Temples We Know Nothing Of!

You have hid so much of yourself from everyone else because you strongly advocate for realism. If they gonna be nice, at least it's genuine not because they feel sorry, if they are laughing, at least it's genuine cos' they do not do it to try and heal your depression. 

Hey! You chose to hide from yourself so that you do not have to face this reality that says you are human, you got no super power, you got problems like everyone else but maybe you are a little different cos' they have got no solution. So you say the mind like everything else can be programmed to be what you want it to be, so you choose a super power, strength, they will know you as the Strong one. You are unfazed, you got everything under control. You're not a weakling, you do not cry. 

Uuum! Wait a minute. Is that why you say the duck is your spirit animal, I mean bird or whatever spirit it is? Because ducks look so smooth and unruffled on the  top yet inside, within themselves they are paddling furiously just to make it to where the reeds are? Wow! Clever. 

And now that you do not know yourself anymore, you love strangers because somehow with them, you are a whole new person, dressed for that day, ready with a new personality and a different tale of who you are. Sigh! You feel a rebirth, a renewal of a soul you could have been if you had not chosen the closet but then forever is a scam, so are strangers. Soon they become common people who pry too much, who feel that you have let them know so much about themselves and reciprocation is what every soul craves so again, you run. What do they call it, ghosting or you block or you are just going to act like you do not know them. Crazy huh? 

But they choose to see it as cruelty which is so harsh a judgement because all you are trying to do is hold your  pieces together, so your hands are full you need nobody to hold hands with.

 Then comes the battle you never win, never tried to win. The body craves bodies so your mind wrestles your body telling you are a temple but you know you're not a temple because somehow, your flesh already knows more than a temple knows. And it is so unfair that they have to call you a temple because where a temple is a house of peace and healing, your body is loud, these thoughts wrestle each other, and how does it heal when everyday you cover up scars with fresh scars. So No! You are not a temple, but again you're not filthy. You are just that house by the highway, nice, lone and deserted with only echoes of past inhabitants to show that at least the whole structure is not yet down.

Then comes the occasional need to be convinced that someone out there wants you, that you are like everyone else, human. So you feed your insecurities with one night stands, you hook up with people you barely know because deep down you trying to convince yourself that you might not be worth anything at all, but you are capable of giving something, pleasure. So you give it, and you carry the guilt and shame and hide it where you hid the rest of you, in exchange for the glow and knowing you are capable of something you can give a name, something someone can confirm.

 And you smile when you are reminded of them telling you you are good for nothing and at nothing, they were so wrong about you. And you carry your dignity on your shoulders because what they do not know will not kill them. And so when the world tells you that doing such is cheap, when they think they can term you loose,  you do not fight because for you it's fulfilling, it's healing and at least it comes with no expectations, you already have a lot of those. That sucks! 

And now, when someone says they love you, you pick a fight and tell them they are dumb or their nose is a bit off the contour line or they are light skinned. Because broken, you cannot be loved and it is only a matter of time before they choose something whole, new and shiny and you like the broken toy you are, discarded, waiting for the next scavenger to pick you up, and if edible enough, the vultures will feast on what's remaining of you. Because you know love is beautiful but not for everyone and you, you have never had it so what is the point of adding heartbreak to your already full baggage bag? 

So when you hear that it requires commitment you ask what commitment is because you have never committed to anything not even yourself. And when they say it requires reciprocation you do so much of it that you reciprocate even the worst, like if they cheat you don't trust yourself not to, if they buy you a car you most probably gonna rob a bank to buy them a plane. It's simple really, you love more where you do not even have to and you give so much of yourself where you are only given some shoulder. So you avoid that by all costs.And when they say you should talk of yourself more, be open, tell them of the good and the bad but you know they can not handle you so you rather not get close than suffer rejection. And talk of vulnerability, did you not just say you are strong so anything that jeopardises that title is dangerous so you run before missiles are shot.

And so you wish everyone knows being happy is a state of mind and a state of mind is relative. You're happy watching everyone else happy, you're happy making sure everyone has what they want, so you fight their wars, feed them, tell them you love them even when you do not really mean it. So you vicariously live through them, their happiness yours, when they glow, you glow because maybe somehow this is the temple you are, you serve happiness despite your broken springs.You are at peace with who you are.

We are all temples!

Do Not Let Yourself Go!

I actually can't believe that I'm really doing this again. I had convinced myself that I'm quite okay with never being able to write ever again for the rest of my life. It was hard but  it comes with acceptance and this was me accepting that I just could not do it anymore, no matter how hard I tried. I had let myself go and was quite fine with it. All the time I would tell myself that it is an okay thing to accept defeat, and I would comfort myself by telling myself that I was never good anyway, I wasn't getting money from it, I did it because I liked it back then and that is no longer the case. I had all these excuses which made it easier for me to just call it quits and I really thought I was ok but no I was not. 

I missed this, the squeals of the pen whenever it hits paper, the tud of my thumbs on the keyboard, I missed watching these letters get mixed up to form a comprehensive sentence, a paragraph, story, poem. I missed the magic that writing does to my soul, calming, soothing, comforting, controlling, you name it. I missed offloading my nagging thoughts, asking questions, educating, discovering, communicating. All I'm sure of now is the fact that if I ever think I cannot write ever again for the rest of my life, I would most probably kill myself with a pen and ask to be wrapped in paper before you bury me, just kidding.

See the thing with writing is simple for me. I write to control myself. And in the past weeks I had no control at all and ended up contemplating doing the worst things ever. So after a hell of a month, scary weeks, dark days, I feel like myself again. Normally I would not be sharing this with anyone but I feel that maybe somehow in its weird ways this could help someone a bit. 

The past months have been really draining for me. It all started as just an emotional roller coaster. I have always prided myself in being able to control my emotions, an advocate of do not let your problems ruin you, you're strong, you can handle anything. But now I was absolutely not in control and the fact that I had school, exams and projects I was working on did not help me at all. I had a lot of stuff that had to be done, deadlines and worst of all I was working in an environment where I had to constantly think of other people's likes, work according to the dictates of a client and that is the hardest thing ever, some clients are rude for no reason at all, some will mock you, call you names and I had to take it all with grace. For a person who is not really patient I was triggered the whole time, could not take it but had to because I needed the money, I had to take it all in like the broke lady I was.

The craziest thing is I always always said I'm strong enough to handle all things that came my way. And people always say it, I'm strong have always been strong from ever since life learnt to land it's fists on tiny me. But then this time it felt different. The kind of struggle where you do not even want to get in the battlefield and fight even if it means saving your life.

 So you wake up everyday, tired and hope you make it through the day without strangling yourself. You smile, you laugh, you say everything is alright because somehow denying it and pretending the problems you're facing are non-existent and are simply a make up of your creative imagination. And you survive the day, the fortnight, the month. You think you have a grip on it, super girl, nothing is gonna bury the seed that you are. Then silly little thing like your mother telling you in a fit of rage that she wished she strangled you at birth. You know she does not mean it, like she loves you right, but then the nightmares begin and you lose it all.

But still you face the day with a glow that seems to avenge the gowry nights. Nothing moves you any more. Not even strangers who possibly can not know who you are. Not even books you used to love so much, I mean you can't finish an action packed Jack Reacher novel and James Patterson can not race your mind down the alleys of Los Angeles. You once said you're a comfort eater but here you are not even able to think of food, even if it's your mother's tempting cooking, you know she's gonna say you're pregnant so you gulp it down anyway and pray your tummy does not burst. You hate yourself so much that you do not care at all like you don't feel yourself anymore but hey you can't spend the day in blankets because you got lectures, demanding ones too. So you push yourself out of bed and pretend you're playing dress up so just you look at least presentable enough to sit in class and face people you really have no energy to face. But you carry it all with grace like the lady they taught you to be. You feel that you are good at fooling the world, let them think you are in control while you are amidst a tumbling block. So you reward yourself with a nap, when your friends ask you to hang out with them you say you are busy, well physically you ain't busy but your mind is.

Then it gets worse. You have to make hard decisions. Choose between evil options that you ordinarily would not go for. But then the tears come and you now feel defeated because you made a vow to yourself that you ain't gonna cry over anything yet here you are six months down the line crying your eyeballs out over whatever it is that you can not pinpoint. 

You think of getting married as a way out so it's mission find a husband, a rich one. You know you are not doing it out of love but heyy this is it, someone has to take you to school. But interviewing the potential candidates is even draining because they are either misogynist, they are way too conservative, they want to tame you, they want a wife who cooks everyday. And well those are sacrifices you can not make even for a billion dollars, but wait didn't you say you're desperate, it's crazy but you have to go with the flow. Somehow for all your quest for independence, you're choosing dependence praying it really is the twisted labyrinth to your future independence.

Then you reach a breaking point. One where it's way past midnight. You observe the moon and see that its such a beauty, if only you possessed that glow. You think of all the things gone wrong, possible deferring from your studies looming by, possible marriage by December, a baby most probably next year. You think of the siblings who need a sister that you are really not at the moment. And it breaks, you're everything you despise. A failure, a quitter, loser,a dependant, wife to be, mom to be and it's all because you somehow contributed to it. Now look at you, unable to fix anything all you gotta do is drown in the mess you dug. Ironically, your pajama top is written sparkle in sparkling glitters, yet you don't feel that at all.

So you cry silently with your shaking fragile fist shoved into your mouth to silence the sobs. Your other shaking hand is busy typing, a note or whatever that is. You have embraced it, death by your own hand, literally waking up the sleeping Grim Reaper, begging him to make steaky dinner out of your curves, get drunk in your blood, get high on your last breaths. You think this is it a way out, the only one to wherever the place of rest is. It won't be so bad, at least you do not have to witness anyone get hurt and you have to do this, sacrifice yourself. 

But then that too, you can't do it. You cry even harder when you realise you failed at this attempt too but it's not the ordinary salty, peppered chilli tears. This feels good because you feel that you stopped something tragic from happening, you are a hero because you saved your life. So the tears cascade down, beneath it a watermark of a victor's smile. You know you are finally home, where you have vented everything out of your system and you are now ready to have another go on this whole life and living thing, which you remind yourself to never take for granted. While your problems are still not solved, you know tomorrow is gonna be a better day because you decided to make it so. So as the sun rises, so does your soul waking up all it's other cousins with it, stamina, courage, strength, endurance, patience, you name it. While it's all not rosy, you know you are gonna work to make it shine without ever sacrificing yourself or your dreams. You did not let yourself go.

So  do not let yourself go nomatter what blows life lands on you. Because you would have chosen what you thought was a temporary solution to your battles yet it echoed six feet beneath the ground and it's effect was indeed permanent. 

 Do not let yourself go because no matter how vulnerable you may be, you will eventually emerge as a victor but only if you allow it.

Do not let yourself go because there is nothing as precious as your life no matter how many holes it got, there is no problem worth sacrificing a drop of your blood, let alone your life.

Do not let yourself go because you can not afford to extinguish the very breath that makes you, the master piece you are deserves to be preserved, the art you are needs not be erased.

Do not let yourself go because you're worth a breath, you are worth of existence, you deserve to live.

Do not let yourself, ever!

Barefoot and Free.

What mental health needs is more sunshine, more candor, more unashamed conversations- Glenn Close.

It's been a couple weeks since I wrote anything serious. Main reason being that I had exams which my lovelies left me half dead. Yea, they were that hard. The other reason being that I no longer feel the urge to write, like it's straining, like I'm in some kind of writer's block which I want to believe I'm not, like I can't do this anymore. This is very worrying, because there is no way I can imagine my life without writing, I wouldn't cope at all but here I am people, failing to even update my diary. But we move and sometimes you force yourself to do even those things you feel like you no longer have the energy to face.

So today I was at home all alone, bored to death. I've got nothing new to read, nothing new to write, no people to talk to since I took a break from WhatsApp. Simply put, I was the definition of alone, lonely and bored which is not a good mental state for someone trying to make sense of the mess that my life currently is, but well that's a story for another day. So I'm a'll alone here, and I find myself observing myself, from my skin, to it's tone, my height, voice and everything. Guess what? An amazing discovery!

I discovered I have 12 scars on my hands, most of them burns and 6 scars on my legs, most of them scratches. I honestly wish these scars would disappear but no, I gotta carry them for life which I do not mind except for two particular scars which really really took me back to a dark past which I vowed to never share with anyone but for someone trying to come to terms with a past I hate so much, I think it is time I finally owned up to the demons I never wished to unveil. And it being May, mental health awareness month I think this is the best time to face it.

So I have two scars which are not like any other. They stand out, angry red marks on my inner arm. Angry at me. They are aligned like two eyes staring at me, cross, demanding answers, accusing me, calling me names. I've ignored them for a while now and I think it's high time I address them. The two twin scars are my babies of pain, of the price I had to pay for choosing to be strong rather than vulnerable. They are marks of a dark episode where I chose everyone else but myself, where no one cared about me not even myself. They are a reminder of how far gone I was, how I could have easily embraced death than cry out loud, how I wished I could die rather than live a lie.

I was in Form 2 and a lot of stuff was going on in my life. Stuff I won't say here to protect the people I love, but trust me it was really a dark time, a time where my diary was filled with Quick ways to kill one self and make it seem like an accident and a lot of Counsellors' contacts which I never dialled not even a single day in my life. It was a time when waking up was as hard as getting to sleep at night, but actually making it through the day was such a big achievement that I always rewarded myself with tears. Now that I think of it, it was crazy, I was crazy but it was real. I was 14 and depressed and no one cared.

And that's how I found an outlet in pain. If I inflicted so much pain on myself, then I wouldn't feel so hurt and lonely. More like two negatives creating a positive. So as first it was the books, I would read the saddest books ever written, books that would have my heart breaking in pieces, books that would draw even my last tear drop. It worked for a while but the mind is programmed in complex ways, the book remedy was not meant to last forever. So I had to find more effective ways. And that is when the self inflicted scars began. 

I would pour wax on my skin. Seeing it turn red was satisfying. It gave a name and a face to the pain in my heart. And so I kept doing it, till I felt I wanted something complex and fulfilling, something permanent and that's when I started burning my arms. How fulfilling it was, the smell of burning skin and the tears and the thawing of the pain in my heart. With every burn, I felt the burden lessen, with every burn I was convinced I was human too and could actually feel pain, which everyone thought because I was a teenager, I wasn't supposed to feel. So it felt good.

Till one night I actually felt I really needed to die. I felt that death was better than anything else and I had everything ready for the final crossover. Talk of mission gone wrong, what a joke I was. I'm glad I was not bold enough to do it, that is one moment I will always respect my cowardice, one time I will always say f*** bravery and raise hands to the fear that gripped me when I thought of dying, no achievement, no legacy and just fading into the night like a ghost. The idea of being forgotten or being condemned for the way you chose death over life, I could never be the one who cut short their own life.

But my 14 year old self did not see it as that. I saw it as betrayal to a conviction I had that death was the only way out. I viewed it as failure of executing a plan that had been my brain child for weeks. And so I had to pay the price. That is how I got the two scars. I would burn a lollipop stick by the candlelight and drop the burning contents on my delicate inner arm. It was satisfying, it was penance and I deserved it. That is how I still got the scars a reminder of how far gone I was, how self destructive depression had made me, how I found comfort in pain, how with more pain, I felt more alive.

What happened afterwards is a story for another day. The good news is I realised that this was not life, my siblings needed me and I also needed me. I had many dreams to achieve and if I was bold enough to choose life over death, I was bold enough to choose anything and I chose myself, my life and the people I loved. I chose to face my fears, I chose to confront them and I lived.

But what I'm trying to bring across is that such stories are real. Depression knows no age or person. It has no one size fits all cape. Last week my friends and I had a pretty serious argument on this self inflicted pain issue to ease pain. Sad to say, most of them dismissed it as a lame attempt at getting attention and stuff. All I can say is most of these things happen every passing day but it goes unnoticed.

The reason why it goes unnoticed is depressed people never speak out about it. And reasons why people never speak out about it vary but mostly because people will always laugh and dismiss it as attention seeking or trying so hard to live a white life. My parents dismissed it as having read too much fiction. Society has always been judgmental but when it comes to mental health issues, their judgemental sides border on the lines of insensitivity hence people will always have to choose carrying the burden alone than be the subject of every bored person in society.

The other reason why people never talk about is fear of being treated differently  once you share your woes. Like we are so misinformed about mental health that we do not know how to treat people who open up to us. The worst being pity. It legit sucks when everyone starts being extra nice or treating you like you're some fragile precious porcelain. Being depressed doesn't make people any different, so don't be extra nice because they opened up to you. Be you, make them comfortable around you like they always were, treat them as normal as they are, trust me, if it was pity they wanted they would have asked for it directly.

So now that this chapter of my life is over and I have embraced the fact that there is more to life than death, I want to say I look at my scars and be reminded that they are not a sign of pain but a mark of healing.

A sign that we go through moments of darkness that we plan the worst but still we emerge as victors in a new sun filled morning.

A reminder that truly we are like the moon going through phases of emptiness only to be full again.

A souvenir of battles we fought alone, they broke us yes, but they never destroyed us.

A sign that everyday is a blessing, that one small rushed decision could have stopped an entire process of a life that is now so fulfilling.

So be kind to yourself. Don't let your battles defeat you, I know it's not easy but fight your way to your ultimate victory because it is all worth it. Free yourself, go barefoot, free and wild.

Choose yourself over everything else!

#MentalHealthAwareness

P.S: A WORK OF FICTION.

Daddy's Little Girl.

Every girl deserves to be their Dad's princess. What happens if they are not is quite scary and heartbreaking- Siphathisiwe.

 Because he didn't, I had to master the art of being Daddy's little girl in a man who held my hand, hugged me tight, opened car door for me parked outside what I thought was a hotel in Las Vegas yet he called it home. I had to learn in the arms of a man who took me to expensive dinners, who pulled a chair for me, who listened attentively, lay my head on his chest and told me he would fix it and he did.

He did.

One call at a time, one chair at a time, I am becoming Daddy's little girl.

With every hour I spend on the mirror at 1900hrs, I feel wanted. With every honk of that big car by the dark street at 2000hrs, I feel needed. With every purple  and red and white bouquet and a perfect card calling me love or baby at 2010hrs, I feel loved. The holding of hands under the dinner table at 2045, the whole attention as I blurt my childhood dreams in that fancy club at 2200hrs, damn, I am precious, I am worthy all the attention.

Because he did not, I do everything to please the one who does. So I drown the Margaritas in that fancy club at 2215hrs. Ask for some strong whisky instead of some Tequila at 2220hrs, and delightfully lose it when he nods his approval. At 2230hrs, I am all in. Daddy is mine so I will please him, like he pleases me. Bold now at 2235hrs, I have Daddy's arms around my tiny waist which he pays for in that up town gym. My head is somewhere unseen close to the glass floor and I am drowning in this whole noise while his arousal awakens as he follows the rhythm set by my perfect behind trying to please his hungry front. Daddy provides, Daddy's little girl serves.

Because he did not, my knees hurt, these heel straps cut into my ankles but damn they are Jimmy Choo and Daddy bought them for me so they stay. At 2330hrs, The Weekend says he Feels it coming, so does Daddy. So we leave having danced all our troubles and drunk my fear away. 2335hrs, I feel amazing, out of this world. Daddy tries to steal some kisses in the elevator. I feel naughty and that is some wild fantasy so I give in but some janitor gets in. I sober up, I hate the way he looks at me. I say, "Grandpa, you are so judgmental". Daddy chuckles, rubs my back and says to me, "I love it when you are naughty". The janitor watches Daddy's perfectly manicured hands, which are way below my back, something like 15cm away from where my back ends or starts, I do not know.

At 2340hrs, Daddy opens the passenger door for me, I feel amazing. I love how strong his grip is, like the man who would slay for dragons for me. Daddy kisses my cheek and tells me to sleep, he will wake me up when we get home. He cares right? 0010hrs, we are by the mansion on the hill. I love it here, the fresh air which blows my hair away and everything that seems heavy. Somehow, I feel happy, my soul is light as I watch the sparkling pool and I'm elated as Daddy's neatly shaven beard tickles my neck which is bare of anything but a little chain neck with some tiny black opal which accentuates my skin and reflects my soul, black, shiny, beautiful. I love Daddy's cologne, I know it, it is called Dark Rebel Rider, some top expensive John Varvatos brand with some woody scent. Daddy says he will help me start my perfume business since I am so obsessed with them, all I have to do is work on a detailed business plan. Daddy is a whole meal, and so am I.

0030hrs, I cannot hold it in anymore. Daddy says he is teaching me a relativity lesson. So I am an obedient, attentive student and willingly let him do all the work. Last time we had the handcuffs, I do not think I want them ever again. So Daddy opts for something else. He calls it 69. Feels good but I have to fight so hard not to gag or puke, there is always a bitter end and a sweet one, funny how one can have both at the same time and enjoy it too. 0040hrs, I am beyond reasoning. Drowning in a pool of ecstacy and what seems like mucus only that it came from a strange place. My thoughts are wild and naked. So I want to be naked too. Daddy can not keep his hands to himself but he wants some play. A daddy who plays with me, that is really something  I have always wanted. So what is more funny than a tutor who wants his student so badly that he wants his body on hers and she in equal measure wants all the loving like it is a ritual. With every stroke, I forget my name, with every caress I forget home, with every scream, groan and moan, I am filled with purpose, I forget that mama says I am useless, I forget that the real Daddy never loved me. With the throbs of a violent orgasm,  I lay there on the spacious bed and the white sheets, spent, mended, defeated, filled, conquered and healed.

0130hrs, I lay there in Daddy's  warm embrace. He kisses my forehead, heaven. Holds my chin up and looks me right in the eyes, "You're precious, my little girl" and that is all that matters. To know that I matter, to know that I am wanted, that I can make  a grown man moan, that I am worth something. As I feel Daddy's light snores of a satisfied man, his rhythmic heartbeat, his legs entwined tightly around mine, his hands pressing my head closer to his chest, sharing the air we are both breathing, I regret nothing. I do not feel ashamed or remorseful, I feel safe here. I am protected from everything that would have hurt my little fragile heart which was never loved by the first man who was supposed to love and protect it. So I give in to the calls of sleep with a content smile on my face. And tonight, I do not dream of chocolate papers and piggybacks and the attention little me craved. I am content, here tucked safely in the arms of a stranger. All that matters is I am Daddy's little girl.

And at 0600hrs as I watch the sun rise through Daddy's glass walls, I am grateful for a taste of a love I longed and yearned for from one man who did not care enough to grant it.

Because he did not do it;

One bed at a time, I am wholly loved.

One notification at a time, I am spoiled.

One call at a time I am  wanted.

One chair at a time, I am Daddy's little girl.

One man at a time.

 

Guka Makafela: A crystal clear death.

Yatongova Guka Makafela, dai matogara guva makachera- Holy Ten.

 A conversation with my friend goes like, 

"Hey Tino, what's guka." He rolls his eyes and I guess that's because I didn't say the name right so I try again with the full name.

"What's guka makafela?" And now I know I have his absolute attention as he puts his phone down and carefully assesses me before shaking his head. That doesn't seem good, but I'm on some information searching spree so I do my absolute best not to burst out laughing.

"What do you need it for?" he asks after a while.

Innocently, "Studying. Heard I can stay awake for days on end"

He loses it!

I get the information I want!

It's dangerous! 

And then, "Don't ever try it if you wanna live".

My own risk taking, adventure lover, experience seeking, fearless and free spirit friend won't even hear of it and that's one thing he vows to never ever take whatever the circumstances. Of course I get some scolding but the information is worth it. 

But Tino isn't the only one who has expressed great fear of this new drug on the block. It definitely gets you high, but the crash is so down low, so low it could be 6ft under.

Guka Makafela also commonly referred to as crystal meth or Mutoriro is a man-made drug which potently stimulates the nervous system. Depending on where you're from, it's referred to by many names. The ghetto youth would call it Guka or Mutoriro and the suburbanites would most probably deceive you into thinking it's all lights and life by referring to it as Ice or Glass or Speed. 

The drug is strong and highly addictive, hence even in the medical field, it is less commonly used as a second line treatment for obesity and Attention Deficit Hyper Activity. So the only legal methamphetamine product is the tablet to treat these two but well, we wouldn't be here taking of this if this drug has not gotten into the wrong hands and is being used for all the wrong purposes.

Remember, crystal meth unlike cocaine or weed is synthetic. It has been around for so long and can be traced back to World War II where it was used by German Soldiers to keep them awake for long hours. So if they could have made it then, what's to stop young people from making their own. 

You know, with poverty comes desperation and with desperation there comes creativity. And necessity is the mother of innovation. So in case you wonder where the youths are getting this highly addictive drug, all I can say is they are creative, they make things happen. So a lot of simple day to day products is where drug producers are getting this drug. One common ingredient is the common cold pills for common cold remedies. Some ingredients are extracted from these and are combined with other products which you won't believe. These other products could be anything from battery acid, drain cleaners, lantern fuel, some powders extracted from Smart TVs and fluorescent lights and once these are mixed, the drug is stronger than ever. Also, mangemba/ dai papa (anti-psychotic pills) are being mixed together with crystal meth and honestly speaking this should give law enforcers a clue on who to nab in relation to supply of guka makafela.

Now one would wonder why young people would go to all extents to consume such dangerous stuff and it does not even come cheap. At $12 a gram, its more than what an average young person can afford. 

Rudo says sometimes looking your absolute best is everything and opens doors which won't open if all they see is her big tummy and wriggling thighs and bingo wings. So if Guka can make her feel good about herself while helping her get that trim waist and long thin legs, and a form anyone would die for, then she would definitely pay $12 for a single gram of meth. But then she says, "you know there is a price to pay. "Ukaramba uchirova Guka, you can't stop the premature aging". Now that's scary! Looking 40 while 18 all for a slim figure.

"Wangu, wangu!" a young boy of about 15 says to me, "tiri muma streets and we want to cope and stay vigilant so Guka ndozviripo mdhara". I don't even know what to say, but well, the street kids say Guka keeps them vigilant. What a way to survive!

Kai, coloured and a vibe to be around won't even hide that Speed is his thing. But watching him talk makes you so uncomfortable because his teeth are not like ours and his breath is heavy and makes you want to puke. "Its all for PnP, and trust me you won't regret it. Once you take it Mitchel, you become a binge and crash baby". Of course I have to ask him to explain these terms to me in laymen terms which he does because he thinks I'm a new recruit to this new crystal life. He says it makes him happy and that is all that matters so he would rather live a Guka-induced happy life and die young rather than live a long miserable life.

By PnP he means it is a "Party and Play" drug. After smoking, snorting, swallowing or drinking Guka, there is a quick rush of euphoria, high confidence levels and the party becomes lively and vibrant. Quite useful, right? By "Binge and Crash" pattern, Kai means that they repeatedly take the drug because the high from the drug starts and fades within a short space of time so they take repeated doses in a binge and crash pattern. Now think of how much Guka that is and how much money that will cost. From a medical perspective, the Binge and Crash pattern is influenced by the release of dopamine in the brain as an effect of taking Guka. Rapid levels of dopamine release strongly reinforces drug taking behaviour and acts as  motivation for user to want a repeated experience of meth.

Again, Kai suffers from what is called meth mouth and this is an irreversible dental problem caused by Guka intake. Check your friends' mouth and teeth you might know if they are on a Guka run or not.

Thabani says she watched Why Women Kill and knew that the answer to all her studying problems would be solved by meth. When she takes Guka, she gets her assignments done on time and covers most of her studying without feeling drained of energy. That way she says at least she won't have to ever sit through long family meetings discussing her poor grades and she is sure she has studied and will ace her exams. Thabani says when she takes the drug, she goes on for several days without sleeping a wink. She likes the increased wakefulness, decreased appetite and increased physical activity. But you know what else she doesn't like, the violent behaviour hence she keeps away from people and she hates the intense itching which might explain why she is always wearing long sleeved shirts nowadays. Seems to me like a case of trying to save yourself from everyone else by losing yourself.

While these are just a few examples of ordinary people, taking Guka on a daily basis, there are many others taking this harmful substance and it is disturbing. We stand to lose  a generation of brilliant minds, of eager young people. In a population made up of 77% young people, we can't afford to lose the face of tomorrow against a drug pandemic that could have been easily solved had the underlying issues been solved.

And don't be fooled into thinking that the drug users ain't aware of the danger they are putting themselves through. They know very well that Guka means irregular heartbeats and increased blood pressure, they know that it affects judgement leading to risky behaviour, they know of the hallucinations and paranoia and anxiety. They know that Guka results in cognitive and mental health problems and changes in brain structure and function but they are helpless and in their helplessness they dig an early grave for themselves.

But won't we go down as a nation knowing that maybe something, anything could have been done to help a number of these young people? They have expressed the death trap which is Guka in everything they do, their lifestyle, their hustles. We all know an average young person can't afford Guka at $12 a gram or $15 per  grams depending on wherever they are and we all know what they are doing to get money to feed their insatiable appetite for a drug which to them seems like survival when slowly, it sips life out of them. 

We've heard them express in songs that Guka is a pandemic, that it's crystal, it glitters and draws them to it yet it's dombo, a stone that hits them right on the temple and they die without even bleeding.  We dance to the Mhofela song and choose to be deaf to the lines that really matter- "vakuswera vakadzima, vaka sticker" or are we all takadzima as a nation. They  paint pictures of youth smoking through glass pipes bluish, slightly transparent stuff and to us, it's all a painting. Are we blind or we just do not care?

It's all a shame that we are yet to watch a number of our own die a slow painful death which no matter what good we mean, we can't justify by saying umenzi kakhalelwa or kurumwa nekuchera because somehow we watched it happen and did nothing about it. Because we all want to be a brother's keeper when the going is well and success is striving, we should also be the same keeper when we are going through the most. 

So consider this a plea to save a nation rocked by a pandemic  that seeks to destroy our youth like that biblical  Angel of Death and all the first born sons. 

#SayNoToDrugAbuse.

Till next time

Mitchel

*All names have been changed.

Maybe love isn't overrated.

Hi.

I find it hard to believe that I, Siphathisiwe is really writing on love, like love love, pure love. I know I've written most of my poetry on love themes, heart breaks especially. I've written stories on love but much of these bordered on impractical things as I've come to realise and I do blame those Korean movies for all the crazy stuff I used to write. I've written beautiful poems on beautiful love stories, so beautiful that I've never experienced it myself, the kind that Siphathisiwe thinks belong to a certain type of people if not only in novels because it all seems too good to be true, to be real. And also most of the stuff on love I know, write and experienced is basically limited to lust, peer pressure, sex and just the idea of being in love without really thinking deep about it.

How many times have we heard people say love is overrated? As for me, I say it all the time and honestly it's starting to be so unhealthy. Everytime things don't work out I find myself telling my self it was bound to end anyway, after all it's just love. Everytime you face betrayal, heartbreak, you're lied to its easy to find that little comfort in saying that love isn't as nice as we always see on those Instagram pages. Everytime we give more of ourselves to an un-reciprocated energy it's always always easier to tell ourselves that love just isn't it, it's all just a scam. And so to use the popular phrase, no matter how nice it is, we rather choose to believe that because it is love, it will end in tears.

But what if we have been doing it wrong? What if love is done differently?

What if one not only finds love that takes but nurtures and grows life itself?

What if one finds love that not only mirrors them, but sees through their physical being, through their hurt and fears, down to their very own soul? I'm talking of love that accentuates.

What if one finds love that they didn't have to ask for but a love that found them and wanted them and took all steps to make itself a home?

Is love still overrated where one evolves into a being they have always dreamed of being?

A love where one can completely give in despite the doubts, the past heart breaks, the pain and the fear to surrender to these feelings?

What of a love that is liberating, a love that that nurtures and gives meaning to life?

What of a love that loves naturally, where one is truly him/her and still feels loved? A love where energy is reciprocated to near perfection?

All this would never be considered as a love that is overrated. All this is what we want, what I know I want no matter how many times I tell myself that I'm doing well with playing little games and moving on before it ends in tears.

Thing is in an attempt to protect ourselves from what they call tears, from heartbreaks we choose to stay a safe distance away. In attempts to do so the ability to truly love and be loved back is lost in all this armour. True love is underrated and is left to die behind the shadow of past betrayals and the fear to get hurt again for the hundredth time.

So may we let love win.

Let love run its course without being overshadowed by all these misgivings.

Allow yourself to be loved the way you deserve.

Till next time

Siphathisiwe Mitchel.

Patriotism: Choice or Coercion?

Hi

"My kind of loyalty was loyalty to one's country, not to its institutions or its office holders"- Mark Twain.

Zim-Twitter has been abuzz with this Patriot Bill thing and I'm guessing most of you have heard of it and so me coming here and writing on a subject so cliché might seem so insane but hey, what has to be said gotta be said, no matter how old it gets. 

I would like you to picture this scene in the National Assembly on the 2nd of March. Allow me to quote Honorable Alum Mpofu who talks of enacting a law that, "prohibits any Zimbabwean citizen from wilfully communicating messages intended to harm the image and reputation of the country on International platforms or engaging with foreign countries with the intention of communicating messages that are intended to harm the country's positive image and or to under its integrity and reputation."

Fair enough, that is if you're not Zimbabwean or rather you are blind to current issues in Zimbabwe.

Now, Honorable Togarepi doesn't beat around the bushes. Picture him saying, again I quote, "If you attack the leader of this country, that has an effect when that leader goes out to source business. Nobody wants to do business with a person who from his country is called so many names. So it is very important that the media, politicians, business people and all citizens of this country understand that they are people of Zimbabwe first before their political and business interests."

Well, I have a lot to make out of that bold statement but for now I can say, "Excellent job". If you were ever fortunate enough to read the Logan Act, that is a brief and clever summation of it by Honourable Togarepi right there. Just in case you want to find it in the Hansard, the right potion is beautifully but deceptively headed, "Promotion of the Country's Positive Image and Brand".

That's the foundation of it all, the Patriot Bill which so many political activists are urging people to resist in anyway possible. Which is really interesting, isn't patriotism supposed to be a good thing. It obviously is a good thing so why then are we so set on going against the Bill which seeks to put patriotism and a manifestation of our love for Zimbabwe on the legal sphere? 

Maybe we should deal with what patriotism is, without attaching some political connotations to it (and that is almost impossible ladies and gentlemen).

Patriotism is the quality of being devoted to and having a vigorous support for one's country. It shows robust support for one's country even when it is going through tough times. It's more like that love which conquers even when put to the test, you know the Romeo and Juliet kinda love. It embodies sacrifice for the country to protects it's honour (yes, sacrifice).  

Again, allow me to take you back to one interesting conversation back in 1816 which I'm hoping would in a simplistic way, explain the concept of patriotism. Stephen Decatur's well known 1816 toast goes like, "Our Country! In her intercourse with foreign nations, may she always be in the right; but our country; right or wrong." Now that really sounds like a parent who doesn't want to hear that they are wrong, always right.

John Quincy Adams' reply to Stephen goes like, "My toast would be, may our Country always be successful, but successful or otherwise; always right." Indeed that's interesting, like a loving mother who would always be there for you no matter what but also defends you even when she clearly knows you're in the wrong. 

So clearly, patriotism sounds like the old adage, "blood is thicker than water". And now that makes it so questionable because sometimes in it's thickness blood won't quench your thirst as efficiently as water does and sometimes it houses viruses and cancers we really do not want. Just saying.

Ok, now let's move on to the political side of patriotism. Most interestingly, patriotism doesn't mean support towards a particular political party or leader but rather it means abiding by the system of governance laid down by constitutional makers. And in Zimbabwe and anywhere else, once you involve government, that's politics. Politically speaking, patriotism seeks to provide a rather significant source of commitment to the country and this somehow indirectly extends to how one now has an obligation, a political obligation of loyalty.  It seems to try and instill  within citizens a feeling of responsibility and pride towards one's nation but that pride and responsibility is put through the test of political allegiance, loyalty or dedication. Frankly speaking, that seems harmless but that is only until you open your eyes to the relationship between law and politics.

The relationship between law and politics, particularly here in Zimbabwe is one thing you don't need to have gone through law school in order to understand. By reading newspapers or watching ZBC, you can already establish that something controls the other. Legislation has always been an old age political tool and clearly government relies on it to influence the civic space. So my question is, is the proposed Patriot Bill on national considerations or is it just one of the commonest and shrewd political tools?

Thing is, the Bill aims to criminalise and prescribe stiff punishment for citizens who are said to campaign against national interests or publish falsehoods and a lot more depressing stuff. Given the Zimbabwean context, this is one wicked but clever way to silence critics but this is stretching it too far, given the Constitutional values and principles that the Bill would bury if it is approved. The country has been a hub of human rights crisis, electoral violence, press censorship, Gukurahundi genocide, corruption, you name it. And now citizens can not talk of that or tweet about it because they are tarnishing the country's image. Crazy right? If citizens do not call upon government to be responsible, who then will. It's clear that this Bill is just a sick attempt at silencing voices that call for responsibility from people holding office and once you see them trying to silence people, something is definitely fishy.

 Thing is, this Bill goes against the most basic tenets of democracy and respect for fundamental rights like freedom of expression. Why would someone go through such lengths unless they have been personally affected by those utterances they seek to silence. And this makes me wonder, do our legislators know of Constitutional Supremacy or are they deliberately set on not upholding it? It is against corruption, against incompetence, against arrest of students, against abuse of human rights and electoral violence that people campaign against and nothing is wrong with that. But as the Shona would say, "Ukabata chidhoma, amai vacho vanochema." 

Patriotism, as an emotion, does not even qualify as a reason for obedience or shoving obedience down people's throats. The Bill calls for political obedience, absolute obedience in life or death situations. It calls for obedience where children of political activists prematurely become orphans, where children of civil servants sometimes go to bed hungry. It calls for obedience where half its young people marry strangers in Sweden and Australia just so they can leave the country.  It calls for obedience where men lay on their deathbeds, defeated by life, regretting a life not lived because someone made it impossible for them. 

How is one expected to be loyal to a country whose ideological basis is seemingly evil? Do the tenets that underpin this Bill bear the fact that it isn't intended to prevent fraud or treason or promoting loyalty or is it is rather a wolf in sheep's clothing?

Truth is, if a person loves his/her country, they strive to make it best and silence really is nit how it is done. So real patriotism is not one governed by a draft of paper, it is not one where its citizens are coerced into silence and watch every institution collapse with rot. It is a voluntary feeling of allegiance that is driven by the knowledge  and belief in the potential that our country has and the ability to demand the absolute best and accountability from our leaders. Real patriotism has always been a willingness to challenge the government when it is wrong.

So as long as the Patriotic Bill does not address this and seeks to repress rather than progress, our answer as Zimbabweans will always be a bold no.

#StopThePatrioticBill

Till next time

Mitchel.

Culture! A Murderer?

Hi.

Kaleidoscope is my favourite  Danielle Steel novel. I would put it on my top 20 list of best books ever written. I love it, read it in Form 3 and cried a lot because I couldn't imagine anyone going through all the stuff that Hilary and her sisters went through. I repeated the story to my brother and sister as a bedtime story, the tough little kids broke down and cried without even reading the book. The storyline was that powerful and so was my emotion when I told it. But if I ever read a book from Danielle Steel that got me thinking really deep, emotions set aside, then it's the Silent Honour. The book has a Japanese and American setting but it got me thinking of Africa, of Zimbabwe, of Insukamini, of my home. And so here we are revisiting culture and where it has failed most of us.

I would define culture as a collective set of ideas, customs and social behaviour, which a certain group of people adhere to. Take note of the words, Collective set and People. We will be revisiting those.

So first question is do I think culture is a bad thing? No, not always! But is it so bad that it could be  a murderer? Yes, I think it is! And I feel that a lot has to change because somehow we all have been tied to the heavy yoke of a culture which has done nothing but kill our dreams and in the process of killing our dreams, sent many of us to early graves of depression, goody-two-shoes, fake lives, repression, hate and suicide. And I know most of us don't want to hear an attack on culture, well, we're gonna tug it apart, not the good, just the bad.

There is thing called internalised oppression. This is oppression so deeply woven into our daily systems, so deep that it becomes almost normal. Societal institutions like government, education and culture reinforce these internalized systems of oppression and we all become so blind to it that we all accept it as normal yet it's wrong and destroying everybody. 

In my view, culture is the most effective of these systems in preserving and reinforcing internalized oppression. It is the most rogue culprit, in most cases of oppression and repression because somehow as an individual despite your own convictions, you're somehow obliged to follow some collective ideas which do not help you at all, which you do not believe in, which do not fit your narrative and which block your path to a future you.

In the definition of culture, I highlighted the words collective set and also the word people. There is nothing wrong with those words but come to think of it, culture seems to group people into one composite thing. Like it erases the individual person and makes him a part of a people. I get it, it really is for social identification purposes but is that it looking at it now? Do we all have to pay allegiance to  certain standards of living, governed by the same set of ideas when we are all separate individuals, with different ideologies? In that case is someone obliged to follow certain cultural ideas which go against their personal convictions? I mean he/she is a person not a people, he is a person before he becomes a people.

So I got a big problem with culture when it becomes repressive and oppressive instead of progressive. I remember a friend of mine who got accepted for a USAP Scholarship and got a place at some Ivy League university in the States. I don't know if this story has anything to do with culture but her parents definitely made it so. Her father expressly told her that she could not go to that American University because America was no place for a 19 year old girl on her own and it wasn't good for her cultural upbringing. The main issue was how she would go there and start wearing bikinis or start living the American way which to her father was an unacceptable thing for any African who has been raised well to indulge in. Like really? Just like that, because of the father's  cultural convictions, my friend is at UZ yet she had that opportunity to go and make it at a better institution. And she is depressed, it gets so bad, all in the name of culture. I don't get it.

The fun thing is how people are always all for the fact that culture is dynamic. They know how to say it, but be pragmatic about it, I don't know if they even attempt it. I'll give you an example of a dynamic culture. Remember the book Takadini? Yea you know it, the famous Zimbabwean book wasn't just a novel. There was once a time when culturally, albinos were deemed to be curses or bad omens. And it didn't stop with albinos only, twins, babies born with disabilities and many many more people were viewed as bad omens. And viewing them as bad omens was not just a point of view where you would see them roaming around and say "ooh that's a bad omen", these unfortunate individuals were murdered at birth and it was culturally justified. But fortunately, culture being dynamic, we no longer have such killings and discrimination justified under any cultural laws. 

Why then did we stop viewing culture as dynamic then? Why did we stop at that?

We live in an age and a country and a culture where it is acceptable to discriminate on certain individuals because somehow their person does not happen to be able to adhere to a set of ideas followed by a collective group of people. You all know what I'm talking about. I'm talking of Insukamini which would hate a lady and call her a whore because she wore trousers and wore a bright led lipstick. I'm talking of a Gweru tabloid which would have a field day on a man who does help his wife with the housework. I'm talking of people in Harare who would taunt a man who carried his baby, his baby on his back. Yes, I'm talking of Zimbabweans who would say it is unacceptable for a woman to be way too powerful because no man would want to marry her. There is an Africa which would do anything to criminalise someone's sexuality all in the name of culture, I'm talking of it. An Africa which pushes for a death sentence on not being heterosexual? It's crazy but we see it and we do nothing about it because if you do speak out against it, cultural guns waste no time silencing you. Isn't that oppression?

Culture is a good thing but it does not really have to go all reformer on an individual's conviction. How many people did not realize their full potential because culture defined their limits? A Christian culture which would view too much wealth as a gateway to hell and in the process it's people are always most willing to be rich but not too wealthy. An African culture where the children won't be able to talk about certain things to their parents and in the end they are sexually molested and they suffer all alone in silence and parents would only find out about it in a morning paper. A culture where when one aspires to be in the entertainment industry, their mother would say she is very disappointed and their father would tell them to pack their bags and leave. A culture where aunties are the loudest voices in the promotion of gender based violence for they would say a wise woman keeps her home tight, endures the beatings in silence for men are all like that, just little boys with a beard and balls. A culture where men suffer in silence for they have to man up or else they are called some nasty names or sissy boys. A society where 50% of its dark skinned girls would do anything just to marry a white guy so their kid will not have to go through what they know very well they would.

A society where kids grow up in toxic homes, watching their parents fight every single day because once their mother leaves that marriage, she is called some names and her means of finding a livelihood are scrutinised and most always found to be unacceptable in society's eyes. A culture where a girl is afraid to make dreams a reality for not only is she sexually labeled, she is a threat to men and her life is threatened, a culture where I can't say I don't like cooking because my mom gets worried that she won't have a son in law and my friends will tell me that I just upped the probabilities of my husband cheating on me and the pastor would say that's the devil talking through me. A culture where because of religion and moral laws, one cannot do the profession they have always wanted because there are more seats in hell than there is in heaven. A culture where people won't talk of their  mental health issues which need urgent help because then they become too Westernised or crazy or ungrateful  little people or weaklings or living too much in a world of fantasy. 

And then we all act clueless and surprised when mental health related illnesses are on the rise. When 1 out of 4 children has depression, when 4 out of 10 Zimbabwean adults have attempted suicide. When 1 out of 3 people have tried highly intoxicating drugs, when 2 out of 10 spouses have tried hurting their partner and kids. 

If culture means oppression then I don't think it still serves the purpose of social identification and unity. A culture which doesn't agree that at the core of our being a people, we are different individuals but it doesn't mean we should alienate some of us because they are different. Where our differences break us instead of build us. It ceases to be culture when it discriminates, when it preaches hate, when it murders, when it buries it's own.

So be careful of nurturing a snake that would bite your children some day, if not you.

Till next time

Mitchel.

Insecurity breeds hate.

Hi.

I'm not trying to project my emotions on you, but there is no harm in saying it. I'm sad, upset, ashamed, mad, exhausted. I'm basically just a ball of all those emotions which are anything but positive and I hate it so so much. 

I feel that I've been so silent about certain things I should have spoken out against. Like I've let myself down so many times all in the cover of taking criticism with grace like a lady is supposed to. But what if staying calm and collected when we want to burst is really so breaking?

Note that I'm not here to write about colourism(that's for another day) but this thing I have had to face throughout my childhood and unfortunately now, borders along the lines of colourism and I hope my experiences will help explain the concept of how insecurity breeds hate.

Last year, sometime in May I guess that is when I wrote my first first Insecurity Breeds Hate article. Just like today, I was so so broken. It was in the middle of a pandemic but I had more than that to deal with. Happy me went to our local shops to get some stuff and that's when it all happened. I met these two ladies and they made it clear that I looked nice and bathed well and smelled good but I was just so dark no man would want me for a girlfriend. I thought they were joking but then the older lady, a reputable woman, went on to say, "umnyama yooh, you could really use some skin lightening products, men love them yellow-bones". I wanted to dismiss it all as a joke or just a merchant trying to advertise their skin lightening products but that was not the case. Then the young woman with her, no doubt beautiful and light skinned said, "angkaze ngibone umuntu omnyama omuhle vele" this meaning that she has never ever seen a beautiful dark person. They laughed! I laughed!

I hated myself so much for not having said anything but then realised it was not even a strange thing to hear anymore. I was so used to such remarks even from relatives who would ask stuff like why I was so dark when my parents were so light. For a long time as a kid I did not believe that I really was a part of my family and I remember my dad had a serious talk with me when I once told a relative that I was adopted. Everyone would just be so shocked at family gatherings that my mom, light skinned and her husband had a dark baby and to make matters worse having to explain that my young sister was really my young sister was the worst I ever had to deal with. But as a kid you can dismiss all that and go play hide and seek and never get to think much about it.

But it really went deeper than just relatives and friends asking all that.  Not to brag but in pre-school I was so good at acting, very very good that when we auditioned for our graduation play I was the automatic candidate for Mary. It was the Christmas Story play. I was good people and crammed those lines like a pro and my Mom bought me these beautiful white and pink dresses and white heels at the school's request, which were going to be my costume for the whole play. But who became Mary? Certainly not me and why? Because my teacher Mrs. Ndlovu told me that I was way too dark to portray Mary so a girl called Trish substituted me. I cried but just a little because I was then made narrator and was allowed to recite my own poem and also because my mom said it's fine I would have plenty chances to play Mary later in life. Silly me was charmed and forgot all that. I had just been bullied because of my skin colour.

Then in Grade 5 I believe that is when I really started being conscious of certain things associated with colour. Like how many boys would whistle all the way home when I walked with my light skinned friend but there is this one thing I learnt that particular year from my teacher. He taught me that dark people will always need light skinned people to shine their light on them when taking pictures so they do not come out looking so dark. It is a fun story really. It was a prize giving day of some sorts. And back in primary school coming out first was a big deal and my parents made it so and when I did there always were gifts to celebrate ranging from pens to diaries from puzzles to novels. So on this particular prize giving day, my mom brought with her all these nice gifts, wrapped beautifully in big boxes and I was elated. And so 10 year old me wanted all these moments captured and I had many  pictures taken but also wanted pictures with my two best friends. My other friend was light for days. It was me who came out first, I was the owner of the beautiful gifts and I rightfully felt that the middle position was obviously meant for me and I should hold my gifts. That is when the photographer who happened to be my teacher said my friend should be in the middle and hold the gifts because she was lighter than the two of us and would shine her light upon us so we would not look so dark. I don't know if the theory holds true but I know I was mad only for a little while. I felt so bullied but then that was it, it was a normal thing to make all these jokes about dark skinned people in primary school. I always get some backlash when I say being dark in primary school was one of the worst things most people I know had to go through. I myself had so many nasty nicknames which I try so hard not to remember because they were just way way too nasty but all that, I excused because generally primary school kids are the meanest bunch of people you will ever meet but then they are so mean because they are just innocent little kids. And so I forgot all these incidents and excused them as unfortunate little things. 

All Till Today!

So I was in town and this guy tries to hit on me. By the way I hate that so much, like you do not know me, my name or anything and you just saw me and now you want me? I've just never understood that. And I tell him that I don't believe anything he says and he just got mad like super mad and started saying all these nasty things and how he was just joking. But what stuck with me was when he said, "hamba Mnyamani, umubi futhi. And I don't date Darkies" meaning Leave, Darkie. You're ugly. And I don't date Darkies". It stung. It hurt so bad especially when the guys he was with started laughing. But I just hated myself for standing there and not fighting for myself and so like I always do, here I am venting on this blog because none of you really know me enough to judge me.

It is not only colourism that people really have to cope with there is so so much more. But looking at it all it all comes down to insecurity. We have gotten to a point where we are so insecure about a lot of stuff on us which makes us truly us and that drives us mad when we see someone who is exactly like us because they remind us of who we are and we totally lose it. We despise so much that which we can not change and our insecurities transform into pure hatred. We hate on so many people because somehow we are afraid to face ourselves when we would be in that same position or because they are really us and they remind us of who we are. Remember the women at my local shops? One of them was just as dark as me yet she felt good saying all that. We're human and it is normal that we are insecure but we lose the plot when you start hating on people for things they can't simply change or would not want to change even if they could.

The thing is we live in a world where capitalism feeds on our insecurities. A world so ruled by social media to the extent that beauty is equated to validation and likes taken for influence. A world where people are bashed for being real and admired for being fake. We live in a world whose foundations find their roots in such a patriarchal system that strong confident woman are viewed as overtly sexual and threatening so we all rip into them and tear them apart instead of celebrating them. We live in a world where we see colour, see size, see disability, see sexuality, see everything and are so keen to make judgements and seek to destroy that we view as unfit for society.

So really pick on why you dislike other men or women. Maybe it's because of their size, their complexion, their body hair, big eyes, fashion choices. Catch yourself the next time you feel like bringing others down. Be careful lest your own insecurities dig deep into the well of hatred. I'm not innocent of all this myself but I do try to watch out for what I say be it online or in person and trust me it is not easy but it is worth trying.

Watch out for your insecurities, do not let them send others to their graves way too soon. Be careful lest you become a murderer.

Till next time

Black, bold and beautiful

Mitchel.

Tigress; Not a Bitch!

Happy International Women's Day.

And one day she discovered that she was fierce and strong, and full of fire and that not even she could hold herself back because her passion burned brighter than her fears - Mark Anthony.

Today being International Women's Day, we are not blind to the fact that it is 2021, and she is still fighting. Women are not Bitches, might have been but that is no more! 

For years we have watched her being raised with specific mannerisms, under specific rules and orders of a patriarchal society. Like a bulldog, she has been taught that she has only got strength for small fights like keeping a marriage intact, keeping kids fed and clean, keeping your man happy and feeling dignified and respected. There might be nothing wrong with all that, if the woman so wishes, but that is not all there is to life and she needs to be given more than just domestic labels. Never has it been believed that she has the zest to conquer, all along she has been taught to bow.

Like I said, it is an era for change. It is high time society stopped labelling women and girls bitches. By so doing, you're simply imposing these limitations on her mind. You are simply telling her that she draws her strength from food prepared in the kitchens of controlled thinking. It will not help her at all for all she would be is an obedient, fragile and submissive woman who asks no questions. The food given to her in those kitchens of controlled thinking is not sustainable, it makes her tire fast and grow weary of her life. 

So I ask you, who then will give her the zeal to continue fighting for equality and equity? Where will she draw strength from so she can continue fighting against injustices carried out on those whose only misfortune is only being female?

But is she really a bitch? 

My understanding tells me, she never was a  bitch. Instead, she is a tigress who has been caged for far too long. So we are all wrong when we equate her strength to bullish stances. She has exponential strength which not only makes her fierce, it makes her a Woman and for that she will not bow to patriarchal injustices. So call her tigress, because not only can she fight, she possesses stealth in approach and not just for your mere dog and cat fights, she fights in the jungle and yes, bet on her to win because she will. 

Come to think of it, the early child marriages, always being second to men, being taught to please men always, being wife material, working twice as hard as men for the same recognition, labels that come with being successful and so so much more. I do not understand how anyone can ever call those small fights? But is she not a tigress, trying to fight all these wars?

Like the tigresses that she is,  she was born and raised in the midst of danger, a dangerous society which never believed in her. Taught to hunt from an early age, fending for herself, protecting a territory which today she would eventually contend for dominion. She is a tigress who has for so long been forced to bark, but now that she got her self freed, she roars! 

So she bids goodbye to the false niceties served on tables of patriarchy. She now feeds herself from the spoils of experience and past injustices. After all, her hunting days have taught her that her strength, her tears and her battles are enough for her sustainability as long as she chooses to fight. 

Undefined. Uncharted. Uncontrolled. She is a tigress, no longer controlled by the tigers, she works with them for a safe environment for women and girls.

So why then shall we fight her chances at equality?

Why?

Till next time

Mitchel.

P.S: ( Bitch in here is used in relation to female dogs, not negative labelling).