Day of Reconciliation

This is a post by Relax Max. Thank you for letting me use it.

December 16 is a public holiday in South Africa.

The Day of Reconciliation holiday came about in 1994 following the end of apartheid, and is intended to foster a spirt of reconciliation and national unity.

However, the date chosen comes from a much earlier event.

On December 16, in 1838, was fought the Battle of Blood River. On the bank of the Ncome River on that date, king Dingane, with an army of close to 15,000 men, attacked 470 Voortrekkers. The Voortrekkers, under the command of Andries Pretorius, of course had provoked the attack, though they hadn't counted on quite that large of an opposing army.

The Zulus attacked the Voortrekkers in waves, with only spears for weapons. The Dutch soldiers had muskets and cannon. By the end of the day, the river by the hippo pool had actually changed color.

In the ignoble (some say) carnage on that killing field, over 3000 Zulu warriors were slaughtered. The Trekkers had 3 slightly wounded, including Pretorius himself.

The Zulus lived to fight another day, and with much greater success.

Read more about the Battle of Blood River, its causes and its aftermath here.

I Gave Him HIV; He Asked For It

She sits with her stomach protruding proudly, stretching the worn material of her tube top. One of her eyes is crinkled in a smoker’s squint, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“I didn’t really want another baby, but it happened!” she laughs raucously. I wonder if she has also been drinking.

“I didn’t find out till it was too late because of the drugs I take, they mess up your period and make you fat you know?”

“Drugs?” I ask, unable to conceal my shock. She’s smoking, taking drugs and possibly drinking while she was pregnant?

She laughs her outrageous laugh again and explains, “ARVs sisi. I’ve been on them for a year now.”

“So your boyfriend knows you’re HIV-positive? Is he also positive?”

“Well NOW he is. I don’t know about before but when I told him I was positive he said he was a real man, refused to use a condom.”

I look stupefied.

“Don’t look so shocked, so many men think you’re joking here if you are straight with them and tell them you’re positive. I’m not going to stop having sex just because they’re stupid.”

She is serious. She belongs to a group of friends who make no bones about being HIV-positive. They say; “It’s just like diabetes or cancer; you just have to take care of yourself.” I applaud them this mentality, in a world where many people still view being diagnosed HIV-positive is a “death sentence” they are amazingly forward-thinking.

All of them have been aware of their positive status for over five years. All of them are on the state ART (anti-retroviral treatment) programme. All of them are alcoholics. All of them have transitional sex.

They claim they tell their prey that they have HIV. They claim most of the men they sleep with refuse to wear condoms stating various reasons including;

-          Real men don’t wear condoms

-          Doesn’t she trust him?

-          Doesn’t the woman trust herself?

-          You’re just saying you’re positive because you want you avoid pregnancy, I’ll ejaculate “outside”.

-          I don’t enjoy it with a condom.

-          I’m too big for a condom.

-          I have HIV too so what does it matter?

-          I’m allergic to the lubricant on government condoms.

-          I can’t “feel” you when I wear a condom.

As these women talk to me, laughing all the while at my stupefied facial expressions, they almost convince me that the men who get infected by these women deserve their just desserts for their stupidity. I ask why don’t the women protect themselves from re-infection?

*explosions of mocking laughter*

Am I serious? If they tried to protect themselves by wearing female condoms (assuming they manage to find some as they claim female condoms are almost the Holy Grail) then the men would stop sleeping with them. Then they would have no alcohol, no places to sleep, no food, no sex no fun. The cycle is vicious. I cannot bear to listen to any more.

“The good thing about the father of this baby is that he is a TEACHER! So he’s rich!” the lively pregnant one laughs gleefully and lights up.

Grabbing the packet (mine) from which she has been pilfering day I make a beeline for a place where such madness is not so normal.

She Said No; A Rape

Hers is a typical rape story, isn’t amazing that the phrase “typical rape” story exists? A testament of the age we live in; and the abnormalities that have become the norm. Someone she knew, someone she would have allowed inside her house in the dead on night on a stormy night, turned on her. He was deaf to her screams of, NO! NO! NO! He did not care that she begged him to stop. And when it was over, he asked her if she had enjoyed herself; while she struggled to make the world stop, so she get off.

On her Matric Dance night she braved the farewell and after-party without a partner because her boyfriend (someone she had promised herself to) could not make it. It was a day to celebrate the end of her high school career, it was more important she commemorate the journey with friends than it was that she show up with a gorgeous boy on her arm. She intended to have a good time. She was a virgin.

“I was sitting and chatting with a guy friend when the friend who had brought asked us to organise a ride home. She had brought me and my best friend. The guy I was chatting to offered to drop us off. I was flattered that he was even talking to me – he was very good looking and well known in our neighbourhood, was a part time house music DJ and had no shortage of girls. We continued drinking together and I remember I was knocking back red Sambucas at his invitation. When we were ready to go home he asked me to walk to his bakkie with him as it was parked a bit far from the club; claiming he felt tipsy and wanted some fresh air before he got behind the wheel.

By the time we got to the bakkie I was feeling seriously woozy and it was only after we had driven off that I realised we were heading away from the club and not towards it. He told me he just wanted to take a short drive with the window open to sober up.

Looking back now I feel stupid but then I was just a short, fat girl with glasses; I was also wearing a floor length black dress that just about covered me like a sack – the last thing I thought was that someone like him could possibly be thinking of me in any way other than a friend.

He pulled up at a parking spot overlooking the beach and asked me if I wanted to take a walk on the beach. I said no – by this point, I was getting a bit uncomfortable but he assured me he was still trying to sober up and he just wanted to talk. Then he asked me for a kiss – at which I told him that I had a boyfriend.

So he said, “Why did you come with me then? Just give me a kiss and then we can go get your friend and go home.”

So I kissed him, because I thought that would placate him and he would take me home. I wanted to get away from him at this point. When he tried to push my dress up, I started pushing him away and saying “no”.

I can’t remember how many times I said to him, “Please do not do this”. It felt like forever and my throat was sore from shouting the following day – I fought so hard, he tore my stocking; I started trying to open the door to get out and run.

Then he leaned over me his 1.8m frame over my 1.52m (to me he was huge) and my efforts to fight him off were useless; I was like a moth swatting at a bear; he opened the glove compartment to show me a gun; he told me to shut up and stop screaming or he would have to use it.

I was sobbing and just kept saying, NO. NO. NO, thinking he would stop. I asked him to at least use a condom but it was like he had zoned out and he could not or would not hear anything I was saying.

Then he raped me.

After he was done, he asked me if I had enjoyed it and I said no. He seemed surprised, and then continued to try to have a conversation with me like there was nothing wrong. He said it had been great and we should get together again. He could not believe that I was a virgin when he saw the blood streaking down my legs.

I was crying by now and he just kept talking normally so I asked him to please drop me off at the club and I would find my own way home; by the time we got there, it was closed and my friend and her boyfriend were waiting outside. I was hysterical when I jumped out the van, I did not even wait for it to stop moving. My hair was a mess and the blood could be seen all over my legs, my stockings were ripped – I looked like hell.

My friend’s boyfriend was horrified, he wanted to go to the police station immediately but I was in no shape to do that. I was so shocked and hurt and ASHAMED. I just did not want anyone to know.

When my mom opened the door, took one look at me and started shouting and crying that we needed to go to the police station and asking if I had been raped. I was sobbing and hysterical, the last thing I needed was my mom panicking and shouting it out to the world. I ran into my room and into my shower with all my clothes on; I stayed on the shower floor for more than an hour; scrubbing the blood away and trying to clean myself.

I could not clean myself enough – the next day, I kept taking a shower. Oddly, my mom woke up the next day and never asked me about that night again; ever. It was like she decided she did not want to know.

For about a month afterwards, I did not want to brush my hair or get dressed – or make any attempts to look nice. I thought it was my fault for trying to look pretty and maybe if I made myself as unattractive as possible, it would never happen again.

I also fell pregnant. The man who raped me called me a few times, adding to my trauma. When I saw him with his friends they would stare at me. It felt like no matter where I went, if I turned around he would be standing there; watching me.

I could not stand the thought of a baby, I would have hated it, and so I had an abortion. I never told anyone. I thought I would tell my family once I had got over the shock, once I had dealt with the rape and the fact that I knowingly aborted a baby.

I did not want to lay any charges because I was convinced no one would believe me. I could scarcely believe it myself, it made no sense. Why would a good looking well educated boy from a good home do something so violent – and a boy who had girls throwing themselves at him?

Then a few months later, my mom, brother and I came home to find that my father had committed suicide – he had shot himself. There was no note. For a long time, I felt very guilty because a part of me thought he had somehow found out about the rape and was so ashamed of me that he killed himself. I later discovered he had financial difficulties.

However, there was no way that I was going to add to my family’s trauma after that. We were so ravaged and torn apart by my father’s suicide, it was a total shock to my family. I also broke up with my boyfriend because he wanted to get engaged and I did not know how to tell him I had been raped. I did not want to see any looks of revulsion or pity on that face I loved so much.

I think of that year as the worst year of my life and I know I made it through that year somehow – so I can handle anything that comes my way now.

It was a long time before she was able to date, to be intimate with men and to be happy. But she did it, drawing strength from a will to live, to triumph, and to never be the victim again. She still believes aborting the baby was the right decision. She is now a successful married and mother to a beautiful son.


Near that stretch of sandy beach, her innocence being ripped from her, she became his victim. To see her today and know what she has been through is testament of her power. Where some would break, she is a woman who has lived beyond her fear. I salute her.

Lessons in Life: A Series - Death of the Blameless

I never met her; I did not know she had moved to the little village she would perish in. And yet she lives in my mind now; a symbol of the price of turning a blind eye to your neighbour’s plight.

Many would later say that moving into the house that once belonged to a man who was brutally murdered by young boys was a sign that she would not live long. But of course, that was just an excuse people used to cope with what they witnessed; a smidgeon of comfort to move past the horror.

Her story will find a chapter in the village’s gory history books, along with the story of my childhood friend;

Nathi was my best friend when we were five years old. My mother and his mother were childhood friends. Secreted away from the brutalities of apartheid while my mother worked in the city, Nathi’s mother was my second mother. I am told that when we were babies his mother would breastfeed us both, and when my mother came home, she would pretend “breastfeed” us too. Nowadays that practice would probably lend someone in jail.

With political rivalry at its highest, Nathi’s father did not like that his mother was a supporter of a political party that rivaled his. Today I would say that Nathi’s father was on drugs, because what happened remains inconceivable to me. So infuriated with his wife’s allegiance to another party he became convinced she was passing on his party’s secrets to hers; he resolved to kill her. It was a night that she had taken Nathi into her bed with her, believing her husband would not be returning that night as it had happened so many times before. It was later discovered that he had lain in wait in their tool shed.

As he raised his spear to plunge into her covered body, he never thought to remove the blankets first, if only to make sure his aim was true. Today I take solace in imagining that Nathi never knew what happened. One second he was sleeping soundly in his mother’s arms, the next, a spear had pierced through his heart, clean through his small five-year-old body. Crazed by the mistake he had made, Nathi’s father never got around to killing his wife.

Nathi’s story is still told in the village. My little daughter knows it, she knows of how I lost my best friend and confronted death at five years old.

This woman’s story is one that will also be sown in the fabric of the village, a legacy of a time when everyone minded their own business. I remember how the village hunted Nathi’s father like a dog while he ran in the mountains, afraid and knowing his life was worthless to the bloodthirsty villagers. I remember how the police rescued him from clutches of a cluster of young men who were beating the life out of him. And then I recall the blasé attitude that this woman’s death was greeted with; the carelessly-told stories by her neighbors about how her lover would beat her up in the dead of night. I shudder at the tales of the horrors he visited upon her four-year-old daughter, and I hang my head in shame at how nobody did anything.

She came to the village with her lover who was born there. They rented the dead man’s house from his aunt who also lived in the village. I have gathered, although one cannot trust village gossip completely, that from the day they moved in to the day the man’s screams called the neighbors to his home, he would beat her and make her watch while he practiced lewd sexual acts on her child. It is said that he was not the father of this child

When she made the short trip, past two houses up, in to the local shop to buy a bug killing spray, she had had enough. She had experienced life at its worst and she knew she could endure no more. Carefully cutting a hole so as to pour the contents into a glass, she made juice for her little one and diluted the poison with it. She then made her child drink. And sat and watched her die. She then drank the remainder of the poison and died too. Her lover found them a day later and policed ruled a double suicide.

I do not know if bug spray can kill humans but the shopkeeper confirms that the woman did buy a large can, the same can that was found empty in her home, and the same substance that could be smelt in the child’s juice glass. The most horrendous aspect of the story to me is that soon after the murder and suicide; the neighbors claimed that the woman had tried to strangle the child twice before resorting to poison. If this is the truth, why did they do nothing? What kind of people are they to sit and do nothing while a child is being harmed?

I have since seen the man who lived with this woman; he is a quiet man, dark with sunken eyes. Even if I hadn’t heard the stories about him I would still be afraid of him. This woman and her child were taken home to be buried; I often ask myself why she didn’t go home. I will never know the answer; I suspect she too, would not have an answer.

Spud and MTN!!

Spud and MTN!

Now that’s AYOOOBAAA!!!

*raises figuirative pom-poms* MTN is the BOW-WOW! MTN is the BOW-WOW!

I’ve been an MTN subscriber since my first cellphone in 1998! Yeah baby! So automatically, that qualifies me for the tickets to the premier of Spud the movie! Check out the deets here: Basically MTN is giving anyone who has a blog, Twitter or Facebook account to be their guest at the premier of this movie, starring John Cleese as the cantankerous The Guv in either Joburg, Durban or Cape Town. Further details are also HERE!

I first met Spud in 2008:

Monday 2008 November (in the morning): I received a box of books from a colleague. Buried beneath, Michael Gregorio’s Critique of Criminal Reason and David Rohl’s The Lord of Avaris was a nondescript paperback. A boy seemed to be diving head-first into the darkness and the title was Spud – The Madness Continued. Little did I know I had just encountered what would become one of my all-time favorite books.

November 2008 (midday): During my lunch hour I took Spud out to lunch with me and got reading. I was rather late in returning to my desk and I couldn’t wait to get back to my book.

November 2008 (after work): By now I had realized there were two books and I drove quickly to CNA to get the first. I found the very LAST copy at the nearest branch! I eventually had to sleep at 1am, three quarters through Spud: The Madness Continues. By the time the weekend had rolled around I had read both books and starting on my second, more leisurely reread.

If there are Spudheads out there, let me join please!

I practically grew up in boarding school, starting at the fresh age of 10 years old. After reading ALL Spud books I have come to the conclusion that I am a mixture of Spud, Rambo and Pike. Every word John van de Ruit writes in these books strikes a responsive chord with me. I have grown to love Spud as though he is the best friend I sometimes wished I had in school.

While I was extremely intelligent and bookish, writing essays that had my English teachers oohing and aahhing with rapturous praise, I was a hell-raiser and my house superintendent wished many ills upon my misbehaving head; both in primary and high school.

In primary school I established quick dominance by taking on the biggest kid in the dorm. She wasn’t to know I had spent my childhood rough-housing with boys and had a murderous past in which I killed field mice, roasted and ate them. I was hardcore!

It was in primary school I would gain the nickname AK47. I quite recently received a message from a kid I went to high school with via Facebook. She was ASKING to add me as a friend and asking me if I was still a great dirty bully. I assured her that I was not! Nor was I the loser she and her fellow friends dreamed my friends and I would end up being. But I told her I had repented of my evil ways and was now in fact a decent member of society. She evidently didn’t buy my story because she never added me!

Not AYOOOBAAA!

In high school I was craftier in my bad behavior although I did refuse to “fag/slave” as all new comers were required to. After making history by facing a hostel disciplinary committee two weeks into the New Year it was decided that it would be punishment FOR the Prefect to make me slave for them. I was told to clean the salad bar after supper every night instead of slaving but I didn’t like that either. Eventually, they left me alone. The school’s mistake had been not being explicit about slaving in their application forms.

Strangely enough, most of my teachers are now my friends. I speak to them regularly and they are quite proud of me. In my final year I had a heart to heart with my house superintended, a lady I admired greatly and she said I wasn’t that bad! HONEST! I was floored! And chuffed. :) Deep down I was just a teacher's pet! As a tribute to her I now match my nail polish to my clothes, she used to do that.

Some of my boarding school highlights:

The Famous Four Investigators Club: Established in primary school. We kept track of who was gossiping about us. Then confront them. We were miserable little kids away from our families, someone had to be Pike!

D-Day: This was in high school. Somehow, I ended up being the whistle-blower on this one and six girls were expelled from the boarding house for bullying. Hmmm. They still hate me. I think I probably plea bargained, that is the only explanation for my narrow escape.

My nicknames: AK47, Shokko (because I was a shocker), Que Sera Sera (given to me by my high school history teacher because I always misbehaved despite consequences). I don't know the one's people called me behind my back!

My 6-time near expulsion: I must have been the only girl to dodge this many bullets. Once, I had to have a lawyer! How Rambo is that eh?

A Blogger Challenge: 16 Days of Activism

I’m not a preachy blogger.

*snort*

Seriously.

Well I didn’t used to be, and I’m hoping I not one now also.

25 November 2010 is the beginning of 16 Days of Activism Against Gender Violence, this day itself being International Day Against Violence Against Women.

I challenge anyone who feels so inclined to use their blogs to create awareness and participate actively in the 16 Days of Activism by blogging about a real woman you know or have heard of that symbolizes women’s triumph against violence and abuse.

Perhaps I detract from the purpose of the project when I say that violence and abuse does not necessarily have to be “traditional” spousal abuse in which a woman is abused by a man. I challenge you to find that lesbian woman who was traumatized by her lover, that child whose own mother or teacher abused, the woman who rose above the humiliation of sexual harassment at work, the little girls suffering at the hands of bullies on our playground.

As South African woman let’s all stand together, just for 16 days, and barrage the ears of abuses with our words; via our avatars, tweets, blogs, Facebook status and wearing a white ribbon.

You did it for the world cup. :)

You may also participate here. I know I will!


PS: I got this post in early because I'd like those who are interested to invest some thought and time into at least one post! Ta.

Lessons in Life: A Series - Teenage Pregnancy on Budget

“I never planned this for myself,” she says throwing her baby over her shoulder carelessly. The chubby baby boy gurgles in pleasure as he is secured to his mother’s back with a towel. He will spend the best part of today there; nearly six hours of not crawling, not kicking his legs, not playing; just feeding breaks.

“I mean, I knew when I didn’t finish school I would not be likely to get a job that would make me rich, but I hoped that at least I could work for a white madam in Jo’burg, and make enough to take care of myself,” she smiles while she lays out her wares in tiny little towers; four onions for R5. I wouldn’t buy them; they’re too expensive; I can get the same from the supermarket for much less. But she has carved a niche for herself; she keeps people’s groceries while they shop around and when it is time to get into a taxi, they collect their things and have to pay her for her guardian duty. She rarely goes home with left overs.

While her dreams may not have been lofty or adventurous, at least she once dreamed. At 16-years-old she left school, pregnant with her first child. She could have continued to study but even though learners have the right to continue in their studies while pregnant, some teachers have made it their personal duty to make this impossible. They bait those up the duff with snide comments, puns and innuendo.

“Today we start the reproductive system everyone, So-and-So you can leave because you already know this part!” they snigger.

“I can’t say I blame teachers or anyone else for where I am, I am responsible, which is why I work this hard,” sitting down on the make-shift stool made of an empty paint drum and an old pillow, she lights her Cadac Skottel braai for the hot dogs she sells.

The baby on her back is her second, the first now in school. This 23-year-old single mom of two no longer has anyone else in her life. Her parents kicked her out over the second pregnancy. She then moved in with her boyfriend even though she was not sure he was the father of the baby and he beat her up.

“I know that it is wrong to sleep with many men and not condomise, but once you’ve been in my shoes for as long I’ve worn them, you find there is very little that you won’t do for some money,” she explains, a defiant slant in her words. Indeed, who am I to judge?

“My parents gave me and my daughter a place to live and food; everything else I had to work for. They refused to let me leave and look for work; they couldn’t look after my child even though they stay at home. It is through the social welfare grant that I have been able to do anything for the children,” she carries on.

Using the social grant she has managed to rent to a stall at the busy taxi rank, buy the skottel and start her business. She rents a dingy room in an unsavoury part of the little town and lives her life. She no longer dreams, she plans. She knows that you get nothing from doing nothing.

“Throwing me out was maybe the best thing my parents have done for me. Now I know how to take care of myself and my children.” Her voice is with pride. I decide to buy a hot dog, the sausage is cheap, the oil she uses is cheap but there is already a small queue of people wanting some.

As humble pie; it tastes delicious.

Dangerous Obsessions

Hurrying along the streets she clutches her bag close, head held high with false bravado, her mistress rests under her arm. She hustles to her car, careful that she doesn’t harm her precious cargo. She debates on when she will indulge in the comfort of her secret friend. Just one glass she promises herself; before or after dinner. When she wakes up in the wee hours of the morning, her empty bottles surrounding her, evidence at attempts of eating upended on her carpet, she vows; tomorrow, it’ll be just one glass.

Tip-toeing to the fridge, she has practised the dance of avoiding the creaking floorboards over time; given her girth, it is amazing she makes no noise. With cat-like stealth, she swings open her cave of comfort, her eyes scanning its contents. She selects and creeps back to the safety of her bathroom, where she will stand watching herself in the mirror; all the better to watch her shame. As the tears collect between her double chins, self-hatred welling in her ever-fattening body, she’ll promise herself; tomorrow, I’ll begin my diet.

I need to pick up some cosmetics tomorrow, she thinks idly while he plunges insistently inside her, groaning her name, lost in his lust. Her hips move in the practised old waltz of coupling, her mind adrift. She drags her thoughts away from the nearly depleted shower gel, and watches him. She ekes out a measure of comfort from watching his abandoned state; at least right now, he belonged to her. As he reaches his climax she prepares her act, the gift she gives him for the gifts he gives her. He is happy, triumphant and sated. A beautiful girl gives herself to him, whenever he wants her; without asking much in return. As he leaves, the night still long, silent and lonely ahead of her.

She moves with assurance among the men in the high-ceilinged boardrooms of corporate conglomerates. Her womanly curves smothered by straight suits and severe hair. She hides behind her notebook, clutched protectively to her chest, she’s tough as nails, she’s the office bitch, and she’s one of the boys. Sacrificing her femininity for her career; she’s made it. Until she goes home and takes off the war paint, and in the flimsy material of her nightwear, she remembers she is a woman. She craves to laugh and be ditzy at work because that is what girls do! She wishes her guard was not such armour; an unfriendly barrier keeping both the good and the bad at bay.

We all know these women, we have either been them, or we have seen them. They are our friends; refusing to believe that they become monsters after a few drinks, holding on to the excuse that they need to unwind while they slowly unravel. They are without direction, lonely and smothering a world of hurt with a bottle.

They are our sisters; sleeping with married men, afraid they will never find someone to call their own. They hate themselves and use their bodies for comfort from the unworthy, never believing they deserve so much more than they settle for.

The binge-eater could be you; weary of judgemental glances from your work colleagues as you pull out your take-away lunch, tired of the pitying looks from the sales women who shake their heads sadly at you when you ask for a plus size on a skirt you liked. It’s the tactless taxi drivers who shout irritably, “no fat people in the front seat!” that drive you to jump off at your stop and head home to you Twinkies. It’s the feeling of failure and lack of self-discipline that leads you to fill your mouth bulging with food as you watch yourself with loathing in the bathroom mirror. You want to hide it, hide from others, hide from yourself, but you cannot.

I have no words of wisdom for these women, as salvation comes in different formse3 for everyone; but I have the promise that if you want to be saved, you will be.

The Miracle we Almost Missed

Like the putrid smell from a stagnant bog; a blackened piece of meat being feasted upon by maggots in a darkened corner. Like the discovery of a colony of cockroaches feeding on the dead of their own, or seeing the remains of a dog that was halved by a careless wheel; seeing her pregnant turned my stomach.

Jumping into my mind with so much noise I was afraid it was tattooed in my eyes, the first thought was how the hell were we going to rid of it? The thoughts that followed would, months later, serve to make me question my character. Like a neat line, as if at the back of my mind they had been squatting, waiting their turn the thoughts marched through my mind;

·         Was it too later for an abortion?

·         Who would raise the child? Surely not me!

·         What would people THINK?

·         How could we have been so stupid?

·         Was it too late for an abortion?

Crowding my mind; clouding my judgment and rendering me irrational and dangerous I began my inquisition. How could she, someone with near-acute Down’s syndrome, have got pregnant? With already a predilection for lying, I knew I would never find out the truth. Uppermost in my mind was getting a termination of pregnancy; I was ready to even go to the courts to declare her unfit to parent. It was enough that she was a dependent, she would not subject us to taking care of a child whose chances of having Down’s syndrome were high that a whore on crack. I set about with my plans, regardless of the fact that years earlier I had found a letter, scrawled in her childish writing, she had written to a man, asking him for a baby. What she wanted was immaterial to me.

Until her protector and guardian stopped me in my murderous tracks.

Whatever shame the family would face, the protector said, she would bear the brunt of it. It had been her who had been taking care of my Down’s Syndrome-afflicted cousin. It had been her who had let slide the stringent contraceptive regime I had had my cousin on. She would shoulder the responsibility of the humiliation and take care of the coming baby, “mongoloid” or not. I stayed angry until my cousin gave birth to her baby daughter, convinced she would present us all with a child so deformed we would have to make some hard decisions.

Today she toddles like any perfect angel; a childrso beautiful I suspect God was taking the piss at me. She gurgles, she laughs and she is a joy to everyone in the family. I was the first to take photos of her, when she was only a few hours old. I fell in love with that little angel moments after meeting her. I was wrong, and I have never been so glad to be.

Women choose abortions for flimsier reasons than what I believed. I was afraid that a woman who cannot take care of herself (at 34) would be a danger to a child, I was afraid that I would have to step up to the plate and I knew I didn’t want to. The universe further slapped me in the face when my cousin turned out to be the best mother I have ever seen. Her daughter loves her mother so much, it is amazing to watch.

I am not anti-abortion, I am completely pro-choice. But as I watch women who are my friends continue to choose to terminate pregnancies, I am reminded of my little second-cousin, (so perfect it was like she had a point to prove), I wonder, how many world changers were consigned to the abortionists bin?

Lessons in Life: A Series - The Unemployed

They sit beneath an old oak tree, its branches a cocoon from the newly awakened sun. They look at each other, each wondering who will break first and fish into his or her tattered pockets to for whatever monies happened to land there. The single quart of Black Label beer that has been circulating around the five of them stands empty in front of them. The smokers fidget uneasily, the craving for nicotine making them unsettled. If push came to shove, they will sacrifice what they have for a loose cigarette than contribute to the liquor kitty.

Finally, neither of them can take it anymore;

“I only have R3 guys,” says the tall woman who holds a teacher’s diploma but has never had a job. On her tired face there remains a vestige of beauty and her now emaciated figure reveals that she was once robust.

“Chaps I have R2.10,” her car mechanic live-in lover claims, his calloused hands, blackened by his work, revealing the coins from the depths of his dirty work overalls. He’s a smoker; you can be assured he has another R2 hidden to buy his loose cig. You would think he would have more money but his work sporadic and he drinks most of what he makes.

“Okay that makes it R5.10, we need another R5 guy, I’ll go buy,” the apparent simpleton of the group offers. While the man is in full possession of his faculties he seems to allow the others to treat him like a child. His live-in-lover and the mother of his various children doesn’t drink and therefore he looks cleaner and more cared for. He has the money but will only contribute in private, not wanting the others to know how much he has.

“I have nothing! Yesterday I managed to get two beers from that guy at the pub but I don’t even remember spending it!” says the young woman who has been chewing her nails nervously. If this were the city I would bet she is the resident crack head but I know she just wants a drink and a cigarette.

The last member of the five sits quietly. Nobody expects him to fork out any money although he is the only one who is employed. He often buys alcohol for them and they would never dream of offending him by asking.

Eventually, the young woman throws her hands up in the air theatrically and cries, “Well I was going to buy for your guys later!” She pulls out crisp R10 note and a cheer goes up around the group. Hooray. Smiling, the Simpleton picks up the empty bottle and looks for another one. He will now buy two beers.

By mid-afternoon the five is merrily tipsy, the kitty exercise having being repeated numerous times. There have been comings and goings but the core has remained. They all live in the same yard, where they rent the dingy rooms from an ornery landlord who collects the rent in beer sometimes. By nighttime the will be well and truly drunk, fighting among themselves. Someone will be beaten and most of them will sleep without having put anything besides beer into their stomachs.

These are the unemployed of a little rural town. They have nothing better to do but drink all day. They see no other choice. But however idle their days are, the conversations are awe-inspiring. In each of them you realize an intelligence that is denied by the dirty clothes, the drunkenness and the lack of motivation. Their conversations are what constantly bring me back to them, to sit listening, rarely participating. Once I tried to introduce to them the concept of taking time out to eat, bringing bread and sausages but they begged me to bring them liquor, if I want to spend money on them.

They discuss politics; they don’t ramble like uneducated people but have decided views on matters. They may use unsophisticated language but they understand the nuance. They discuss social issues ranging from wife-beating (even though all are in abusive relationships), to rape, to the impact of corporal punishment in schools. They discuss religion, world wars, in fact conversation you would most likely witness in a newsroom. They’re vivacious in their debates; they stand up to defend a point, sometimes accidentally kicking a beer in their excitement.

And yet they are unemployed drunks living off each other and spending their days wondering where the next beer is going to come from. They are the legacy of wrong turns and bad decision compounded with socio-economic conditions. They have no dreams; I’ve yet to hear any of them wish for a greener pastures (except perhaps a pasture with some whiskey). They accept their circumstances as the norm. Someone with dreams is a fool to them; they know dreams don’t come true.

And yet in each of them I have found something worth learning.

Too Fat to be Loved?

Nina van Horn of Just Shoot Me says that the purpose of magazines is to sell food from supermarkets. She says that magazines set up impossible standards for women (e.g. how to have multiple orgasms) and when these women do not have these multiple orgasms they feel inadequate. This results in:

Inadequacy = Loneliness/Sadness = Hunger = Buying Food = Richer Supermarkets

It’s a simple enough concept; expect that after “richer supermarkets”, comes “women gain weight”.

Women are burdened; they’re pained and suffer at the hands of expectations. The minute a woman gains weight she must worry about her sex life or more correctly, the impeding absence of a sex life.

But fat men the world over get laid up and the down in various made-for-the-obese sex positions. To add insult to injury these men have SKINNY women to fulfill their sexual needs while fat women cry into their double chins, watching Singleton TV and eating ridiculously expensive ice cream.

While out with some friends a while ago, I sat observing the goings on of bar pulling. Two girls sat nursing two overlarge exotic-looking drunks, chatting amiably. I was part of a group of both girls and boys and so I was safe from any unwanted scrutiny. Anyway, one girl was big, the other skinny - as it always is with friends. The big one was beautiful and very well dressed, the skinny one wasn’t much to write home about but dressed well and nicely turned out. They didn’t seem to be looking for anything more than just a drink together.

A guy approached the skinny girl and asked for her name and number. She gave him her name but not the number. He said if she wanted to get to know him better then she should join him and his friends and gestured over to a table of three guys and a girl. The skinny girl, to her credit, declined again and said she just wanted to have a drink with her friend, (I should point out at this point the big girl had the look of a long-suffering friend of a skinny person, she even offered to leave so her friend could join the guys if she wanted and my heart broke.) The skinny friend (obviously a decent person) pooh-poohed the idea and told guy no thanks. The guy, sensing that he was losing, turned nasty (what else?), “Oh, you wanna package usdudla?”*

I wanted to stand up and throw my drink at him but it seemed more prudent to mind my own business. The skinny woman didn’t bother to answer him and after a few more taunts the jerk left them alone. Perhaps feeling my eyes on them, the fat girl looked up and caught me staring; I smiled at her and winked. I don’t know why I winked because she probably thought I was a big les and gave me a very stern stare. I was suitably chastised although my smile lingered until she just ignore me.

This scene exhibited to me with great clarity, the plight of big women in the dating world. While a woman may be self-assured, confident and strong (albeit with an inability to control what she eats) some men will only see the rolls of fat and gigantic thighs straining against the supposedly slimming black pants.

They won’t give the hearty laugh a chance to envelope them in contagious merriment, preferring instead to know their laugh as the chortle of the heavy-gutted. Instead of exploring the personality they will worry about the possibility of needing a GPS to explore the generous curves. They won’t realize that every dismissal chirps away at her heart and sends her further and further into Comfort Eating Zone.

It’s all good and well to claim women don’t need men and vice versa but that’s just a bunch of bollocks happy people tell unhappy ones in order to give them hope. Of course the opposite sexes need each other and not just for procreation either!

So to the fellow big gals out there, I’m going to be honest with you, you need to be lucky; lucky enough to find a guy who loves you; just as you are. You will like many who won’t give you a second glance because of your weight. I’m not going to say try and lose the weight, if you could you would have by now, but then you would discover you have to sift through a lot of skinny-girl-loving jerks to find your man. This way, the jerks stay away because of your weight and you’re left with a, significantly smaller yes, decent pond.

Happy fishing!

*Fatty

I am a writer.

I have to say this to myself because I once let someone tell me I am not a writer. That I was not favored with the gift of stringing words together to form a poetic stream that bounces around a mind long after the eyes have feasted upon it. Ha!

I may not be a GREAT writer yet but with patience and nurturing I could become an important one, whether in my own life or for the world remains to be seen. I have so many unfinished works, languishing on my computer, waiting to be done. I have stories living in my head; characters that come visit me and whisper their stories into my subconscious.

I have been ignoring them and in doing so, ignoring my purpose, to write; for myself, for others, to heal, to learn, to experience, to create space for other characters to be born. I ache to retell the stories of my neigbours, if only to document their lives, so the future knows that So-and-So lived, and they struggled. I grieve for the untold tales of the man who was set upon by five teenagers, intent on murder, of how in a few years time no one will remember that they dragged his disemboweled body across the field of his rural village, to a “witch” who removed his liver for her muti. My heart bleeds to think these boys walk around among the innocent of this village, murder in their eyes, their brutality unquenched, stalking their next prey. If I had written their story, would they have paid?

I want to commit to paper, thereby immortalizing the cruelty of the father who asked his young daughter to disrobe for him, taking her virginity as surely as if it belonged to him. Should he not be exposed to the masses? Removed from the shadows of anonymity to face his actions and be judged? As a writer, I could have fought the little girl’s fight.

I once let somebody once take my power, they broke me, they changed me and when I lay shattered, a mere remnant of what I had believed myself to be, they opened the door and shoved me outside. I left behind my confidence and my love for myself.

Today I reclaim myself.

I am a writer.

And I’m not embarrassed to say so.

My Breasts

My breasts are large; a size “E” cup. They’re mountainous. When I am seated, I cannot see my tummy, nor can I really see it when I am standing. I am always afforded with the stunning view of my cleavage, straining against my Cross Your Heart bra, the unsexy penance of large-breasted women. I have sexy bras too, but I have to wear them for a few hours because the strain of asking my hills of womanhood not to sag through the thin lace I have scooped them into is too much for my back.

My breasts are pendulous. When I get home, the first thing I want to do, and often do do, is to remove my bra. It will have been cutting into me, not because it doesn't fit, but because it has been working really hard. I joke, “Calypso! I release you from your human bonds!”

I dream of reconstructive surgery to return them to their former glory before my breasts were sustenance. I watch them as they cascade over my chest, spreading, unruly in their freedom. Sometimes while I jump around exercising, my breasts rush to my face, despite the restrictions of a sports bra. I often worry I will one day bruise myself or one will fall off because I jumped when I wasn’t wearing a bra. After I bath I dry beneath my breasts and use talcum powder to minimise the friction between my breasts and chest.

My breasts are Calypso, a mythical goddess who has bestowed favours to some before she finally trapped her Odysseus. When my babies were hurt, they lay sobbing on my heaving bosom while I comforted them. My lover rests on them as he listens to my fears, joys, gossip, nagging and he hears my heart beat. They fed my children; they make me feel like a woman, gigantic though they may be.

My breasts are rude, they demand the attentions of young boys and lascivious old men alike, they invite lewd looks from the uncouth and gain me compliments from straight and gay women alike. They refuse to respect the confines of a v-neck and make a mockery of the square neck. If they had their way, I would only ever wear turtle necks.

My breasts do not make me a woman. Each woman is so much more than her physical attributes. But as I lie back on the bed (they, rushing back and threatening to suffocate me) and feel each one in turn for the feared lumps I know I do not want to lose them.

Be wise, and be breast cancer aware.

The Awesome Dream

Well last night I had the most AWESUM dream EVER! It’s been a long time since I had a dream I woke up from laughing so much I had tears in my eyes and my stomach and cheeks were sore. I’ll tell it like it happened.

For reasons unknown to me RubyLetters and AngelsMind decided to visit me at the farm I am living on, bringing with them The Twitter Hunk.

Boyfriend of mine whom I love dearly should probably stop reading at this point but I should point out I am not responsible for my dreams.

The three had somehow managed to arrive at this obscure little village in a TAXI! I was called to our gate to find three grinning faces looking at me! WTF?

“We haven’t seen you in forever, and Ruby and Hunk haven’t even MET you! So we thought we should visit!!” Angel chirruped.

I was flabbergasted. And very excited, the Hunk was a HUNK. It seems to be the same hunk I had been ogling at the beach that boyfriend had told me off about in yet another dream. If I were Boyfriend, I wouldn’t be happy about the presence of Hunk in my subconscious; but Boyfriend in not a crazy jealous moron but rather a confident sex god who’ll roll his eyes and think, “Yeah, but you’re in love with ME!”

Anyhoodle. I took the three visiting Twitter lovelies on a tour of the villages pointing out places of interest, most of which were MY PUBS! I swear there were about five pubs and they all belonged to me. It was Ruby who decided we should play a drinking game that saw us trawling the five pubs ending back at the farm for a braai. WTF???? We began and by bar three we were a spectacle in the entire village. Angel had managed to twist her ankle but was somehow dragging the thing behind her with the greatest of ease! The hunk was the only one left standing but by now he had become incredibly SHORT!

BWAHHHHAHAHAHHAHAAH.

The Hunk was a MIDGET.

Now I know for a fact the Hunk is incredibly tall and lithe. So this was ridiculous to me. And I laughed so hard I peed myself. This set off Angel but Ruby couldn’t see that the Hunk was now tiny and thought we were both quite daft. The Hunk was oblivious to his shrinkage and flirted outrageously with all of us.

A group of kids were trailing us and taking bets on which of us would fall in to the dam first. Ruby suggested I jump into the dam because I stank! (Because I’d peed myself laughing). While she was trying to shove me in to the dam she lost her footing and fell in! Angel was finished by this and it took quite a while to realize that Ruby was in fact shrinking in the dam! The Hunk, now a midget, jumped in and tried to save her!

TWO MIDGETS in the DAM!!!

Angel and I sort of died with laughter and I woke up!

I woke up and TWEETED and Facebook that I’d had this awesome dream and then planned to continue it when I sleep. I have often picked up a dream where I’d left it off.

True enough, five minutes later I was out like a light and dreaming again.

Ruby and the Hunk were back to their normal sizes and we were hanging around a braai, having a lekker dorp, none of us truly drunk anymore. Te conversations we had lasted till I woke up. I should mention that the conversations comprised of mostly everything I’ve seen these three Tweet about. Addicted much?

On the surface, this dream is not as awesome as the one you dream owning a stretch limo but what I loved about this one was it was the kind of dream I woke up from feeling good. The limo one you wake up and think, “FML, I don’t have a limo.” With this dream I woke up saying, “Finally, something light and carefree to blog about!”*

* I have written six very serious posts I decided not to publish since my last post.

To my friend who died

When you look back, what will your best memory of me be? Will you look back? What made you leave to begin with? Could you not trust me to be there for you? Did you not want to see me no more? When you look back, will your life have not been worthy of a fight? When life left you, did I walk across your mind? When you look back, will it be to light my way or to curse my tomorrows?

Will you hold it against me, that after the first failure, I never wanted to try again? Will you believe that I never hated you but I hated what you did? When you’re looking back will you realise you that you should have been more? That you should have done more? When you look back will your mistakes matter or only your triumphs? Will you believe that your place in the world needs to be filled? Will you believe that you will be missed? Will you see the mark you made? When you look back will you ask for my forgiveness, should I give it to you anyway?

When I say goodbye, I will wish for happy tomorrow. I will remember you fondly, and relish the good memories. I will regret never making more and knowing that they will never come again. When I say goodbye I will hold the tears in celebration of our life. I will cover your earthly remains in red soil and imagine the burnt colour of the soil is the blood you spilt in fight for your beliefs, for your family, for friends. I will honor the memory and treasure the lessons. I will forgive and I will forget the hurt that finally separated us, reuniting with your spirit because it was never mean-spirited of cruel, just foolish and prone to mistakes as it is in life.

For your family I pray for clarity, for peace, for comfort. They must find solace in knowing you lived according to your own rules, never once wavering. You enjoyed every day of your life and never once short-changed yourself. Your chose your friends for heart and not for show. You forgave family even when they wronged you and always provided beyond the expected. I wish them the best in everything.

Rest in peace my friend,

ABCi

Everest, or just blogging?

When I guessed, and when I knew

When I guessed, and when I knew

It was 19 May 2008 and I stood, swaying slowly on the spot, the incredibly high heels I was wearing putting up and amazing show of good shoemanship, and squinted for the cab I was waiting for to arrive. The incredibly cute guy who had basically taken it upon himself to look after me all night was standing next to me. I knew he was my friend Tasha’s friend. I knew his name was Johnny, but by that time I was suffering such acute embarrassment and it was taking so much brain power  to stay standing, I pretended  I couldn’t see him.

We had been attending Tasha’s birthday party and to say that I had been the life and soul of the party would be an understatement. I had ruled the entire joint and by the morning I was probably the subject of hilarious tales across the city. My phone began ringing incessantly from midday from about six people I had met and made firm friends with the night before. I was gratified that all of them were women. They all invited me out again and for a dizzying month, I was the showpiece and often the only black person in pubs around Linden, Greenside and Sandton.

But on the morning following that fateful May day, I began to suspect my life was about to change and if I didn’t adapt, I would die. I knew in my heart of hearts that I was heading downward and I knew from experience that climbing back up from the abyss was a journey I could not do twice. I had had my chance and it was that chance that I was gambling with now.

In the beginning of July I woke up from a days-binge of alcohol with the garbage bin in my bedroom reeking of puke, my ankle was badly sprained, the TV was on and my swollen feet were stuffed in yellow high heels. Under the pressure of keeping up appearances, of partying with now-faceless and nameless people, I had finally buckled. To this day, I am so grateful it was the holidays and my children were away visiting. I had ushered them away as soon as school closed so I could continue to bury myself in alcohol. I was mourning the death of my ex, a recent discovery of an untenable situation I found myself in and a perceived personal failure. I was a mess.

That is when I knew. My life had changed. It had irrevocably changed and I needed to change with it. It was TJ who helped me find the right path and the strength I needed to follow that path.

Over the past two years I have been so tempted to go to the liquor store and buy myself a case of beer to just drink and drink and drink until I pass out. But the memory of that bin, nearly brimming over with vomit, the stink of the bedroom, the cigarette burns on my very expensive linen, my inability to get up and wash myself because my ankle throbbed so much, serve as a reminder to me that I may be amazing in other things, but I cannot handle my drink.

And I have proved to myself in the past two years that I am an amazing person. Hiding behind alcohol so long I never gave myself a chance. I thought I had to be OUT THERE, I had to be crazy and I mistakenly thought that I could only be those things if I was drunk. In the past two years I have only drunk less than three full glasses of wine if one had to measure, and those in the company of my boyfriend, in celebration. I do not want to fear alcohol, but I know it is not my friend.

In the past two years I’ve realised a few things, I’m AWESOME, I’m CRAZY, I’m IN YOUR FACE, I’m OUT THERE and I’m outrageous. It has absolutely nothing to do with booze. I’m mad and I love it.

Weird Things About Me

I was telling T.J something weird about me and I decided I would dig about my rusty old mind and come about with a list for you. You could treat this as a meme but stuff must be really weird, not just doff (a word a friend recently reminded me of and I quite liked it) or TMI please. I don’t want to know about kinky sexual experiences involving midgets!

*fervently hopes for explicit sexual tales featuring aliens*

*evil grin*

1.      When I was young, maybe 5 or so I used to hate how ants would make for an errant crumb on the floor. I didn’t want to kill them so I would kill just one. Often they would stop making for the crumb and return to their hole the last bunch taking the dead end with them. I would think they were taking it for a funeral. Honest. I would feel sad a little about this.

2.      When I make a snack or breakfast I make two types. For instance I make a toast with maple syrup and one with an egg sunny side wet. I first play “Ini Mani Mo” and that decides for me which I’ll start with first. So I commence to take a bite from one and then the other until I’m doing to one bite each! I then absolutely OBSESS about which taste I want to be the last before I brush my teeth. It’s so hard to pick and I often just stuff them both in my mouth. I know, I know, I’m a pig.

3.      When I watch Harry Potter movies I put on a ridiculous English accent and act the parts of Professor McGonagall, Mr. Filch and Voldermort. I also have a wand to cast spells with. Tee hee! Ok I know this one is doff!

4.      I make magazine covers with myself and my kids as cover girls. It’s glamorous and fun; we did a Cosmo one that looks super real and people think we were featured in Cosmo. Until they look at the headlines and cover teasers, totally outrageous. One boasts, “Woman Tells of Alien Abduction After Sending Plea For Weight Loss Assistance to Outer Space!!” I then Photoshopped my head into super skinny random body.

When my panties dry I put a panty-liner and then fold the panty and put it away. This is a recent thing but now I'm totally OCD about it. It cuts down my dressing time by a minute. :)

World Cup Mania - Shmeld Cup Bore!

Predictably and comfortingly unsurprisingly I am not enamored with the Soccer World Cup. I’m dully unchanging in my sarcastic, cynical outlook about anything everyone goes gaga over. I find it gives me something to mull over while I go about my hum-drum sort of life.

I also suspect my detractors¹ find some cold comfort in thinking me miserable and negative. But they should really know by now that I take great joy in my misery and negativity. And so it is for them that I sit and indulge myself in a spot of Soccer World Cup bashing.

Perhaps the most irritating factor of this World Cup is that South Africa’s worth is now judged by the Twitter Trending Topic. I should point out that my angst with soccer is vastly fueled by what I read on Twitter and Facebook and by watching eTV’s increasingly preposterous news bulletins.

“Oooh, Vuvuzela is trending!”

“5 of Twitter’s Top 10 Trending topics are about South Africa!!!!!!”

“Let’s get Phillip trending! Phillip you beauty!!!”

*excuse me while I roll my eyes and make a puking face*

Then what happens? What exactly happens when vuvuzela starts to “trend” on Twitter? What does it mean for the average Joe strolling down the meandering pathways of shanty towns in search of this evening’s meal? What does it mean for the politician pulling his pants up after a mid-afternoon shaggathon with a woman who is not his wife in a seedy hotel just around the corner from 90 Plein Street? What does it mean to me, a Tweep, voraciously addicted to chronicling my daily routine for anyone who cares? What? Bugger all that’s what.

And yet we all must use World Cup hashtags and get extremely excited when we chuck “Cala Boca Galvao” and Justin Beiber out of the now obviously oh-so-important number one spot on the trending topic list.

And then comes in the fake camaraderie among the races! Am I being too sensitive when I think suspect even as they jump on the “Phillip! It is Here!” wave most of the Twitterverse is secretly embarrassed for and laughing at the poor daily UKhozi FM caller who spawned Phillip? I mean, who did he THINK Philip was? Hahaha. Perhaps I am the only one embarrassed and laughing.

Anyway the tweets come in all shapes and sizes:

“Oooh! Rainbow Nation!!”

“Madiba! o========<() PAAAAAAARP!!!”

“Oh My God I love my country!! SOUTH AFRICA *hoarse voice*”

“Wave your flag! Wave your flag! I’m so EMOTIONAL!”

“Sandton is ONE colour today! Not blacks and whites and Indians but South Africans!”

“My blood is YELLOW!”

Among these irritatingly uncharacteristic tweets and Facebook status updates by my various pals and those retweeted into my stream (as well as Debra Patta saying with a deadpan face, “I’ve got the fevah, how about you?”) a small voice of truth emerges”

“Why the F&*^ did they have to build the biggest Stadium in Soweto? Isn’t that like Murderville?”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! I love this Tweep! Whoever he is, he remains among the few who don’t forget the intrinsic distrust and dislike among the races in South Africa, #WC2010 notwithstanding.

When Nelson Mandela walked in public for the first time after his 27 years of incarceration South Africans of all races were hugging in the streets (except the white people furtively packing for Europe/Australia and anywhere else the swart gevaar didn’t threaten). And yet two weeks before the World Cup the races were firmly aware of the differences in their skin color and took great pleasure in disliking each other. Other incidents in which the races have set aside their differences for a period to come together as a nation include: the 1995 Rugby World Cup, the famous Bafana Bafana Afcon win in 1996 (well maybe that united the blacks, a couple of colourdes on account of Benni, Mark Williams and Shaun Bartlett and Clive Barker’s friends and family represented the white crew), the 2007 Rugby World Cup, the shock at Xenophobic violence and the Zuma rape trial to name but a few.

BUT! … After these incidents everyone goes back to hating each other in peace, thinly veiled hostility or openly depending on which camp you belong to. With the few that aren’t racist going back to normal as well.

The lines were drawn when Eugene Terre’Blanche was killed, some white people remain incensed at Affirmative Action, emigration remains the cherished dream of many young white people, moaning about apartheid is still the favoured pastime of those blacks who feel hard done by, and I remain ignorant of the Indian and Coloured take on the racial issues in our country.

But HEY, it’s the Soccer World Cup so let’s all band together against Patrice Evra, to keep the vuvuzela blowing in stadiums. Who cares if we don’t like it as one Tweep artlessly asks, we’re still going to band against the foreign element to keep it blowing!? To borrow from Juju, they mustn’t come here with their foreigner tendencies!

Is Fifa now going to station noise decibel testers (whatever they may be called) outside the stadiums and vuvuzelas will be tested for the lowered 20 decibel stipulation? It doesn’t matter that not too long ago there were those who were fighting to have the annoying horns banned from rugby games, IN this country. We can justify that easily enough; the vuvuzela is for soccer, not rugby! Yeah right Saffas!

Amidst all of this merry-making our president is not doubt praying fervently that by the time we all put our heads back on, the furore about a bodyguard, a first lady and a cuckolded husband will have long died down. The Cape Party quietly colludes (hyperbole) to secede the Western Cape from the Republic. Julius Malema is keeping uncharacteristically mum (which I dub cause for worry) and the Cope circus continues its run about town.

When are South Africans going to come together FOR the country? Not as some fuck-off hug fest for foreigners to watch and think, “Boy were we WRONG about them or what?” When are they going to truly set aside their differences to work towards a better South Africa together? Why is it better for some to sit back and proclaim, “Are you surprised? I TOLD you the blacks were going to f&*! this country up!” instead of looking around doing something? What is the point of me pontificating in this space if I am not going to vote “right” the next election? The power of the ANC and the magnitude of its fuck-ups are handed to them on a golden plate by those who continue to do nothing but bask in the glory of the “I told you so” spotlight. And Tweet about it till in trends of course.

#SouthAfricaSucks! <--future trending topic

So forgive me if I don’t join in the merry-making about the World Cup, I am too lazy to go back and reclaim my sarcastic, jaded-about-this-country thread when the foreigners are all gone and we all realize the Gautrain costs too bloody much to be a feasible commuter train for the average South African and that building a giant calabash in the middle of Soweto might not have been such a smart idea after all.

I’ll see all of your real selves on July 12!

¹ I don’t actually have these, but I like to fancy myself important in my daydreams.