Vices

Cloaked in shame and reeking of despair she meandered home; head low, shoulders hunched against the elements, a bag clutched in her fisted hand. She would occasionally raise her head; a smile plastered on her face her eyes pools of untold stories of pain. Her strong voice would ring out in friendly laugh and greeting. Her neighbours must never found out.

The day at work been a dance on a fine line; unable to disrobe and show true self she dons on her daily uniform. The makeup to mask the sallow skin; around the eyes to give them life and her lipstick a bold statement, shouting for attention. Her clothes are meticulous chosen; loot at me, her breasts demand from behind a severe jacket which is buttoned up like a shield. The heart sighs behind the constraints it must bear. Nylon sheaths her once striking legs, giving an illusion of their former glory. Low-heeled shoes; I am hard working her stout feet say with each purposeful stomp. Her skirt below the knee, her mounds have forgotten the kiss of sunlight.

With each passing hour, with each person she helps she wonders; will this one see beyond the mask? Who will knock on my frozen door and offer a warm drink for my thirsting soul. All she fears and hopes is not seen. “How lovely she is,” they exclaim to each other.

“Always smiling,” another concurs.

“Never a hair out of place,” observes another admiringly.

“No!” She wants to scream, “You aren’t seeing me, look beyond the mask, see the human inside my shell.”  They never do, because she never does.

No matter, the day’s end is nigh, the cocoon of her home is near.

She leaves promptly, conflict ion her heart; straight home or past her beloved’s first? What sense was I to love that which harmed you? No home, there was plenty to do there. But what? Fold the laundry; read a book? Spend endless hours contemplating the emptiness? Drawing shapes from shadows cast by the furniture? No, better to have some company.

And so she walks the aisle, seeking her refuge. The cool breeze signals her arrival. In a practiced trance she rescues her favourite from the depths of its cold tomb. As she weaves her way home she imagines when she sits down and indulges. How her loneliness won’t seem to matter; how she will look beautiful when she gazes upon herself in the mirror. Those moments fill up her tank of tolerance so she may face tomorrow with the same bravado she has always shown.

She is a lonely a woman, she finds solace in a spoonful of ice-cream, pastry, anything that will taste like how she wishes she felt, happy

Capital Questions

The argument for or against the capital punishment has barged into many an amiable conversation or dinner party. It is an old argument and the opposing sides vehemently defend respective points of view, convinced it is the right one.

I am against capital punishment. But not for the reasons you might think. 

Death is the last refuge. It is the ultimate destination each of us reaches with each step we take throughout our lives. It is the culmination of existence. The final price one pays for being born. Death is final.

Yes some may believe that there is life after death but since that is yet to be proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, I choose to believe death is IT. End of story.  Working on this premise we can be assured that once one dies once simple ceases to be; they merely rot in the ground, or disappear if they are ashes. 

How is death, then deemed punishment? How is killing someone, ending the slow plod to that inevitable end punishment? Sure, person’s life will be unceremoniously (actually the execution of the death penalty is quite the ceremony) shortened but he will not live to regret the things he may have done had he not been killed. He will simply end.

Who is punished by the death sentence; the perpetrator or his family? Because when someone dies, it is those left behind who mourn his death and are hurt by his demise. So when the justice system calls for capital punishment, who exactly is it is punishing? Yes, the condemned man might worry and fear death but when the deed is done the fears are gone.

Does it serve any purpose? This forms part of the core argument against capital punishment; killing the perpetrator will serve no purpose other than usage the victim’s family’s grief, if even that! Killing the perpetrator will not bring back the victim; it will not reverse the damage that has already been done. If anything, it creates further anguish for those who might have loved the murdering son of a bitch.

Here is where I come in with my brilliant plan. Punish the son of a bitch. Make him wish for death because he knows that in death there will be relief. He knows there will be no pain beyond that curtain. Instead of life sentences in cushy jail cells, three meals a day, TV, libraries, exercise, sex and an occasional reprimand from the warden, I think we need to overhaul the entire prison system. Prisoners are allowed visitors, mail, and an education for crying out loud! Why? And in our beautiful country they are allowed to bloody well VOTE! 

A person who commits a heinous crime like a murder should be stripped of his humanity, fed only enough to keep him healthy and bathing enough to ward off lice and the like. He should be isolated from any human contact except with the wardens. He should spend the duration on his prison sentence with only a few thoughts, revenge/remorse, thoughts of the deed that landed him in prison and wishing for death or escape.  

Now THAT is punishment!

Girlfriend Art Thou Horny?

I have no idea what has got into teenagers (and some older women); but it appears that being horny in fashion. They have taken to taking all sorts of pills and medicine to make themselves horny. I’m truly at a loss as to why a person who is healthy would need a chemical stimulus in order to experience sexual arousal. It seems to me that being unburdened with a wild libido might be a blessing to be honest.

But this is not about me and my libido. It’s about teens taking a drug called ‘kuber’ (which I understand to be a chewing tobacco) in order to get aroused. According to the internet kuber rots your gums and some claim it rots your privates if you apply it down under. Although it is mainly women who use this drug apparently men can also use it.

I have found no conclusive evidence that kuber increases your libido or arouses you but users believe so and that is the main thing. With the convergence of Pakistani and Chinese shopkeepers into rural areas, kuber was introduced. In one particular village the primary school principal felt compelled to call a meeting with the Pakistani shopkeepers to address the problem of his learners using kuber.  They threatened to have the shopkeeper removed from the village if he continued to sell the drug to children even though it is technically not illegal in South Africa.

Recently a principal (from the high school) realised that some kids were missing from school and they were a group rumoured to be ‘addicted’ to kuber. He went to one child’s home (her parents were not home) and found the group assembled there in various stages of undress; a kuber induced orgy if you will. There can be no doubt that there is cause for concern.

There is also an increase in the availability of actual libido pills targeted at both men and women; the next time you’re standing in a queue at Pep Stores, look around, you will see some dodgy looking pills. When I was growing up I didn’t even know that you could rig things in your favour and turn up the volume on you libido, THANK GOD! Ha ha ha.

There is also that tobacco called ‘snuff’ that mostly sangoma’s smoke? They shove it up their nostrils and it makes them sneeze? Well the kids have found another use for that too. Apparently if you put a pinch in your holiest of holies you get a few pleasant minutes. The sensation has been described as an orgasm by those in the know. I supposed the old-fashioned “tiptoe through the two lips” requires too much effort?

In other scary things I have heard women do to their vaginas for the satisfaction of their men;

·         Using a range of “Chinese sweets” which claim to be aphrodisiacs

·         Rolling up some newspaper and putting it down there (a la tampon) to make sure you are “dry” because a wet woman is a slut. (?)

·         Shoving ice down there to make your “passage” swell up because men don’t like it when you’re “big”. Ever heard of Kegel exercises?

For Love or For Money?

My friends and I have no doubt women who use men for money are basically your run-of-the-mill whores. Although they don’t stand in street corners soliciting favours from strangers, they are peddling their bodies, company and “love” for a price. However, women who practice this will deny it to the ends of the earth. In my view there is nothing wrong with this behaviour, as long as you own up to it.

I actually had a fall-out with someone who was clearly dating a man for his money. Every time she mentioned him it was about how much money he made and how much she had managed to cream off him. But it emerged to be a grave mistake on my part to start referring to him as her “wallet”. As long as everybody pretends that you are experiencing the by-product of a great love affair and not that you are a kept whore it seems okay to be one. It’s kind of like someone pointing out that you are ugly.

Just not done.

But in a “normal” relationship, where neither partner is more loaded than the other but rather  comfortably getting by and paying societal dues, the money issue is a bloody minefield. Women are programmed to believe that the man ought to pay for everything while the man has a penis ego problem that leads them to wanting to pay for everything. One of the most basic ways I believe conquers this stumbling block in a new romance is; if you instigate the date you pay for it. This will also help establish a certain rhythm to the relationship in which we both know what we can afford without having to show each other our pay checks.  The issue of mini-breaks is no different. Let’s share the expenses unless you expressly want to spoil your partner.  

Of course my theory is not the dating bible. We all have different expenses on a month to month basis, so one half might take the other out more often than not. In such cases, if it makes one (the one with less eating out budget) uncomfortable improvise by way of cooking for your partner at home. Dating should not be so “going out centric”. Or at least, going out where money needs to be used.

Then comes the shopping and the hair, as a black woman I will speak only from the perspective. Black woman hair maintenance is expensive, whether it’s natural or not. Unless you are willing to cut your hair like Alek Wek, you’re stuck being a slave to hair maintenance.  On average, one hair appointment costs about R300, and this is a once a month deal. For the more ambitious costs starts from R500 – it’s expensive. Some have to change their hair every two weeks.

It seems some black women believe that a man they are dating should have financial input on hair maintenance. It appears that a black woman shoulders the responsibility of looking sensational  only until she snatches a man, once one is hooked the torch is then passed on to him. I don’t know what happens to the money she used for her hair once she has a “hair allowance”.

“I want to go to a party at my friends but I have nothing to wear!” is a familiar sentence many women say. And often it’s bollocks. Independent women say this to their reflections in the mirror or their best friends on the phone. Some say it in a whiny voice to their boyfriends. While your man found you a fashionista (or at the very least not walking around naked) you somehow fool him into believing this is now his responsibility. How? Why?

In an ideal world finances would be kept out of a relationship until you get married. Because we have all heard how some men complain bitterly how a woman took all his money and never even put out. And we know women who won’t put out unless there is money as a reward. This minefield makes it really hard to know what is right and what is wrong?

Should a woman expect a man to financially support her if they aren’t married? Should a man expect a blowjob for every shopping trip he springs for? What are the rules in your relationship?

The South African Promise

She qualified to be a teacher in 1996, around that time there was a teacher hiring freeze in this country.  Teaching and nursing were traditionally the main careers for black people who aspired for a semi-middle class lifestyle.

Having been an intelligent third eldest in her family, nobody doubted she would excel at school and go on to be a wonderful teacher. He mother fantasized about the house her daughter would build, she pinned her hopes on her child.

Her first mistake was falling pregnant during her first year at college. Had she been able to continue with her studies while pregnant, she would have qualified a year earlier, thereby completely missing the hiring freeze. But then, her story would be different.

Today, 15 years later, I watch her lurch from tavern to tavern, drinking anything she can lay her hands on, just so she won’t feel another day slip by. From 1996 to the early 2000s, she tried. We watched her photocopy and certify her qualifications, applying everywhere. She also volunteered in the hopes that when hiring began again she would get preference. But even as we watched we saw the despair set in. Her daughter grew up, with the help of a mother who felt both disappointment (in her daughter) and pain (for her daughter).

It was gradual and, she hid it at first. An occasional drink, just because there was a party or it was the weekend. No harm done. And then she would not come home, days would pass. Her mother became blind, needing her daughter at home, to take care of both she and her child. She came, could not stay long because she couldn’t freely drink at home. And so she would abandon them at the mercy of an uncaring maid, often a maid who would leave before the month was over because it was a challenge to look after a blind old woman.

She hasn’t lived at home in five years now. A plaything for men who would use her body for temporary pleasure, she lives in squalor and her life passes in oblivion.

“I’m a qualified teacher!” she slurs, as she naps on a pub table surrounded by empty liquor bottles.

In a South Africa where we were promised so much, where is her share?