Happy hour, in his absence

With Jesus it has always been easy to deal with. His death was possibly drilling over two thousand years ago and as that of my father’s whose departure robbed me of a proper man’s touch before I could even learn to comprehend life and why was I so small while everything and everyone else was so gigantic.

In the case of Madlamini, I had no choice but to man up for my mother. I had to be the man she has always urged me to be. She was mourning her mother and my shoulders had to be broader to act as sanctuary for her fragile bone structure.

For something that happened almost five years ago, in my mother view the memory is still fresh and hurtful each day a silhouettes emulating her mother’s existence.

I assumed it gets easier, but apparently it never does.

One Saturday, in October, conceded all prospects of absolute fun, alcohol and gossip. The start, of course, was exciting and I found myself dubbing the day orgasmic.

All it took was the sight of a long lost acquaintance from the past for the day to swiftly press my emotions to the point of misery theme.

I had never been close to the woman who stood in front of me, but for one moment we had to be tight. Neither one of us planned it nor did we expect it, but shit split itself in half and we found each other embracing… Sobbing.

For someone who is well aware of how much appearance is valued in the presence of womanly men and broad-shouldered women, the masses at Neighbourgoods Market carried no value

“Oh, my goodness… Seeing you just brought back memories of him,” that was her mistake. I held her and I squeezed her so tight in an effort to hold back my tears.

“Please, say no more,” I whispered. That was my mistake.

Unfortunately, I was faced with a situation; a moment that brought the realisation that I have been pretending to have never been affected much by his death. For months, I would speak about him and the good times we used to have without a tinge of emotion. I was lying to myself. I hadn’t mourned his passing.

Lift your head up and stand tall… I think I took the phrase to heart and too far. I found myself comfortable in what I vowed I will never be. The bubbly me was visible despite suppressed emotions enthused by missing links in my life.

I hadn’t let go of him. Now, here I am. What must happen?

Happy read!

Free, most of yourself

There is something exciting about honesty. There is something freeing about forsaking all the clichés and delusions concerning coming clean to an individual you know, love and respect. This could be you mother, a lover or someone whom you consider a friend.

That is why; therefore, the other person looks at you and cites positive energy radiating from your direction; an aura that fills the atmosphere in your presence. It is because you have chosen to liberate your mind, body and soul from the manacles of chaos, deception and from a life based on lies.

Of course, your expectations, with regards to the response you might receive after being honest do not necessarily have to be as positive. However, the right thing has been done; and that is practising a principle that will certainly help you uphold a rigid perspective to the world. Most importantly, to the people who are willing to be part of your life.

You have control over the way other people treat you. You have the power to shape their view of you and you can teach them to respect you by not pretending to be someone you are not. Being true to yourself and to the people you surround yourself with compliments honesty.

Free most of yourself by merely being honest, completely.

Happy read!

Thanksgiving

I would like to believe that my life is a testimony of how true love can shape an individual; add to that the effort of good friends and how they shape a person.

As if to emulate the life of the Messiah, it appears, right from the beginning, I had a structure of support that even my mama never anticipated; from relatives, her friends and those who found me alluring in their eyes.

Like a bad skin condition, this type of support grew with me. It carried me around my township through thick and thin, it saw me move from a high school and became stronger at university up till the strange grounds of the city of gold; where it manifested into one of the things that keep me going, despite how thorny the streets around here are.

I am not sure of how my mama sustained the support till to date. In fact, I am not even sure she did anything to keep it going. However, I am doing something to paint this structure a happy colour and to give it all the strength it needs to grow even more.

As a result, I have embraced the Western custom of observing Thanksgiving Day.

I assumed this routine last year with the sole purpose of celebrating the people who have made a constructive contribution in my life in Johannesburg.

This year, the tradition continues. And, my emotions fail to rest as I am theorising ideas to show these men and women just how grateful I am that I have them in my life.

Happy read!

We forget that we can

We have been groomed to believe that having a role model is ideal. Consequently, no one bothers to put an emphasis on the importance of working towards being a role model. That is why we find ourselves tailing the treads of people whose true stories are unknown to us.

We have adopted strange societal notions and have standardised these as tolerable customs.  Hence, we find ourselves pursuing studies that will merely place us in front of the camera, because we believe that is where money and true happiness lies. In doing so, overlooking that being a teacher, a lawyer and even a medical practitioner is still relevant as it provides greater joy and financial rewards.

Someone has been wise enough to make us believe that we can be anything we want to be. But the same person misremembered to tell us that it is through education that the daughter of a peasant can become a doctor, that a son of a mine worker can become the head of the mine and that a child of farm workers can become the president of a great nation.

An intelligent man once painted a splendid image of Dr. Precious Moloi-Motsepe, citing her impressive accolades as well as her association with the fabulous world of fashion. The same man did not mention that Dr. Moloi-Motsepe is an epitome of an African woman; who, like many South African mothers, was committed to creating a solid foundation for herself and her family. This man forgot to depict the challenges she possibly faced while working towards becoming what she had always wanted to be.

We have been made to accept that the ideas in our minds can only come alive if someone else authenticates them. It has elapsed in our hearts and minds that we all are one with the force that is greater than any other existing source in the universe. God.

We tend to take seriously the statement that suggests that what comes out of our lips has so much influence with regards to what we become. For some reason, however, we always fail to build a room for this statement when it comes to positives words that escape our lips.

When we are told we are failures, we take offence as we believe that is true. Yet we are nonchalant when we hear just how beautiful and good we are, simply because we know this to be untrue.

We live in a domain in which being provided for is the coolest thing. It does not register in our smart minds that we possess the same abilities as the individuals who assume to roles of feeding us.

In the games we play with our friends we always opt for subordinate roles and never the dominant ones, for the reason that we doubt we can be in control.

We forget that being black, poor or disabled has nothing to do with accomplishing the dreams awaiting us. We forget that we can. We forget that the problem is our laziness and lack of determination that has us constantly in need.

Happy read!

*This piece is also published on www.sivehopefoundation.co.za

Why don't you be the writer?

In between acknowledging the existence of homosexuals in societies and the subjects fully embracing their sexuality, a few heterosexuals misidentified their preliminary grasp of life on earth as an indication that they possess power and the independence to control the actions of those who materialised later.

Several gay people exiled themselves to cabinets with the intention to avoid promising discernment of any sort. Times evolved and countries held a fresh perspective on things, and then we had gay friendly households, welcoming cities and accommodative legislations. This inspired one straight mind to assume the sits of Gods.

For many gay men and butch women the journey has been decadent while some paid with their lives; a price silently ticketed by sexist presidents, uncouth neighbours as well as families driven by fear of being excluded by communities.

Because I am free, as a homosexual individual, in the presence of a sagacious conventional woman, she miscalculated my company and acquaintance for acquiescence to articulate to me who to lust over and who not to consider.

Knowledgeable mama felt she had to warn me as the reciprocals might endanger me. One could have sworn she walked the journey with me; from denying myself of the true me, lying to family and hiding from masses. One would swear she knows what is best for me. For a gay man.

You clasped silence and they utter a word. They feel your ears are famished and your life is losing weight, hence the feeding schemes they throw your way. They believe they are observant enough as you change your position and they amend your movements.

In between sleeping with other men for sexual pleasure and the straight souls knowing, the latter subjects became the artists who felt endowed to script lines for untrained gay people.

Perhaps, Madonna is no longer God. They are. Actually, heterosexuals are God.

Happy read!

Dante’s last blog

Two hours ago, I received a call from an old friend of mine who is based in East London. My friend came across a blog that mentioned my name in it and he suggested I take a look at it.

He refused to go into detail with regards to what the blog was about or who it belongs to. He forwarded me a link; a link I followed.

The link he sent me led me Dante Bello’s blog - Raison d’être! - on a post that seems to have been his last one before he died.

What my friend does not know is that I knew Dante and I knew him very well. To me he was like a brother, to some degree and although I only met him a few times, I feel he left me, and the voices he inspired to speak freely, too soon.

Never mind his short-stay; he definitely made a mark in the lives of many black Africans.

A few dubbed him provocative and philosophical, but I saw Dante as a man of principle; a soul that craved absolute good in the continent.

Since the day I saw a tweet that confirmed his death, I have not been to his blog. So, today I went back to a place Dante introduced me to, a podium I used to challenge his ideology and a platform he used to shape views on certain political and social issues.

In my view, he used this blog to speak his mind in an effort to inspire change and build character in black people, especially those who were close to him.

Having gone through Raison d’être!’s last post, I felt the need to have that same piece on my blog. Of course, not denying the late brother of his credit in the blog.

It appears Dante wrote this post about a year ago.

Postcard From Freetown - Reflections!

Moments have gone by and time is still relatively waiting for no man. This is the reality we are faced with as earthlings. I sit on a chair on my balcony reflecting and reminiscence the thoughts that flow through my mind, words lingers to chaste.

It has been a while I put pen to paper and I can’t say it’s a writer’s block but rather I’ll succumb to the sentiment that it was a wilful decision to stop writing, read more about what others are writing, immerse myself in these spaces to acquire more knowledge, ideology, views, opinions, sentiments and indulge in the literal thinking of others.

Read more here...

Happy read!

Sit down and listen!

No! No! NO!

Sit down and listen!

Yes! You, sit down and listen!

Yeah, sit down and listen to me!

I am talking.

Man, I’ve been watching you pace the streets, moving up and down

Strutting the ramps and expressing His and Hellos to strangers and common men

While I struggle to get you to pay attention

I walked wide miles, at times, helping you sweep your adversity

Today, your glance my way has become short in supply

You forget the city has painted me all sorts of colours for you

Third parties intervene, for you to even look my direction

Were we not a niddle and a thread at one point?

One of us had a hole in which the other penetrated, being the thread, of course

Woman, I see you ripping the runways with your long legs carried by your fierce attitude

Your lips following suit, as they seem to have forgotten to keep mum

You walk past the homeless, waving like Elizabeth at the rich dudes

The next thing you will be blowing kisses at Charles

Gosh! You are talking and you've been talking

But, I need you to listen.

I need to speak and you need to hear me

But first, sit down and listen!

Your lips have been moving

Not only when you were eating, but even when I was bleeding, you didn't even see 

You were not paying attention!

Sit down and listen!

I have always wanted to tell you I love you 

Time permitted, you deluded all chances

Now, my courage is garbage that has filled my whole being with fear

Just like water flowing shamelessly on a drain, I am miserable

At least, I look the part

Girl, sit down and listen!

Forget the sidewalks, who walks anyway?

My opinion is choking my throat

I am bleeding and my oesophagus will rot.

My eardrums are filled with your voices and the words you utter every day

Simply because I listened to you and I heard you

You silenced my view; hence I am dead inside

I have pursued your traits, and I’m led to your ruin
But, I want to open my eyes.

I want to see.

But first, do you hear me, sliced and torn to pieces screaming out your name?

Can you even see me?
Clearly you reside in infamy

No! No! NO!

Sit down and listen!

Gosh! I have been walking around like a zombie

I pleased you, forsaking my core existence

Actually, I lived you. I was you.

You made me you and I grew so day and night

Just like the best of my rival, you beheld me corpse

You knew it was not me, but you held up high the idea

I am done.

Men, women and beings of forged essence

Today is the morning after

And all things are neither your scrutiny nor plan

I am talking. You heard me.

Don’t glance this way, either way your ear will face me

Your veiled perception faded along with your pathetic spirit
With bare feet, I am stepping on hot coals carrying an aim, a voice and no resentment

Those will carry me further

Hopefully lead me away from your feeble handmade crown.

Happy read!

Me & Mr Jones: I remember

I remember having drinks with two friends; a very attractive guy and an elegant lady. To me this was a foreign land. A home and where school is for her, while this is where he use to study. Now, he only comes to visit his peers from church.
 
I was very familiar, and friendly with the double shots of Southern Comfort and lime I had in my hand. He was having the same while she went for something she felt was less 'hard', a Savanna.
 
With a cigarette at hand, she was blurting away. One would swear I have known her for ages, but I had just met her a few minutes ago. Thanks to Twitter, she asked to meet with me because she had heard of my PR proficiency. I'm not that good in the field, but I fitted her criteria of a young, vibrant, smart gay man.
 
We were chatting. She was enjoying us. He was entertaining. My Blackberry Messenger (BBM) was demanding my eye; Mr Jones was dining right across where we were. I wanted to see him. Gosh, I have been looking forward to this day.
 
I knew he was dark, but unsure of how tall he was. His Facebook photos depicted a tall skinny boy. Contrary to what he believed, he was good looking. He is near News Cafe, his text showed. I excused myself and up I went, carried away by self-reliance that would have fed a lot of starving children in Rwanda.
 
There he was. Cute, I muttered. He wasn't tall. He was not tall at all. He was still dark and very lovely though.
 
Hand shakes, wry smiles, hotness oozed between the two of us. Within a few seconds I had made him relax. Or had he made me relax? We were both not nervous; clearly we were two adults who were very much used to meeting strangers.
 
I walked him back to his res. At least I had established that he's not so busy, hence I had planned to have him hang with me, him and her. This was his territory, but I could tell that Mr Jones was did not go out much. Well, his time had come.
 
I went back strutting in excitement. I informed the crew that we will have a 'guest' among us. They got even more excited when they learn that I wanted to pursue Mr Jones.
 
I remember we moved from point A to B because freshmen are not allowed anywhere else except point B.
 
I remember the number grew from three; two men and a lady, to three men and a lady. The big man was in the midst. Rounds flew, allowing intoxication in the mind. By now everyone wanted to see Mr Jones. Right then, my BBM was buzzing. I'm here, where are you guys, his text showed.
 
He's here, I told the crew. I went to meet him halfway. He came to join us. Everyone loved him. Everyone loved him alright.
 
One drink too many. Stones was getting even more packed, but we had reserved our space so that we had enough to dance on. Or should I say that space was for me and me alone? I mean, I was the only one dancing.
 
I believe it was during my dancing that Mr Jones managed to forge, between himself and my male friend, what I had expected to develop between him and I.
 
I remember the big guy pulling me aside to ask me if I could see what was going on between the two. It was clear, but my mind was to slow to capture such disturbing moments. My friend entertaining my lovely Mr Jones, no harm in that, I thought.
 
I remember seeing their lips lock. I giggled, not because it was funny but, because it was strange just how roles have changed in one day, over few hours, between two good friends; all for a stranger. My then potential lover.
 
I remember the big guy and I waiting on Mr Jones and he to finish smooching. How lovely. No! How weird? Actually, ouch. Very ouch.
 
I remember confronting him inside a cab we took as we were heading home; to his place. "I can't believe you," I said, with a mouth that surely reeked of liquor. "Can we not talk about this now Dladla," he suggested. When was the right time? After they have established a solid foundation for their love for each other?
 
I remember, not hugging my friend when I left for work the next day. I remember nursing a weird pain in my belly every time their BBM statuses suggested they were together or going for a night out together. I remember forcing myself to accept that I had lost and my friend had won. I remember texting both of them wishing all the best.
 
To be honest, they made each other happy. I do believe they loved each other.
 
Despite what I thought in the beginning, me and Mr Jones could have never worked out. The fact that I was a R96 away while my friend was merely R20 confirmed this. Besides, Mr Jones was a student, something I had recently decided to stay away from. I, on the other hand, was very clingy; something that would have annoyed him to the point of ditching me.
 
I believe this is the realisation that brought me to man up and be 'happy' for Mr Jones and my friend. As a result, I had just the perfect idea. The plan was to invite both of them over at my place for a day or two. We would chill, eat and have fun just like old times.
 
The main idea here was to restore my friendship with my friend while setting things with Mr Jones to however they were before I found him appealing. Also, Mr Jones had never been to my house. He had always heard of the parties and braai that I usually host. Now, the time for him to come had arrived.
 
"When do you want to host us? Mr Jones and I have broken up," text from him showed. I gasped alone in a taxi home.
 
I remember feeling anger intensifying inside me. I almost lost a friendship with him. For what? A fling? Couldn't they have worked harder on whatever the problem was? After all the shit their relationship put me through, they failed to nurture what they have started? Actually, I was hurt. For what? Just for a spare of the moment kind of thing?
 
It's like they were both spiting me, with him saying let me get the taste of what my friend was after while Mr Jones pursued his inquisitiveness in regards to how it feels to be with the friend of the guy who wanted him.
 
I feel their relationship cost me. Now they threw all that away. Just when I was beginning to get my head around the idea of them dating.
 
Happy read!