless as we all realise how his poetry did nothing for the masses dying from AIDS, and no progress was made for the poor and disenfranchised. 

Ramaphosa did position himself as somewhat different. Already a billionaire, many thought he was the best option as he wouldn’t be greedy enough since he already had so much.

Sadly, we were so very wrong.

But then there was that revolutionary tweet. “We need to meet for tea, it’s urgent.”

So many of us saw our hopes for a black agenda resurrected. When a white man commented, Julius’s response further reassured us: “This is a meeting of black people if you don’t mind.”

Personally, I danced and ululated when I saw that. Finally! Finally we were done fighting each other and were recognising the real issue.

Maybe I’m too idealistic, maybe I’m naive. But it really is about time when we realised that the real issues are:

- Land

- Economic Emancipation 

- Black Emancipation 

- Media Freedom

Did I mention land?

Seriously though. The past 27 years have been a joke if we as Africans can’t claim our own land. The 3 tend to pacify us into submission but both Zuma and Malema are very frank. The goal is Land (listen to Zuma’s speech at Mandela’s funeral). 

Anyone who deviates from that, is not for us.

As For Soulmates

I Was Here

 

Reflections on 2020 - FB Note

 

After posting 106 Facebook Notes in the past 14 years, I recently realised that the Notes function has been disabled. Of course I freaked out, panicked and maybe a tear or two was shed.

It's been my ritual every single year since 2007 to write a Note reflecting on the year that had passed. Not only that, I've written notes during some of the most important moments of my life (during my pregnancy, when my sister died, during various highs and lows of my 20's and 30's). This Notes function has been my lifeline in a big way, not only that... I always thought that one day I'd compile all the notes into a book. Something about FB notes has always left me feeling like I was recording an important moment (day / hour / second) in history. I may forget what it felt like a year later, but in that moment, I always had to honour the truth of that one second.

So, here I am, getting ready to post (albeit a late post of) a reflection on my 2020. I go to where I usually go, look for the Notes button... and it's not there. A similar kind of panic rushed over me as the one I felt recently when I was convinced I had COVID. From the fever, to the sweating and difficulty breathing, I really thought I might actually be dying.

As shallow as it might seem, (when I thought I had COVID) I really thought that if I have a week or two left to live, can my books be made public. I just did the calculation now, and if I dropped dead today, there would be 10 books that I've written (12 if you include the Coffee Table Book I did years ago and also a compilation of my 106 FB notes). It wouldn't be about fame, or awards, just paying homage to the fact that writing was my greatest love and I dedicated my life to it. I imagine very few people having any interest in my work, but my son one day growing up and wanting to know what occupied the mind/heart/soul of the woman who gave birth to him. So, if for no one else, I want my writing to outlive me.

But my notes have not always been about leaving a legacy, I've always believed that leaders are readers, but even more importantly, leaders reflect. You can't just exist from day to day without taking stock of where you've been or where you're going. So, since 2007, I've always reflected on the year I had previously.

So, for anyone who might be wondering how I know that I've written 106 notes, it's because just tonight, I went online to find out what Facebook has done with our Notes and how we can recover them. Having received the tutorial on how to recover notes, I counted them all. 106. 106 times when I poured out my heart and soul on this app, in the Notes.

But the point of this whole exercise was to reflect on 2020. One of the happiest years of my life. I've been reciting what I'll write for weeks now, and it's actually quite simple.

For me, 2020 was unyaka ka Jobe. UJobe walahlekelwa yikho konke, up to a point where his wife said: "Thuka uNkulunkulu, ufe." I know that feeling, I know how it is to lose it all in the eyes of the world, and to be left destitute. But onyakeni ka Jobe, it was all restored 7 x over. My sanity, my spirituality, my career, my relationships, my art. It was all brought back 7 fold ngonyaka ka Jobe. Ngesikhathi umhlaba wonke ulila, I felt the warm embrace of God surrounding me more than it ever had before. 2020 restored my faith in family, in friendship and in myself.

The hardest part of my own journey has been in those moments when things were going badly and the voices inside my head told me "you deserve it, in fact, you deserve worse." So, when 2020 came around, I wasn't expecting more than 'my share of suffering' let alone the amazing grace that came with 2020.

I'd say the highlights definitely included the restoration of my relationship with my mom, endless quality time with my son because of lockdown and just getting back into the game (nje). Of course 26 July 2020 will go down in the history books as a special day, kodwa I feel that other events in 2020 outshine it. Particularly Christmas Day. I have always resented Christmas since 2007, but on this particular Christmas day, the memory of 2007 only hit me late at night. I spent the day being happy, cooking for my family and spending the afternoon with my dad, it was the most perfect day.

So, here I am. No longer able to post a Note to reflect on the past year, but I'm still so deeply grateful. Grateful for life, for family, for my beautiful husband and our amazing son. I'm grateful that uma umhlabeleli uthi "ngimuthanda ngob' inceba zakhe zimi ngunaphakade" I can bear testimony to that. God's promises endureth forever.

I've already resigned myself to the fact that 2021 may be a tough year, and that's okay. If there's one thing my dad taught me in the last 2 years is that, life isn't meant to be perfect everyday. The tough times make you more appreciative of the good.

Covid is here. Our loved ones are vulnerable, we are vulnerable. But that doesn't mean we can't rejoice in the beauty and majesty of the God we serve.

Esimkhonzayo siyamazi.

Reflections on 2019 - FB Note

 2019 was in a league of its own bandla shame. 

At the end of each year I make it a point to reflect on the lessons learnt, as I sit and reflect on 2019 I’m filled with a rush of emotions, not all of them pleasant. 2019 stretched me beyond anything I’ve ever experienced, it was a year of catatonic shifts, catastrophic and cathartic experiences. In my own mother tongue, bekufiwa.

If I could summarize the major lessons for the year they’d be:

1) What you resist, persists.
2) It’s possible to keep going beyond your (perceived) lowest point.
3) Kuyahlekwa noma kufiwe.
4) Love heals (this lesson I have to thank my son for).
5) God doesn’t need our permission or even our faith.
6) You owe no one an explanation for your spiritual path.
7) There is no shame in being unwell.

8 ) It’s not a crime to fall out of love (with people, careers, hobbies, places).
9) The human mind is incredibly powerful.
10) My father taught me the meaning of “for better or worse”.

Black Mental Health Matters

 

"Liberation Requires Critical & Creative Thought" - Paulo Freire

 

When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer

 When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Memory Matters - Ausi Lebo Mashile

 Memory Matters Quotes

“Perspective in the memory game is really power. We all know that the pen that writes the story is the pen that ultimately controls perspective, controls the memory, controls the psyche of the people who will be on the receiving end of that memory.”

“Perspective shapes our emotional responses to the story. Perspective decides who is important in the story, who do we empathise with? Who do we feel sympathy for? Who gets remembered? Who are the victors, who are the villains.”

“We have a memory crisis. The signifiers of our memory as a nation don’t accurately reflect the lived experiences of our people. The people who have written into our history what these signifiers mean, don’t look like me. What does that mean? It means that in our national consciousness there are gaping holes, there are massive pockets of silence. And where there’s silence, ultimately there will be violence.”

In South Africa we don’t have an emotional vocabulary. We have 2 emotions. Euphoria and Rage.

2 Sides of the Same Coin

 

I recently realised just how similar (in character) my father and my husband are. It wasn’t really a new thought, over the years I’ve often commented on things that Sakhile does that remind me of my dad, but it recently really Really hit me. These two men are so much alike!

Now, the reality is that I didn’t get married young like most of my friends. I wrote books, travelled, got to explore life before finally settling down (Yes, I’m old shame). When I look back at my dating life, no one ever really measured up to my dad. I liked men who were well read (My dad is the ultimate reader!), who were physically attractive (wayebaba shame uBaba in his youth) and of course men who were creative, which my dad is. But I think I want to list the reasons why my husband stood out, and how his similarities to my father proved to me that he’s the man I want to spend my life with.

Starting with their protectiveness over me, if you ever really want to see their BP rise up, mess with me.

They love music. My dad (in an inebriated state I must admit) recently said: “I love music more than I even love you”). This made me chuckle because in the years I’ve known Sakhile, when he’s deep into his craft, nothing else exists. Crowds cheer, we dance but to him it’s not even about that. Music is something spiritual to him, and in my most insecure moments it’s the one thing I’ve always believed he loves more than Uhuru and me.

People absolutely love them. My dad is called “iNkosi” amongst his friends and throughout my life people have just always loved and respected him. Sakhile is the same in how without even trying, people fall in love with him. It was the same in Kenya, I struggled to make friends but he had so many friends and it was all effortless. Even after we came back to South Africa his friends from Kenya still hold him in high regard. I would attribute this to just how genuine both these men are, they never suck up so you know that if they like you it’s real. They are both just so enigmatic (Big word I know)!

Besides music, they’re both just unapologetically creative. They seem to be in tune with nature and art in a way that’s so profound. I once called my dad a black hippie and whilst I wouldn’t really call Sakhile that, he’s also guided by his creative side in a way that I just adore.

They love farming. Yes my husband and I are farmers but I don’t really light up at the thought of getting muddy and dirty. But for both of them it seems to be the ultimate therapy. My father is 70 years old but wakes up daily to tend to his plants, Sakhile is also just so passionate about farming that I feel guilty for not sharing his passion sometimes. For me farming has always represented living off the grid, having open space to write and to commune with nature. The two of them are attracted to the labour and the sweating and the harvesting. I don’t really get it but hey,

They both HATE being complimented or taking the credit for what they’ve done. I want to tag Sakhile on this note but I have a feeling he won’t accept the tag. He’s just not about the hype. I could write a book about times when both of them have done incredible things, been there for me and stood up for me. But I know that will just embarrass them both, they’re not really about all that.

They don’t care about what others think. This is pertinent for me because I’ve spent most of my life caring what others think. They both have this ‘whatever’ attitude when it comes to other peoples opinions and I happen to admire that.

The last point is deeply personal. At the darkest point in my life, they are the two people who refused to let go. My fathers words were “We will leave no stone unturned” and Sakhile’s actions were to visit me in hospital daily and just reassure me with his actions: Angiyi Ndawo.

Most people don’t get to be blessed with such two men in their life, I don’t know what I ever did to deserve them but they are quite honestly my rocks. Society is often putting black men down but I happen to have been blessed with a husband and a father who are my heroes. To this list I have to add my brothers uLucky no Khumbula noMsa. These wonderful, generous, forgiving, loving, caring and nurturing Zulu men have been there for me and with me through it all. I could write a book (and probably will), but today I just wanted to reflect on the love, the amazing black love, that means so much to me.

Reflections on 2018 - The Year of Makunyiwe

 In 2018 I turned 33, and it also happened to be my double-crown birthday. So it’s been (and continues to be) a year of major shifts in my life. Some that were voluntary and others that I never could’ve seen coming. More than it being a year of great achievement, 2018 was a year of setting (and if I’m honest, testing) foundations. It was the universe propelling me towards what is still quite a ‘magic carpet ride’ and also the year of shedding a lot of weight / baggage whilst going deeper into my most authentic self. The journey has been anything but smooth, but the process was deeply necessary. The quote in the image above came to me when I imagined how different my life would’ve been if I was born 50 or 100 years ago. It was either this pic or the one with the line: ‘Walk as if you’ve got 10 000 ancestors walking behind you.’ The sentiment is the same as it relates to me being the culmination of thousands of years of evolution and embracing how far we’ve come as Africans. I also like the reference to madness, in 2018 I think I regained my title as ‘that crazy one’ in the family. They say some people suffer from insanity whilst others find joy in their madness. I’ve always aspired to be the latter. The 3 biggest highlights (not farming related) from my year from a growth point of view are: 1) Getting retrenched at the beginning of the year (2) The Secret To Money App and (3) my family giving their blessing for me to really explore my path into Afrikan spirituality. The decision to quit alcohol was also a major highlight, but more a by-product of me no longer needing the escape that alcohol offered, because I was no longer living a life I needed to escape from. Not to mention the Cost / Benefit ratio of drinking. Alcohol is not only expensive it’s taxing on the body and spirit. To everyone who asks if I’ll ever drink again, my answer has been: Maybe some day, for now all I know is that I need space, and to rediscover who I am without booze.

Below is a summary of some of the biggest lessons learnt in 2018.

1. When the ground is not fertile, most of your efforts will be futile. This was imparted to me by a very special lady whose wisdom, passion and ‘swag’ inspires me a great deal. The lesson was related to self-development and spiritual growth. Other teachers throughout the year validated this lesson, and I even recall 2 parables in the bible with a similar teaching. The one is about the man who built his house on a rock whilst another built his on the sand, and the other parable is about the sower of seeds in different types of soil. For me personally, this related to ‘getting my house in order’ before wanting to conquer the world. Basic things like taking care of my health, eating well, breathing, making time to meditate and also supplementing my diet with healthy superfoods (i.e. Moringa, I now swear by it!). It also spoke to being deliberate about what I spend my time and energy on. At a spiritual level it spoke to making a concerted effort to get closer to (my) God by studying and spending time with people who share my Afrikan Spirituality beliefs.
2. I’ve grown up hearing the term: ‘You do not receive because you do not ask’ in relation to prayer and it’s always made me feel guilty for forgetting to list something or mention someone when I pray. But this year I learnt the value of being specific and clear about what I want from my life (myself, relationships, career). The more time I spend with people who’re fulfilled / successful in their lives, the more I realise how important it is to be very clear about what you want.
3. There are 2 images / memes that people like to share that have always intrigued and also scared me. The one is the image of the donkey that’s tied to a plastic chair. It’s accompanied by the caption: ‘Sometimes the chains that prevent us from being free are more mental than physical’. The 2nd one is an image of a man who’s in a deep hole that is filled with ladders. But rather than use one of the ladders to step out of the hole, he stacks the ladders on top of each other and still can’t reach the top. Both of these scare me because the idea of having all the necessary resources at my disposal and still remaining stuck is troubling. Learning to recognise limiting thoughts and assumptions was a valuable lesson in 2018.
4. The single biggest lesson I learnt in 2018 was to change my relationship with money. That’s where ‘The Secret To Money App’ comes in. I can’t really describe all the benefits of having installed the app, but the major one was to quantify what happiness is for myself. Having an hour long conversation with an old friend and putting a monetary value to that, spending time with my son, working on the farm and learning new things. All of this put into perspective my decision to never work for a boss again. The exercises also allowed me to identify what means the most to me, like the idea of having a rich & fulfilling life rather than spending money accumulating ‘stuff’. I remember each time I got a call from recruiters and the knot at the pit of my stomach each time I think of going back into the rat race (working 8 hours a day, 5 days a week) and losing my newfound freedom. I won’t lie and say it’s been smooth sailing because it hasn’t, but as I was telling a friend recently: “This life is more ME than corporate life ever was.”
5. This lesson seems to be linked to a few I’ve already mentioned but I decided to put it separately because of it’s significance. In 2018 I learnt to live a life based on my biggest values (Excellence, Freedom and Honesty, as per the tattoo on my back). Freedom being the biggest one, whilst also defining what excellence and honesty mean for me now that I’m no longer part of the corporate sector. Living from my biggest values has also been the most rewarding part of my journey as I’ve personally defined for myself what success means to me.
6. It’s okay to be a work-in-progress and a masterpiece at the same time. I’ve been debating whether to add some experiences that took place this year as part of my reflections and if I’m honest, I’m now at peace with the idea that some things cannot be explained, only experienced.
7. One of the most liberating decisions I made this year was to no longer post every aspect of my life on social media (particularly Facebook). To let a birthday go by, an amazing holiday / receive great news and not feel compelled to bare my soul on Facebook. This is mainly because over the years I’ve realised that I spend more time capturing and sharing rather than savouring each moment. Likes and comments can also cause anxiety as they either validate or nullify the importance of the experience. I now choose to immerse myself in the moment a lot more, I would highly recommend it!

If nothing else, 2018 was the year of undergoing a metamorphosis (similar to caterpillars turning into butterflies). It wasn’t easy, but as I mentioned earlier, deeply necessary.

I will add more as we wrap the year to a close, and hopefully also reflect on my dreams / vision / prayers for 2019. After all is said and done, the universe is unfolding as it should.

Ozithobayo

uMaDlamini

Remember Fezekile (2017 FB Note)

 Remember Fezekile. Oh My God. I have yet to meet another woman who has been so persecuted for her truth in South Africa’s modern history as much as Mam’ Winnie Mandela was.. She was totally dehumanised, vilified and oh-so misunderstood.

After reading her book, the thing about Fezekile is that she was a terrible liar, terrible witness and terrible victim too. Victims are meant to be broken, yet her light refused to die. That alone birthed a lot of suspicion (we tried to kill you, why are you not dead). Fezekile wasn’t calculating, you have to be calculating when facing a rape trial with the most powerful man you’ve ever met, but she wasn’t. She was trusting, honest and unfortunately very human.

I love names. I always believe that they’re somewhat prophetic. Her name was not Khwezi, it was Fezekile. The meaning: It’s Been Concluded.

He got away with so much, even his atrocious betrayal of his comrade by violating his daughter. But when she came, It Was Concluded. Every once in a while, the under-dogs don’t take the abuse lying down, they fight back.

Fezekile was a catalyst, an unlikely heroine and the one who finally drew the line on the sand for the whole world. You’re either on the side of misogyny, rape and patriarchy or you’re on the side of the innocent, the fools the ones who were so very easy to take advantage of. Fezekile was the latter, but she was also no one’s fool. No one’s playing ground and no one’s victim. She’d been a victim when she was 5 years old, again when she was 12 and 13. But as a grown adult, violated by a powerful man, she refused to own the victim label.

There’s so much. So, so much that inspires and breaks me about this story. I’m not even talking politically, but emotionally.

Reading this book resurrected some wounds, highlighted my own prejudice and finally got me out of my ‘silent mode’. I’ve been in silent mode for months. He was so powerful, I was so weak and he won. They stood by whilst he did what he did, then later they came by not to offer their condolences, but to get ‘the scoop’ on what had really happened. Only he and I know what happened, at that level at least. My husband was left to sign papers and commit me into an institution, and watch me as I unraveled before his eyes from day to day.

Powerful men who have no accountability for their actions can be so dangerous. I keep revisiting a friendship I had back in Nairobi, I thought my friend would be there. But he was also very close to him, power is more attractive I guess. He could have spoken up, he saw what was going on, but he didn’t. My friend’s silence hurts more than His betrayal. I never had very high standards for Him, he was always just very self-serving and dare I say, narcissistic. But my friend. I wished my friend could have spoken up or at least reached out. But my friend didn’t.

It’s incredible how my leaving South Africa was enshrined in drama and such pain, but I walked through it foreseeing better times ahead. And then my return was off the back pain of even more pain and betrayal. I don’t regret leaving, or returning home. The universe just happens to have its own sense of humour I guess. But Fezekile’s book has resurrected some wounds, deep ones at that. The thing is, I’ve always had the proof, have always had the evidence to show that what they’d done to me was not right. But I just get defeated sometimes, I know who I am and I know what my weaknesses are, and I know. I know that someone like me doesn’t win such fights.

At this point I wish I could whisper: I’m crazy, no one believes us crazy ones.

There’s a recurring story in my family, the one about me or ‘that one’. She’s made so much money, the world thinks she’s got everything but they don’t know. They don’t know that we know that she’s just crazy. When she gets shipped off into institutions, when she loses jobs because of her madness, the world never gets to hear about it, but siyazi. Uhlanya lwa lay’khaya lolu. Doctors have failed for years to fix her, and when we heard she was getting married we were all worried, ‘useyohlanya emzini yabantu!’

But I wish I had a chance to explain myself. How does one even begin to explain though? How does one even begin to fight the truth, as is the case with Khwezi. It’s so easy to fall victim. I’ve always hated the victim label. After the first rape, one of the 3 things I declared was that, ‘I’m no one’s victim!’. I can own my eccentricities, I can own my madness and if need be, I can own the consequences of how naïve I am.

This afternoon I asked my husband if he would be okay with me writing about him, his response was ‘do you, as long as you don’t mention my name’. I’m okay with that. I won’t mention his name, but I will speak about my journey as someone who’s always had to be sorry. I was sorry when I was so bubbly and friendly and caring that they thought I wanted what they did to me. I was sorry when bills were stacking up and it was all on my shoulders, I was sorry that as heavy as it was, I couldn’t just say: ‘I need a break’.

But this is not about what He did to me, this is about all that reading Redi Tlabi’s book about Fezekile has awoken in me.

I will not walk through my life as a victim, judge what you will but I won’t. I was raised by principled black men, am married to an amazing husband and am raising a Zulu son. The ‘Men Are Trash’ narrative doesn’t resonate with me because we are co-creating this reality with these men and giving birth to them, and marrying them and having them as bosses and siblings. So, if they are trash, so are we. Yes, I said it!

Back to my sister Fezekile. Where do I even begin. We, I failed you so much. It’s no secret that I’m a very proud Zulu. Even when I lived abroad, I resonated more with my Zulu heritage than my South African origins. A ‘proud Zulu’ man did this to you. He saw your flame, your flaws and decided he had the right to devour your fire without your permission. He had his needs, they were more urgent than your dignity to him and he trampled on you with no care for the implications. You were delicious, he was hungry, end of story.

That is our story, I guess. They were hungry, we were delicious at the time. End of story.

I was telling my husband (who will remain unnamed as requested) earlier that reading Fezekile’s book has awoken so much within me, and the only way I know how to process is to write.

This is just a start. I want to write about my own innocence, write about redefining myself after betrayal. I wanna write about being simple, foolish, usable and rapeable. I don’t wanna write about them, they won. This is a loser’s story, and a story that will never make headlines because after all, I’m crazy remember.

Reflections on 2016 - It Was All A Gift (FB Note)

 I initially wanted to call this: Reflections on 2016 - Unyaka ka Jobe, but I changed my mind along the way. Something about 2016 had such a strong spiritual element to it that I found myself reading my bible a lot more and reflecting on the lessons therein. But the story of Job has a victim element to it, a narrative I’ve disowned since 2007, life is way too beautiful to spend it feeling like a victim or a failure. So, my perspectives on 2016 will be anchored on what was the underlying gift behind it all.

Having been raised in the Anglican church, gone through the structures from Sunday School, to Izikhonzi, to Youth (and almost becoming a nun, but that’s a story for another day), I’ve got a deep appreciation for the effort my mom put into teaching me the ways of the church and also to love God. Was very surprised at my friend’s wedding when the church service was held in Zulu and I could still recite the prayers and various sections of the Anglican Prayer Book. When it comes to our elders, I guess the 2 areas they invested in the most when it comes to surviving (and thriving) in life were: Education and God. My father’s influence was a little different, his lessons were mostly on more esoteric subjects, trusting your intuition and being happy / optimistic no matter what life sent your way. Blessed to have had both spectrums guide my life in my youth and still influence my world view to this day.

Then there was 2016. As it often happens, when life overwhelms me I tend to default to my mother-tongue. Ake nishoni, lonyaka ubungenwe yini ngempela? Sezizonke nje izinto, u2016 ukuqede nya ukusa la k’mina. And I was even cautious about writing the annual reflections during December because I didn’t trust that more terrible things would happen (which they did by the way). So, here we are. I’m not sure if it’s just me, but every year has one significant thing about it that stands out about it after maybe 10 years have passed. 1998, I started High-School, 2005, completed varsity, 2014 Zwelibanzi was born. I’m very very curious about what the 1 thing will be that describes 2016. Penny Sparrow? Losing 3 close friends? Cancelling my wedding? Moving to Kenya? Surviving 7 months without my son? Maybe it will be something positive like starting House of Jama, moving to Kenya (which had it’s highs and lows) or something else. Who knows?

This isn’t how I do it every year, but I’ve found that it does help to make a list of Top 5 Things learnt (Some years it’s Top 10, but as much as I was born a glass-half full person, 10 would be a bit of a push). So if someone were to ask, what are the 5 Gifts that 2016 brought into my life, this is what I’d say:

1) Similar to the Job analogy, I had an opportunity to reflect on the question: If all things that define and comfort you were taken away, who are you? It’s hard to be honest when you’re broke and lying will bring home the bacon. But then once upon a time I got a tattoo on my back where I listed my 3 biggest values, one of them being Honesty.

2) What is love? This one question alone will probably be what I remember about 2016 a decade from now. What is love? What does love do? Where does love end? And what is love not.

3) Do you know your God? This is one question that woke me up every morning and cradled me to sleep every night. When fear and doubt and exhaustion take over, Do You KNOW Your God?

4) Where does your joy lie? This saved me, saved me from circumstances, my fears, everything I saw before my eyes and reminded me of my inner child. My constant beloved companion, the one who wants to create beauty, laugh, heal and love the whole world with all it’s 50 shades of grey.

5) Zidele. This is also one lesson that I can’t begin to describe. The idea of letting all your airs and graces, arrogance, conviction and even hope... go. When you’ve gone past your ultimate ability to hang on, when you ask ‘What if I fall’ and it says: ‘What if you fly’. (This last part isn’t by me, it’s a pic I found online and shared on Instagram).

My mom put on her Superwoman cape and carried me (through her actions, love, taking care of my son, prayers and even ukuthetha) in 2016. Words can’t begin to describe the indebtedness and great admiration I feel for this lady, and another person who hardly ever gets acknowledgement but really surprised me a great deal in 2016.... myself. I never would have ever imagined I had it in me to be still standing today.

2017: SIYOBULAL’ U VAN DAMME, ONE WAY!

One Step At A Time (2016 FB Note)

 This note has the potential to be an inspiring one, whilst starting off on a somewhat macabre note (no pun intended). Earlier I saw a post about Celine Dion making a tribute to her late husband, and I just saw Gugu Zulu’s wife Letshego post the song ‘Recovering’ on Instagram. There’s something about both women’s journeys that speaks to me in a profound way, they lost their husbands and have been trying to figure out how this life thing works without their men in it. It’s been particularly difficult for Letshego as she’s received a lot of criticism for ‘how’ she’s grieving and people have decided to judge her for having interviews with the media. No one can really get the feeling of loss one feels when they lose a loved one. It’s like the foundations of your existence have been shifted and everything you thought you knew is no longer true. Who you are, what you are and who you can be. All of these may have been previously known but at this point, they become questions again.

Celine’s song is called ‘Recovering’. One of the first lines is ‘I am recovering, one step at a time’.... 2016 didn’t really give me a warning that it would be one of Those years. But as I listen to Celine and think of all that Letshego must be going through, it’s the closest version to what is consuming me right now. I lost a very dear friend this year, a friend who’d been my anchor and my sanity for most of my adult life. He didn’t die, I just lost him. And as much as I could state that the most tumultuous parts of my year involved moving into a new country, starting in a new industry and making peace with being so far away from all that’s familiar... Losing my friend was a big part of it.

When I started this note I stated that it had the potential to be inspiring, but I’m not inspired yet as I reach this sentence. In the place of my old friend I met a much better friend. A friend who’s attentive, affectionate, understanding and if it makes any sense... present. If life was simple, I would be grateful for having lost the old friend in favour of the new one, but life (well, at least not mine anyways) has never been simple.

There are still just a little too many questions, a little too many bruises that lay bleeding and unaccounted for.

So, as much as I’m not a widow, I feel both Celine and Letshego’s pain. When a world that made so much sense becomes so foreign, the loss cuts deep. And I guess the only way to deal is to take it all ‘One Step At A Time’. I remember how it felt like when my sister died in 2011, I never thought my heart was capable of carrying so much pain, and I still had to wake up everyday and live, work, pay bills and be. Even worse this time, I have a son who needs me. The toughest part is that no one gets it, no one thinks it’s such a big deal, and no one knows the tears that come with such loss (at the most inappropriate of times, as you pick a hairstyle or the colour of your nails or what to eat for supper).

I’ve had to learn to stop leaning. I lean a lot. When a stranger is nice to me, I start to see them as a friend and I want to share a piece of myself with them. And this year I had to go deep into myself and stop leaning. Leaning makes us victims, and one can’t always go through life as a victim...

This note is dedicated to the friend that I lost, the friend who left with too many questions and not enough answers, the friend who has defined me for so many years and is now a complete stranger.

I wouldn’t wish the destructive impact that drugs have had on my family on my worst enemy.

So much potential, so many regrets and so much has been irrecoverably lost.

Hoping For the Best As I Prepare for the Worst (2016 FB Note)

 I’m not proud of myself for sharing this, in fact I’m rather ashamed. I don’t know if it’s just me, but there was a time when we were growing up in KZN when Aids became so very normal. We knew the signs, the moment someone starts to lose weight, the moment their skin turns a pale shade of grey, we knew the stories that they would share of being bewitched, of having TB or sometimes calling it cancer. As much as none of us ever voiced it out, we knew they ‘had it’. I remember a particular friend of mine and I discussing a mutual friend, we hadn’t seen each other in a while but I said: ‘If we don’t make time to meet soon, we’ll only see each other at *****’s funeral. The sad part is that the particular ***** was still alive. But we all could see it, and knew the end was near. It wasn’t surprising when less than a month later, my friend and I saw each other again at *****’s funeral. Why am I sharing this? As creative as I am in my ideal self, I happen to also be a very practical person. The dying die. The heavy clouds will most likely lead to rain.

When Bruce Wilkinson wrote the book: Prayer of Jabez, he’d never been to Africa. And at a talk in 2004 he shared with us that he couldn’t bring himself to preach the ‘Prayer of Jabez’ message when he arrived in Africa ("1 Chronicles 4:10. Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain."). That kind of self-centred ministry didn’t have a place in the Africa he encountered. Now please don’t get me wrong, I’m not in deep dark depressed Africa. And that’s not what this note is about. This note is about wishing I was more of an optimist than the pragmatic person that I am. Some people pray for miracles from their Range Rovers and Mansions, and the likelihood is that those miracles will come true (although most of us wish the rich didn’t always have it as easy as they seem to). After visiting Africa, Wilkinson wrote another book titled: The Dream Giver. The talk I attended was based on that. And in a nutshell it spoke about never thinking that your life will just be a series of prayers for miracles and you receiving them. As I was packing for the move to Nairobi I came across my journal from that talk, way back in 2004, and the notes I took. God does grant great blessings and abundance is our portion, but it’s not as easy as praying a prayer and the heavens open up.

That’s where I am today.A miracle would truly come in handy, but as I hope for the best I am preparing for the worst. Not because I’m not used to miracles, my entire life has been a series of one miracle after the other, hence one of my favourite lines #EsimkhonzayoSiyamazi. Even as I write this, I feel that the part of my upbringing that states: ‘Keep these things secret, don’t share your pain because others will rejoice’ is being silenced. As we were discussing the story of how Hope Zinde’s son is the prime suspect in her murder, the question kept cropping up. As a people, why do we believe that keeping things secret will help the situation? Her drug addicted son must have brought her many headaches, but our culture would say: ‘Don’t talk about it, keep it in the family’. Other taboo subjects are the prevalent culture of rape in our communities, the growing number of people suffering from mental issues like depression. It’s all meant to be shadowed in a cloud of silence.

My partner and I have recently started reading Rick Warren’s ‘Why On Earth Are You Here’ together. Interestingly today we read a chapter on how God respects those who wrestle with him. When there’s a problem, I’ve never subscribed to the ‘Kulungile Baba’ approach (pardon me, I’m still a big fan of Sfiso Ncwane), I want to know why. Everytime I’m asked to just blindly follow, I step back and ask: Mara Why Tho? Because I love God, and I believe in his great love and power, but I can never follow blindly what doesn’t make sense to me.

Tomorrow I’m going to start my #100ThingsILoveAboutKenya challenge. I’ve already gathered so much material, so many daily experiences and I’m looking forward to sharing them all. Hope I can make it all the way to 100. Next month I’m doing the Amazing Race challenge where we’ll be travelling to Naivasha, seriously looking forward to the experience!

Bohemian Rhapsody (2016 - FB Note)

 Growing up this used to be one of my favorite songs. If for nothing else, the line "I don't wanna die, I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all".

Tomorrow is my birthday, I'm spending the first night of my new life in Nairobi and as I was telling Sakhile yesterday, I just feel like my heart is breaking. The lies, pretences, fake glamour, fake everything... It's all weighing too heavily on my spirit.

A year ago today Sakhile took me to a live performance of The Soil, my all time favorite group. I sang along to every single song, but the venue was too loud for Uhuru and we spent the rest of the night trying to get him to calm down and eventually sleep. Was my happiness worth his pain? According to my FB and Instagram updates, it was. It was all for the cameras.

I was meant to get married this past weekend, a small intimate ceremony just before we left for Kenya. But a series of unfortunate events in just 5 days have resulted in me being here in Kenya, alone and not married to the man of my dreams.

One of my closest friends once said to me about me that she admires how a writer can be naked in front of world. I have to be true to my truth, I like putting up "love lives here" Facebook updates, but on a day like today, my heart is breaking and no amount of faking it will change it. I don't want to be naked, but I hate makeup, I hate wigs (although I just spent R1500 on a lace wig) and I hate the amount of work it takes to not be real.

The hardest part of the last week has been how everyone around me decided on my behalf that "we can do this, we can overcome this hurdle". I nodded, said what they wanted to hear and I just kept on walking.

But this (scary) note is about one thing. As a writer, as a feeler, I can never ever fake it. Maybe for a short while, but not for long. I left SA without even saying Goodbye to my son, my mom is also ill but she has the added burden of taking care of him.

I'm here to make money that our family needs, I'm here because I dearly love Africa, I'm here because South Africa is suffocating me. Mandela didn't die for this joke of a democracy, Biko didn't die for this.

Maybe I asked the universe for this. My own personal "get out of jail free" card. No one can blame me for going, but despite all the justifications, my heart right now is breaking. I am glad the house is sold, the furniture has been given away, but I can't lie, whoever admires this perfect life must know that not a single day in my life has ever been perfect. I live with unmedicated ADD, I'm erratic, emotional, and have never quite figured out how to behave like a grown up. I laugh too loudly, I cry, I roll my eyes at Stokvel sessions where we spend 2 hours discussing makeup (Hello, I was born beautiful, it shouldn't take two hours to create something that isn't real).

But how do I end this note? I'm not sad, not suicidal, not ready to give up on life.

I love my job, love being creative and strategic and seeing the glass half full every day.

I love him, I love us, I will honor our family. But I don't think I was born to base my life on lies. #LifeIsAComedy

Zulurization (2016 FB Note)

 (Reading this note, all these many years later, is still a very emotional moment...)

There’s something quite wonderful about recognising yourself in your culture. I honestly find myself recognising myself in chaotic situations, but when chaos finds me, I have nothing left to do but laugh. All the HR people I’ve engaged with in Kenya have told me, “It’s just easier to get married before you come here”, but I’ve started to sound like a broken record each time I tell them: “That’s not how Zulu’s do it. My father would kill me if we did this the wrong way!”

Okay, maybe he wouldn’t physically kill me. But he would be disappointed. You know that disappointed “You think you’re better now that you’re grown up, my word no longer means anything to you” look. That’s worse than any beating I could ever endure.

We honestly can’t do this without our parents blessing, no matter what the rationalizations are. So the only thing left, ride the boat. No matter how rocky and “adventurous” the process. If I was marrying myself, it wouldn’t be that hard, I’m used to giving my folks wrinkles and sleepless nights. But of all the boys (pardon me, all the Men) in all of Africa, I had to choose a Zulu man. A Zulu man who doesn’t just hold the title, but honours it.

Exhibit A: As much as I’ve never aspired to be a girl who pays her own lobola, my husband has insisted (note the husband, yeah it kinda has a nice ring to it) that he will fulfil ALL of my father’s demands himself, alone, before we tie the knot. I wouldn’t expect anything less of him, he’s just principled like that. But even when I hinted that we could bend the rules just a bit, he wanted no part in it. There’s only the Zulu way or the highway.

Exhibit B: He’s done 80% of the required dues, but today (yes, literally, an hour ago) we find out that there’s another ceremony that’s required. I’ve never heard of it, but it’s in the rule book. So my romantic ideas of getting married days before my birthday have been shattered. It’s not about me, it’s never been about me. It’s about the right thing (USIKO) as the Zulus would call it. So we can’t take even a mini short-cut, (with all honesty, the invitations will come for the big white wedding, but we just want to be together, is that too much to ask!) we need to pull ourselves towards ourselves (phecelezi sizimunce) and ask: What do we need to do?

Exhibit C: Honour God first, and all else shall be given unto you! I love this, I love the madness, the chaos and I love the inconvenience of it all. I’m not Western, I don’t subscribe to the constitution first, I subscribe to my Zulu elders and my husband’s family. We won’t get to have what I imagined, but we will get to honour the Gods I serve. All Zulu, all African, All me.

Exhibit D: The invitations for the white wedding really are on their way, #Stru! For now, let me google Goat salesmen, recipes for traditional beer and enjoy the sheer #Zulurization of our emigration. Today I was at Home-Affairs filling in my Alien Card documents, this evening I’m getting the Zulurization 101 lesson on: Before You Say ‘I Do’.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Life is nothing more than a comedy!’

Feeling Oh So Black - Again (2016 FB Note)

 Have you ever felt like you’re inconveniencing the world with your ‘black things?’ Of course we all agree that Zuma has set a new record on being the worst president in our new democracy, but have you ever (because you’re black) found yourself even defending the fact that it’s all because he’s uneducated. I don’t do much of that these days, the man is on his own (well, with his Guptaz and ANC loyalists, but not me).

But for me, even on days when I used to defend Zuma, it really was because I was hurt that people equate lack of education with stupidity. My grandmother never went to high-school, making fun of her wouldn’t have been cool in my eyes. So, when people make fun of his poor grasp of the English language, the size of the fonts on his speeches and how he just can never pronounce numbers properly, a part of me does attribute that to the “A” legacy. You know “A”. Those 46 unfortunate years where things were a little rough on some of our grandparents and parents. But yeah, we’re not about my grandma’s lack of high school education these days. In revolutionary times where Tuks (where I got my first degree) has scrapped Afrikaaans, this revolution has progressed waaaay beyond the little things.

I was sharing with my stokvel ladies that this year my resolution was to be at peace, let no external forces disturb my peaceful core. But it wasn’t even a week into the year when Penny Sparrow happened. There we were, guns blazing, defending blackness and our cause and our struggle and our pain and our poverty and our reasons for speaking too loudly and being just a little too excited to see waves at the beach whilst not observing proper protocol of owning swimming costumes which we often can’t afford.

But that’s not the reason for this note. That’s not the reason I’m feeling Oh So Black (again) today. I had a funny (funny ironic, not funny haha, or maybe just a little funny haha) moment with a colleague this week. She said that she envied people in squatter camps because they didn’t have to pay rent or car payments or even their own electricity. Life was simple for them. Just as I was getting to defend blackness and the reality of inhumane existence in squatter camps (poverty, prevalence of crime, rape, lack of basic necessities, degradation), I looked at her and I was like: “It’s not all sunshine and roses in our squatter camps, trust me.” Inside my head I was mentally seeking my “Zen” and remembering my 2016 resolutions.

Once again, I digress. Where was I? Oh, feeling black. So last night my son’s nanny got devastating news. (THIS NEXT PART IS RATHER GRAPHIC AND NOT FOR SENSITIVE VIEWERS) Her 16 year old daughter who attends umhlanga (virginity testing) had been raped. She was literally falling apart with devastation. The daughter had been coming back from church and a a group of guys attacked her, they all planned to rape her but during the course of the evening an old man came and scared them off. No, this is not a movie, this happened just last night. And when she got the call we had to scramble to find the first bus for her to get to KZN. Luckily there was still space on the 11pm bus and we drove to Park Station to drop her off so she could be with the family. As if that wasn’t enough, my son has a boil on his bum. It started on Sunday but by yesterday afternoon, it had been bleeding and oozing red and white puss. Not pretty at all. He hasn’t been able to sit down because of the pain, even when we change his diaper we need to lie him down on his side. And it’s itchy, and it hurts. My plan was to excuse myself from work this morning, take him to the doctor and then go to work. But then last night’s drama happened. I asked my boss if I could work from home and he agreed. Then we went to the hospital, took forever to see the doctor, oh and then just because life is a comedy, he fell of the bed and the doctor was worried he might have a concussion so he kept us there for even longer (guess they didn’t wanna get sued or something). Then we drove to Spar and whilst shopping the heavy rains started. Meaning we were stuck in the centre or I’d have to subject my sick little boy to pouring rain, possible flu and a definite: Worst Mother Ever Award. But we waited for the rain to die down, I bought an umbrella at Clicks (R99 mind you!) and had to balance a toddler, groceries and and umbrella as we navigated our way to the car in the rain. But after all of that, we got home, I gave him his meds and started making supper. Ummm, can you recall any part of this where I actually did any of the “working from home?” Finally I’m getting to the point: Why am I feeling Oh So Black (again).

With work deadlines, how do I even begin to explain to my (male) boss what’s going on. This story sounds like a lie, not even a good lie. I can already see myself reciting it to colleagues and getting that: “Yeah right, if it’s not dead uncles it’s some other drama. Black people are just so lazy, and they expect us to always feel sorry for their latest *tragedy*.”

Sidenote: I am black. I happen to love being black on most days. And I happen to be proud of my black heritage. BUT. Yes, you must have guessed. There’s a BUT. For most of my career I’ve always tried to not bring my “inconvenient black things” to work. Telling the story of my nanny’s daughter is not meant as a means of providing comic relief or making light of a tragic situation I know well. But this is exactly the point. In the “black world” this isn’t unfamiliar. When my sister died, I remember looking at my boss, explaining that in Western culture we are considered half sisters, but in African culture there’s no such definition. A member of my core nuclear family had died and I needed to go home. The look of “There they go again” really hurt. My sister and I were closer than any of our other siblings, it took me months to get to a place where I didn’t break down just by thinking of her. But at that point in time: I felt like I was “being black, pulling black stunts, and wanting the world to go easy on me”. Interesting (and somewhat strange) thing is that, growing up, my mom has always enforced a great sense of discipline in us. Despite being black, and having “black things”, there were just certain behaviours that, even though they were normal in our surroundings, were not allowed. The first one being: Free Food / Free Things. My mom hated having us salivating and waiting for free food at funerals / weddings / church functions. We would attend the festivities, but not stick around for the free food. That got me into this habit of not getting excited about free things. I don’t know if anyone else has been to festivals or event where a free t-shirt or cap is thrown into the crowd. If ever that happens around me, I run the other way. If I’m at a meeting and there’s lots of food afterwards, I’m often ashamed of how people pile up side plates and cold drinks because I can see my mom’s judging eyes: I did not raise you to get excited about free things!

Back to today. I spent half the day with my boy in hospital, doctors and nurses prodding away at my baby, he can’t sit so we either had to lie on the hospital bed or he had to kneel. Both uncomfortable for his little body. But I had a teleconference with my team in Nairobi and deliverables were outlined, due tomorrow. How do I even begin to explain the 2 days I’ve had? The only thing I told my boss is that my nanny (who’s from KZN) had a family emergency so I’m working from home. The rape, the boil, the hospital... that’s all just a little too black for me to carry along with me as an excuse for not delivering.

In a normal world, I could share this, and probably get some sympathy, or laughs or both. But with how tense and paranoid and downright weird we all are with each other lately... That’s not even possible. I’ve actually felt this in the weeks I’ve been in Kenya this year. The air is lighter there, people are friendlier and we’re not constantly on edge like SA is these days. #BlackvsWhiteMustFall but while you’re at it, it would be nice to get our land back (even Zuma’s now paying back the money) #HashTagJustSaying

So now I’m working the midnight shift, un-blackening my image and making sure I deliver. Life really is just nothing more than a comedy... #TrueStory!