Mamela Nyamza’s latest offering at the Dance Umbrella is dark, sublime and visceral. Stepping out in a long tight black dress with white taffeta at the bottom of it, I wondered how she would dance in this attire.
The show began whilst audiences were sweeping in with drinks in hands; a gospel song (the ones usually played in black churches) blared from the speakers and Nyamza came dancing down the aisle on the left side of the stage. She was not dancing in leaps or colourfully like one would expect a ballerina or contemporary dancer to, but she was graceful and effortless in the natural demeanour of dancing that most black people endowed with the gift of rhythm embody. On the right side of the stage, in the isle, dancing in oscillation with Nyamza was a tall slender man; he complimented her black and white dress with a suit with the same colours. Audiences had to swerve right and left as so not to collide with the dancers, some audience members danced to their seat and like experienced shebeen dancers did not spill a drop of their drinks as they did so. Once the audience was settled and the drapes of the entrance closed, the duo moved onto the stage moving in unison; an audience member tapped me on the shoulder and showed me on a piece of white paper which verse the song playing was on. I had initially thought these papers were programmes or information on the dance piece, I picked it up and it was written in isiXhosa- not that difficult for me, regarding that I am Zulu, but I did not want to read and sing along because I was scared I would miss a beat or a moment on stage. Some audience members sang and clapped along as the duo on stage danced to a colourful, rainbow painted bench. The music stopped once they reached the bench, they sat in still silence, their outfits a stark contrast to the colourful bench, the silence lingered, the dancers hardly moved; their faces impressions of boredom and pondering. An audience member yawned, heavy breathing could be heard from others; was this the stifling boredom the dancers wanted to imbue onto their audience, the drone of church services? I rubbed my eyes- I had just come from watching a very long film and so my capacity to focus was lessened. I panned the audience, they were drinking, whispering to each other, glancing at the dancers to see if they would move but nothing. I thought maybe they had forgotten to dance or there was a technical glitch- maybe a song was supposed to be playing and it wasn’t. Suddenly the duo simultaneously got off the bench and alternated their positions, the bench swayed up and down like a see-saw, they kept doing this, going faster and faster until they were exhausted and returned to their original positions, balancing the see-saw. This routine was repeated over and over again. The man gave a sweaty Mamela a handkerchief, she shyly patted herself dry starting with the face and then looked away like one does when they have had way too many rounds of sex with a person they should have not. The man, satisfied, distances himself from Nyamza, he slides off to the far right of the bench, catapulting Mamela in the air, she tries to bring the bench down with her weight but her efforts are futile, she reluctantly slides to his side, at this the man is mad and pushes her off the bright bench, she disappointingly crawls to the centre of the stage and remains on all fours. The man proudly gets off the bench, walks to her, admires her physique, takes off his shoes and then her shoes. He then astonishes the audience by stepping on Mamela’s back, stands on top of her and whips out a Bible, his sermon begins; he shouts and chants like television charismatic pastors whilst bouncing up and down on her back. Nyamza seems to be in pain but she repeats every single line the pastor shouts out. Three verses are repeated over and over again whilst euphemisms of sex are portrayed in their physical positions. In the end the pastor gives Nyamza pieces of clothing, a black lapel and a white phallic hat, that affirm her position and ranking in the church. Church goers will know of this signifiers of church identity and how they differ from church to church. All her hard work, being bent, broken and discarded for these pieces of affirmation and confirmation. The pastor lies down, a symbolism of his death) and Nyamza covers him with the colourful bench, she then starts gyrating over him, pulls up her black dress, which is drenched in sweat and traces the outlines of her lean, masculine body; in the centre of her legs is a black bible with red pages. She spreads her long legs adorned with racy fish net stockings, keeping the bible in place with her one hand and starts paging faster and faster. Her head swivels, her eyes pop out and roam the faces of the audience members. “This shit never ends” she states audibly but not shouting while paging through the bible- a few audience members audibly affirm her assertion. Eventually she reaches the end of the Bible, an upbeat gospel song begins and starts dancing as if she in a Babes Wodumo music video, the bible intact between her legs; she gyrates lavisioucly across the stage. The man dead, the Bible in her groin area; Nyamza’s jubilation is exponential.
De-Apart-Hate is a layered and complex piece, stark and overt about all things covert in the rainbow nation, it highlights the position of the oppressed, almost always the black womxn the oppressor: the man and the instrument of the oppressor, the law and religion. The scales will never be in the favour of the woman and the system will always find ways to fuck women in various ways whilst requesting that they supress their freedoms especially their sexual freedoms and not extend to them to the same sex. A piece on critiquing a judgmental society, fostered on gender inequalities founded on European concept of the law and religion; this was a sermon I was glad I did not have miss.

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On Ngugi’s Public Lecture

Yesterday I was at the Ngugi Wa Nthiongo public lecture on Decolonisation held at Wits Theater. It started an hour late, which I don’t mind because decolonisation includes dismantling the notion of keeping the Queen’s time.
The usual chants and struggle songs ensued for almost 90 minutes before the lecture begun, while the sound people got on and off the stage tapping the mics on the podium. High school children in their various uniforms streamed in and suddenly the group singing was on stage dancing. I sipped from my cold cup of Woolies black coffee (I know, I know, I need to work on decolonising myself) anyway finally the mics worked and the speaker started singing the decolonised/original unedited national anthem (familiarise yourself with it) and at this everyone stood up, including a few disheveled uncomfortable looking white people; the clean ones in tight suits and 100% cotton shirts from Zara remained seated. Another speaker with two masters degrees tells us he was in USA and Canada and blah blah blah, then finally introduces Ngugi.
There’s a projection of the map of Africa with several continents superimposed to fit on Africa to show the true size of Africa. Ngugi touches on how Africa for centuries was always depicted as smaller than all other continents when in fact most of the continents fit into Africa- basically kudala abelung basidelala, futhi besithathela phansi. Europe has always, INTENTIONALLY, undermined Africa and its inhabitants. He goes on to emphasise that we should encourage the decolonisation of university curriculum where African linguistics will be at the center and African knowledge will run parallel with all those from other worlds. A trio of beautiful young black womxn with feisty head scarfs suddenly all decide to take down their jackets, shoulders are my weak point so for twenty minutes I’m distracted. Ngugi’s lecture was relevant but tepid (please don’t throw stones).
A young, hot, postgraduate student of Wits gets on stage and gives her response. She begins by telling us how Wits has still not lifted suspension on some of its students because of they were Fees Must Fall activists, she then touches on how the decolonisation movement must include feminism, transgender persons and their language; call people by the names they have given themselves; she then recites a long list of black womxn who are/were prolific and need to be included in the curriculum. Her peers sing praises and chants. She gets off stage.
A poet gets on stage and recites a powerful poem in four South Africa languages ending with Zulu which garners the most audible response. I realise my hand has been clutching on the cold cup of coffee for the past few hours- I sip it and watch as people leave.
I think of what Ntokozo Qwabe said about white allies, to paraphased what he said “as long as white people like us and want to be our allies the decolonisation project has not taken effect”. I say as long as we speak of decolonisation in colonised oppressive spaces, with colonisers, in the coloniser’s language, the decolonisaiton project, is but a myth. As Ngugi said, it starts home with our children, with our languages and with our knowledge and holding them in higher esteem. It begins by us shunning these “beautiful/eloquent” accents we received from our private schools and appropriating black excellence with its proximity to whiteness. It is on us to actively uphold this discourse and keep it safe from being mere rhetoric which is used by Universities such as Wits to gain brownie points for being progressive and diverse, when this is far from the truth.

26 December 2015 Saturday – Nabeul

I watched Eliot walk away from the hotel balcony; he walked in a careless fashion, taking big strides forward and his head bobbing while his scarf swayed from left to right. The time was five o’clock, the theatre show was supposed to start at five but as I soon learnt Tunisians like many Africans have they own track of time- one that requires a lot of patience because most events take place thirty to sixty minutes after the prescribed time.  I would have joined him but I had quite a long and busy journey from South Africa to the capital of Tunis and then eventually, via a bumpy bus ride, to Nabeul. I inhaled deeply as the sun set amazed that I was still alive. I sniffed my armpits and decided I should take a hot shower.

I left home on Christmas evening, my grandmother, my aunt, my cousin, my nephews, older brother and soon to be sister in-law gave me hugs to bid me farewell. We had had quite a successful Christmas lunch- usually the day gives rise to my neurosis and depression- having lost both my mother and father it is actually a day of sorrow- or at least it used to be. I tried my best this time to unify my family: I made calls, bought the meat, bought gifts for my nephews and even delayed packing my bag for the trip to Tunisia. My brother’s girlfriend and I were busy in the kitchen making salads while he braaied the meat outside. My nephews were playing in my car and my aunt and cousin were yet to arrive from church. When they did finally arrive the meat and food were ready, we sat down, said a prayer and dug into the delicious food. It was intimate; my brother who is usually not so affectionate tried to make us all laugh, my grandmother who is a dweller on passed events in life was recalling how my brother as a baby almost died because of a respiratory infection but because of her vigilance she took him to the hospital where they immediately gave him the help he needed. My brother thanked her for saving her life and we moved on to much lighter subjects. Once we had finished eating I took to packing my bags while my cousin and brother’s girlfriend cleared the table and washed the dishes.
The airport was busy, at least the airliner I was using was very busy. There were lots of families, huge families with numbers reaching twenty comprising of grandmothers and grandfathers, husbands, wives, aunts and uncles, daughters and sons, and cousins. An attendant saw how frozen I was that she stood up from behind her desk and told me in a soft voice to come to her and she would attend to me. She very quickly checked me in, I embarrassingly thanked her for noticing my confusion and for her helpfulness. She could have easily chosen to sit behind her desk and just watch me embroiled in my confusion.
Once checked in I bought an alcoholic cider and a big bottle of water before boarding. I knew I could only have the drinks when I boarded the plane. On the plane I only opened my bottle of water because my cider needed a bottle opener and I did not have one. I was so upset because I knew I would need some alcohol to deal with the screaming babies, and the toddlers who were running up and down the aisle. I prayed that I would be able to fall into a deep sleep and only wake up once we landed in Cairo.
In Cairo I waited two hours before boarding the plane, at customs they confiscated my cider- I did not fight- regulations are after all regulations. I was just happy to board the next flight to Tunisia and see the country with Eliot.
Eliot had arranged for a friend of his to fetch me at the airport. I had three hundred rand on me and my VISA card. I was advised to buy a Tunisian SIM card before leaving the airport so that I could communicate with the person who was going to fetch me but when I finally landed after three boring hours from Cairo to Tunisia my bank card would not work and they would not accept my South African rands; they wanted only dollars and euros. My phone was going to switch off because of a low battery and so I quickly wrote down Eliot’s Tunisian number and his friend’s number. The people at the airport were not helpful at all, firstly they barely spoke any English and it seemed like I was nuisance to them when I asked for help. It was really disparaging. I was close to tears but I decided to walk up to the taxi drivers and show them the name of the guy who was supposed to fetch me and then ask if I could call from their cellphones. Nothing is for free in this world, despite telling the people I met about my situation they did not believe me and so I could not make the phone call. I decided to ask one of the taxi drivers to take me to the city centre because I thought my card was not the problem but that that the ATMs in the airport had run out of money. I found driver who looked desperate for money, we struggled to understand each other but after a few minutes of pointing to my phone and Visa card he took me to the city centre but once again the card did not work. I told him this and he got mad, he demanded his money and that’s when I gave him my friend’s number to call. Eliot answered and quickly got hold of the friend who was supposed to fetch me- he came swiftly and paid the driver who had charged him an absorbent amount. I wanted to hug and kiss him- I knew once I met him that he was a good soul. He introduced himself as Kheridine and I introduced myself and aftr these introductions we laughed about the situation I was in as if we were old friends.
He immediately drove to downtown, Bourgebia, where we hunted for a local SIM card. The first shop we got to was too expensive, so we decided to go have some food and relax. He took me to a packed café that was selling shwarmas. He ordered a huge shwarma, chips and a handful of olives for me. We went to sit in the upstairs area of the crowded café and got to know each other; at first I thought Kheridine was gay but it turned out he had a beautiful wife whom I later met on the day; I guess I mistook his soft mannerisms and affection as signifiers of a gay man. After eating we went to find a cheaper SIM card; I was so relieved to finally have network. The first person I called was my Eliot who immediately told me to get on a bus to Nabeual where he was. Kheridine drove me to the bus station and bought me a ticket and as soon as I entered and sat down the bus moved.

It turns out I took the cheaper bus the one that tries to avoid all the toll gates so I saw the back alleys of the country, I saw a few sheep, a ceramic factory which was really just a big house and from that house beautiful broken ceramics trailed along the road. I soon got used to the bumpy ride and was lulled to sleep by the motion. I woke up when I heard everyone getting off the bus, I prayed to God that I had not missed my stop and got off.
Nabeul was spray painted in red on the bus stop benches, I got excited and called Eliot who told me the name of his hotel. I had misspelt the name of the hotel but the taxi driver understood me when I told him where I wanted to go and drove me straight there.
Hotel Kheops is like a book with a great cover but the contents are actually trash. I stood outside the grand hotel waiting for Eliot to return from his workshop which he was hosting. Tunisia is dusty from Tunis to Nabeul to pretty much everywhere in the country, the cars are covered in a white crusty dust, so are the streets, the pavement and the houses which are mostly painted white with royal blue lines on the borders of the windows and doors. I leaned against the wall and patiently waited, within a few minutes he came up with his unusual big strides kicking dust up in the air. He told me he had been looking for a Merlot as it is my favourite wine but could not find it. Finding alcohol in Tunisia is hard, I think it would be easier to find a black car that is not covered in dust. We went up to the hotel room, talked about the events of the morning and laughed about them. He then told me that there was a theatrical show at five but it was one minute to five and I wanted to take a hot shower before leaving. He left me and at half past five called me to tell me the password of the wifi and that the show was just about to begin. I could have actually made it had he had been patient enough to wait for me to take the shower.
He returned after the show and we went to dinner in the hotel dining hall, there I met the students he was working with; English was not their primary language but they did not need the English language to be hospitable which they were. One of them was having a birthday party on the beach which was supposed to start at nine in the evening after dinner but it did not because Tunisians like many Africans have their own track of time. I was tired and at ten o’clock decided to go up to the hotel room and rest for a while before going out to the party.  I did not make it to the party. I had slept a long peaceful sleep that was as closest to death as I had have ever felt. In the morning I woke up at the crack dawn, walked up to the balcony and saw the moon floating over the white sleepy town, I watched it disappear as the sun rose to take its majestic place over Nabeul. I wondered what the day would hold for me but with my local SIM card in had I was sure it would not be as hectic as the previous day. It was going to be a good day.

02 March 2016 Wednesday

I arrived at nine o’clock in the morning at the Rastafarian hair salon. The doors were closed and on the windows towels were hanging. A middle aged woman was sitting on a chair opposite the salon angrily shaking her head. I greet her and ask when the salon is going to be opened, she tells me she had an appointment for eight, I look at my watch and it is past nine. I stand next to her in silence. All of a sudden she shouts to a couple of women walking on the pavement, they come closer but she carries on shouting “Did you hear our church burnt down?”
The women tell her they thought it was a joke.
“No it isn’t. Lightning struck our church but the devil is a liar some men saved it”
The women all thank God and walk away.
A slender dark man with his hair tied up in a scarf slowly walks to the salon and opens it. We enter, he greets us, the woman and I barely greet back; a mini protest of our own; we sit down and wait for him to finish taking down the towels. The warm sunlight creeps in and illuminates the Rastafarian quotes written on the walls in different coloured permanent markers.
Another Rasta walks in, he is slender but taller and more handsome than the first. His long hair bound in a scarf stands atop his big head like the leaning tower of pisa.
He greets me jovially “I’ll be with you now sister” he tells me as he walks out of the shack. The woman I came in with starts complaining, the men is still folding towels and pays no attention to her. I look up and notice the sun rays poking themselves in the holes of the tin roof. I look at the mirror, big puffs of smoke are bellowing up behind me, soon it travels up my nose and I start feeling dizzy. The man stops folding towels and goes outside to join the blazing. More customers walk in and sit down. Two more Rastas walk in, their short dreadlocks are covered with crotchet beanies and the immediately start washing customers’ dreads starting with the angry woman. The handsome Rasta comes back inside but doesn’t head to me, instead he goes to his laptop and starts playing Rastafarian music, he stomps his feet as he comes closer to me and starts sectioning my hair.
“So you want dreadlocks”
“No not yet. I’m not ready for that kind of commitment- in fact I was thinking of cutting my hair before I came here” He seems shocked.
“Ah sister don’t cut your hair it is a gift from God. Don’t ever cut your hair it is the most prized asset of your body” I giggle.
“Okay but for now I want twists” and before saying this he instructs one of the short deadlocked guys to get the wool ready. While I’m waiting he styles all the woman who’s hair has been washed. He is the leader of the salon and the most wanted by customers, all of them wait patiently to have their hair locked with beeswax and styled. He styles the hair swiftly, sometimes not even looking, just blabbering with his workmates in a language I do not understand- it sounds like Venda but not entirely. The customers get off their seats looking satisfied giving him a couple of hundred rands while smiling away.
“It is good that man fears a woman. If he does not fear his woman nothing will go right in his household” he says this abruptly and asks us for our own opinions. The women oppose this view and say it should be the other way around. I am surprised at this; surely as women we should be happy to hear this from a man but they all quote the bible in opposition to his statement. I sit my head bowed in silence and disbelief.
Finally he comes to me.
“Should we wash your hair?” he asks. I shake my head- I had washed my hair the previous day. He sections my hair again, stops, takes out a brown cigarette, lights it up and puffs as he does my hair- the dizziness returns. Some customers walk out to get some fresh air- my eyes sting and my scalp hurts from all the twisting. My hair is soft and the knots keep coming out so he tightens his grip on them. The man in a crotchet beanie stands besides him like a meek mouse taking instructions from his master on what to do after each braid is done on my hair, he nods his head like a child and follows what he was told.
A young male customer walks in, he is light in complexion, has broad shoulders and a square jaw which complements his good looks. His hair is a mess and looks like Boabab tree. He greets the Rastas with his hands in the sign made famous by Jay-Z; the rock sign. They smash fists and he quickly gets his hair washed. The man stops doing my hair and goes to style the young man. The songs playing in the background are all about celebrating the herb and the love of a woman. I notice the men passing around a brass pipe after each puff they stomp their feet- the pipe seems to have come with the young man. Soon he is done and his dreads look much cleaner and neater. They smash fists again and he walks out. My neck is sore at this point, my knees are tired and I need to use the toilet but I didn’t see one coming in so I try my best to forget about my bladder.
The handsome man slaps his flat tummy and screams that he is hungry. He drinks a jug of water, pulls out another joint and carries on doing my hair.
I get tired of looking at my phone, I get tired of listening to the music and sitting down in one position. At one point I want to stand up and walk away with my hair half done just to get blood flowing in my body and food in my stomach. My ears pick up the colloquial word for gay/ fag, the men are talking about homosexuality but I can’t follow because I do not understand all that they are saying but my attention is averted from my own internal misery as I peak my attention into their conversation. I pick up random words and come to the conclusion that they do not like gays.
“Sister, a lady came in to do her hair here- is she your friend?” The question caught me by surprise. I suppose they must have seen me going through my gallery on my phone.
“Yes she is” I answer slightly irritated.
“That’s all she is?” He looks at me in the mirror. I keep quiet.
“She’s our friend too you know” I look at him unmoved. He goes to drink a big a glass of water and then goes to the laptop to change the music. I stretch my legs, arms, back and breathe in deeply. I bend forward and put my head in my thighs. He tugs at one of my braids and I sit up. He twists my hair faster and harder. The music stops and I am glad- I had heard too much of Jah, the herb and the love of women that Rastafarians need. Suddenly he turns around.
“Ah my sister where do you come from looking so beautiful?” he asks with my braid still in his hand, my head is bowed down and I am in pain. A WhatsApp message beeps on my phone “I’m right behind you” it says. I smile and the pain does not feel so bad. She helps the Rastas as she can see they are going slow because of the herb and hunger. I smile my eyes at her. She shyly looks away busying herself with the wool.
The sun up in the middle of the sky, the heat coming in waves, the beads of sweat racing down my spine- he turns the small wheel with his big thumb a steady flame flows up, this is the end, the burning of ends- I literally want to cry. Most black girls know how this moment feels: like those stick thin marathon runners when they run into the ribbon at the finish line and fall onto the ground shaking emotionally.
She steals a glance at me, I catch it and we both smile.
I open the car doors and shift the windows down to let the hot air out.
“We were just blazing the other day when they did my hair. They have the best stuff” she explains to me even though I had not asked.
“I believe you” I say as I start the car,
“Where must we eat?” I ask her, eyes fixed on the smooth winding road picking up speed.

10 October 2015 Friday

The time has just past midnight so actually it is a Saturday morning. There’s a sound of helicopter roaming the skies probably looking for a stolen car. A lot of them find their way to my hood; I even know one of the hijackers. He lives a few houses away from my grandmother’s house; I grew up with him, he was friends with my older brother and now he is a gangster who does not harm you if he knows you and I guess that is how my car and I are safe.

Anyway last week Friday I went to see a queer movie title While You Weren’t Looking, it’s quite a long title and one I did not find connected with the film. There are many plot lines to it. Firstly there’s an affluent lesbian couple going through a crisis in their marriage (of course the butch one has to be the one who cheats), secondly there’s their adopted daughter who finds herself falling for a lesbian (Shado) whom she mistook to be a man and even though she learns of her true gender she still pursues the relationship and lastly there’s an upper middle class black man hiding the secret of his gay past from his wife and teenage son. All these stories take place in Cape Town and all characters are linked to each other through some peripheral human links which focus on queerness of each individual.
The characters much like South Africa are diverse and their back stories are rich. My attention was focused on Ayanda (who is the adopted daughter) and Shado’s relationship. I believe their story alone could have been the sole driver of the whole movie. I wanted progression from all characters but mostly from them two. Ayanda grew up in a liberated house composing of two mothers who give her everything she wants and on her eighteenth birthday she decides she want to research her roots, coincidentally on her birthday night she kisses Shado whom she thought was a man and this meeting leads to her going to the townships of Cape Town where Shado resides. I don’t understand why she going to the townships is seen as going back to one’s roots. Anyway with Shado’s grandmother and cousin gone they have the house to themselves and they proceed to have some hot lesbian sex. After their romp, whilst sticky and wet, Shado warns Ayanda not to fall in love with her; I don’t know why maybe it’s that hardcore exterior that masculine presenting lesbians like to present.
In the early morning while in each other’s warm embrace Ayanda and Shado are violently woken up by some gangsters who are linked to Ayanda’s cousin; on realising that the two were having hot lesbian sex the previous night one of the gangsters decides to rape Shado but luckily his mate stops him because they just want the money and so they take all of Ayanda’s possessions because they actually have value unlike Shado’s. Ayanda is clearly traumatised by this event and puts on some of Shado’s clothes, she and Shado decide that they will never see each other again.
I believe this story is pivotal to young queer people, to be strong and fervent in their lives despite the barriers that exist; Ayanda and Shado’s story offers no hope.
It has the typical stifling and oppressive tone so popular in Cape Town, you stay in your lane and I’ll stay in mine. I believe Ayanda and Shado’s story could have been told a là Blue is the Warmest Colour because their barriers are barriers that take time to break down, barriers that are only hard to break down because of classism and society’s perspective on queer people. Yes Shado cannot offer Ayanda any security be it financial or physical or even emotional but love is not that simple and the two obviously have a connection, a chemistry unparalleled to Ayanda’s former boyfriend.
It would have been interesting to see Ayanda and Shado grow closer or apart in their relationship over the years be it three, five, seven or even ten years. To see them navigate the barriers in their lives, to see them move on from the trauma that happened in the morning, to see the reactions of Ayanda’s mothers to their daughter suddenly becoming one of them, to see if Ayanda would wafer once realising that actually being lesbian has dire consequences if one is within a certain class, that lesbianism is not a social experiment and Shado’s growth is important too.
I think maybe I might be asking for too much. I believe in fairies and God and heaven but reality is hell and the reality is truthfully that’s how stories of same-sex love end up in South Africa. It is too much to bear and those who do are brave and love, for them, love is enough.
The cinema where I watched the movie was in Soweto and there was an impressive number of queer ladies and a few men- I believe this is progress for a South African movie focusing on a taboo subject. I believe to retain these small numbers, to keep them engaged so that they may fish out more numbers of viewers to local content, a little more positivity in the narrative of black characters could be allowed. Black people are more than their poor backgrounds and even the ones who’ve jumped up the economic strata must not be portrayed as solely money hungry individuals whose sole purpose is to ensure they do not slip back into poverty. Black characters choices do not rest solely on economic factors because they do get married, they do have multiple children, they lead homosexual lives and they all strive for a better life even if the circumstances do not allow.
I am not suggesting a total glazing over of the stark issues at hand of the queer black populous, I’m just saying give a little light to Shado.

28 September 2015 Monday

I sometimes feel like if I had met Debussy he and I would have been best friends. I am listening to one of his pieces titled Arabesque no.1. I sometimes wish God gave me the gift of music or singing, it is a talent that is always readily accessible. When someone claims to be a singer they can easily sing on the spot to prove it but if you’re a writer you first have to go into your archives and prove your worth through publications or acknowledgements.

This year has been a storm and even though it has settled down, a gust every now and then reminds me that it is not all over. I am at peace. I understand that happiness cannot be found, it cannot be created, it is not locked away somewhere in someone or someplace; happiness is.
I did move out of Johannesburg at the end of January this year.
In the last few days of January, in the early morning when it was still dark I got a phone call from the hospice my grandmother was in and they informed that she had passed on. I felt at peace because the woman there at the hospice was no longer my grandmother and feel she deserved to go, she had done her part, lived life to the fullest and loved the best way she knew how. After her funeral I could not write. Actually as I sit typing this I wonder where time went and I wonder what I have done with that time. To clarify my paternal grandmother passed and I moved in with my maternal grandmother, actually she disturbed me right now to let me know that she is experiencing heartburn. I cannot recall what happened between January and May but I do recall making arrangements in June to travel with my friend and his play. We went to Cape Town for a few days and then to Grahamstown in the Eastern Cape for the National Arts Festival. It was my first time there and I really enjoyed myself. I cannot wait to go back next year. I wanted to document each day there but I was always too busy or tired because I was also helping with the play- I was a stage manager. It was my first stage managerial work and there were days when I felt I did well and there were days when I felt I was just losing it all but it worked out in the end. I gained some experience from the gig.
I remember my birthday well because on the night my cousin and friends went to Kitcheners. If you claim to live in Johannesburg city and do not know Kitcheners or Great Dane then you do not live in the city, you merely exist in it. Kitcheners and Great Dane are the night spots where the lost, middle-class black youth and other colours of the rainbow hang out. I actually prefer Melville or my bed to those two but on the seventeenth of July it was my birthday and it felt rather anti-climatic to go back home. Kitcheners was a ball of psychedelic energy, the DJ was playing some shit music but ironically enough people were filled on the dance floor dancing, probably high on the same thing as the DJ. The DJ booth was wrapped with fairy lights that made it seem like I was lost in a dark twisted Disney film. I can’t dance to good music and this DJ was playing shit music so I sat down and drank my rum. A handsome guy sat next to me and we started talking but there was nothing intriguing about him and so I kissed him just for the fun of it. We spent most of the night together but when the club closed we went our separate ways. One of my friends asked me if I was straight because I kissed him, I kissed him because I was bored not because I am straight- simple as that. I would not be amazed if I found out he was gay. It is Joburg after all, sexuality goes according to the time; in the day you are one thing and in the night another. That night I did miss my flat because I had to drive all the way home to Soweto and my grandmother was sleeping so my cousin and I slept in the car.
In August nothing much happened and now it is the last days of September. I spent most of last weekend with my baby sister at a water park; she is way more adventurous than me, she kept going on all the water slides repeatedly and I went on just to say I went on. An adrenaline rush is the last thing I need after the year I have had.
I have been going to the gym religiously; it fortifies both my body and soul. I recently acquired a personal trainer and I feel she is interesting and might add to the chapters of my life.
I feel I am coming into myself, meeting myself in the centre, stitching all remnants of myself together without disregarding the dark, painful and ugly pieces of myself. I feel like I have always been whole but I needed to be broken to realise this. I am fearless because death has touched me so many times without my permission and without any sensitivity to my condition and age. I have realised that money cannot buy happiness but it does make life more bearable and easier. If I fall, if tragedy strikes I know me. If love should come fiercely and strongly I will take it in like a wave breaking on me. I know it will hurt, it will sting but I will enjoy it leaving me by caressing my feet as it regresses from the shoreline preparing itself to come back and crash on me again. This is life lived.

15 January 2015 Thursday

My neighbours are preparing for a party. Their door is wide open and blasting 90s RnB music. I don’t know if I have mentioned it before but I do not particularly like RnB.
I have just came back from work and I found them blocking my door because they were taking photographs of their outfits in the corridor- one of the girls had really nice navy blue high heels that I wouldn’t mind walking in, she left her purse on the floor by my door and after taking numerous photographs she went back for it, she bent over in her navy blue heels and her shorts got even shorter; I don’t think she had underwear on, actually she definitely had no underwear on.  I wish I was in a party mood like they are but instead I am sitting in my green plastic chair looking at a peculiar cloud suspended in the blue sky- it looks like an armchair and I so wish I could sit on it. I am eating a green apple as I type this blog/ journal post, that might not seem amazing to you but to me it is because more than a decade ago I swore off eating apples. I grew up eating apples, my grandmother packed them in my lunch every single school day, when I went to visit family members they would hand me a big red shiny apple and when I went out with my mother I would be fortunate enough to be a receiver of a caramelised apple- I hated caramel and hated apples even more because I just had too much of them- to me they were a poverty snack. My white friends in primary school had cheese, crackers, celery sticks and baby carrots and what did I have; brown bread with mashed boiled eggs and an apple. So when I went to high school I swore off apples and I met a friend who had also sworn off apples and that solidified our solidarity- our friendship was stronger because of the vilification of apples in our lives. So what happened why have I gone back to eating apples? This year I unconsciously decided to deal with my demons from the past twenty four years of my life, I have decided to confront all the bad and to deal with it instead of burying it in a pile of heartbreak, I feel these unsolved hurts maybe what is holding me back psychologically and also what prevents me from understanding myself more. I plan to recount all the bad things that have happened to me or around me and let them go, even thinking of getting a psychologist for this because shit I have a sordid convoluted history only they can decipher. I hope my psychologist will be older than forty, open minded and understand my background objectively. I would like to think that having a common ethnicity is important but I do not want to undermine the professionalism of a person because of the lack of it.

The cloud that looked like an armchair has changed form and now looks like a mushroom- amazing.
When I read my horoscope for this year it did not mention anything about love or finding the perfect girlfriend- which is really frustrating because I would like to be wifed like right now. Yeah I am a feminist but I have always dreamed of being a housewife, cooking, looking after the kids, dressing in the sexiest lingerie for my wife to find me in are all thoughts that run through my head while I am at work. That being said I do not believe in horoscopes that much- I only believe in them when they tell me of good news to come and when those good news do not manifest I get mad and swear off horoscopes until I’m destitute and I must return to them
I have just finished eating the green apple and noticed my 2014 calender is still up; a sign that mentally my mind is still in 2014. I must move on.
Twelve days left until I leave the city and I do not know how I feel. Right now when people are preparing to leave for parties, when the sounds of different taxi radios fill the red sky, the nauseating smell of cheap perfumes clashing with the smell of steaks being deep fried in cheap oil fill the corridors, and a group of women singing church songs which move my soul to the days when I saw the world through the veil of sweet innocence- I wonder why I’m moving but my mind is unchanged, I have to move for my own good. I question myself; Nobantu this, Nobantu that, Nobantu when, Nobantu who? I’m going insane. I need walls that will talk back. Right now I will put my radio on full blast and listen to golden classics of a gone era and deal with the pile of dirty dishes and the pile of dirty laundry.
Nobantu go.