2010...

First of all I would like to send a huge thank you to the Great I Am for letting me see another year. I’d like to thank him for giving me such a loving and supportive family; gorgeous loyal friends and a job with a steady pay check. But hey, it’s not over yet!

Let me take a moment to say thank you to my parents, my brothers and my sister. Without you I wouldn’t be half the person I am, hell, I wouldn’t even be here at all. We’ve had a blessed year. It’s been beautiful. Love you with all I am.

To my girl, who has risen with me, stuck by me when I was down. You deserve all the love in the world. Grow. Flourish and be happy, that’s my wish for you. We’ve had a great year and yeah there’ll be many more!

To my girl, I miss you. Really, I do…take a minute, leave the past behind. We had dreams, and I would like to be there when we grow old. Let 2011 be better for us…

To people who have used me. It’s cool, I’m not mad. As tough as you make it to love you, I still do. What use is love if it can only be given to those who love you? You’ve aged me, I’m wiser now than I was twelve months ago. I suppose that’s a good thing. One day, if you get famous don’t forget to credit me. In case you pretend to forget, it’s cool…see you around.

To all the liars. Hell, what do I say to you? The injury was only momentary, but the lesson will last to infinity. But that aside, I need to thank you for showing me the value of truth in my life.

To all those great writers who filled my soul with great literature, you made me laugh; cry; want to love. Thank you and keep churning those brilliant books. Thank you for inspiring me to improve my craft. May you grow as writers and stay true to the art of weaving stories and committing them to words.

To music. Thank you for letting me dance, sing along, jog to you, cry out to you. You’ve hit so many nerves in me. And to the gifted musicians…keep making that music and inspiring the world. What would we be without you?

To sports. Thank you for those moments of heartbreak, of unspeakable joy. A special shout out to FIFA and SAFA for hooking us up with the World Cup, I had a ball.

And before I go...

To my destiny, I am so ready for what you are about to unfold on me. To all my fellow dreamers, we will get there! Just put in the time, and the heart…

The hippie wishes that you may be peace, love and prettiness forever. 

Music and Me: Songs I remember Most From My Childhood

Caiphus Semenya- A woman has a right to be

This reminds me of road trips with my family to Swaziland in the cream white Sierra. The road that seemed enless back then, I always imagined it was a full day trip which was in reality a four hour trip. 

Mama Said Knock You Out- LL Cool J

Holidays in Swaziland: my cousin Mandi and my older brother Sibusiso. First clear memory of rap music. Sibusiso says it’s more like the days when NWA first came out, but I don’t really remember those so I’ll still say that LL Cool J, MC Hammer and Run DMC were the reasons I fell in love with hip hop (I was six/seven).

Abide With Me- Ella Fitzgerald

This was one of my maternal grandmother’s favourite hymns along with What a Friend We Have In Jesus and Rock of Ages. We had them all on record. I remember coming back from school in my blue and white school uniform and hearing her singing along. I miss both my grandmothers…

Dear Mamma-TUPAC and Juicy-The Notorious BIG

I remember these years of hip hop when we had to choose between two great MCs. We couldn’t admit to loving them both, even though we did. I could list twenty songs that each dropped that moved me during this time right up to their deaths and beyond. With their death, the course of Hip Hop changed and I’m not sure if it was for the better…

Wannabe- Spice Girls

The only reason this song is on this list is because it was my last year of primary school. I remember short skirts, mini shift dresses and platforms were big then and so was trying to act older than I really was. I guess I now realise that I should have held on longer to being a child instead of rushing into my high heels.

Higher-Creed

This song was my first confession that I loved rock (after denying for years that I liked Alanis Morisette, Oasis, Smashing Pumpkins, REM...). Until this song came out I remember making statements like, “I only listen to hip hop”. It was uncool to identify with anything remotely white, but it was a huge hit in 2000. It was a new century, a new decade and I guess it was time for a change and for being me and being okay with being me. Biggy was dead, PAC was dead and Hip Hop would never be the same again.

Poverty and Me

When I was in primary school, I considered my grandparents poor. They didn’t have cars. They didn’t have indoor plumbing, a video machine, a big yard. Rich people, to the child me, were people who drove big cars and lived in huge houses and their children had a mountain of toys. When I was twelve one of my mother’s relatives who lived in Orange Farm passed away. I had never been to Orange Farm before this, and if I thought I knew poor, poor got a new face on that day.

Orange Farm is a shanty town of corrugated iron and haphazardly created streets. It’s an informal settlement that the government was forced to make formal because of the large number of people who started calling it home in the early 1990s.  It’s a town that when it rains, the red sand turns to clay that even 4X4s struggle to navigate through.

I had never been inside a shack. It was hot, stuffy, dark. There was no fridge nor was there a stove, except a gas plate. Both my grandmothers had always had fridges and electric stoves in their homes. I had never been in a home without fridge. There were only three plastic chairs and the only table in the “house” was an old door on a steel frame. For the first time in my life I was faced with desperate poverty and it was in my family. This little shack could fit into my bedroom. I suppose I remember so much about that shack because it was a moment where I understood for the first time what real poverty looked like.

You see, a lot of people in South Africa are poor. But they are not equally poor. Poverty in South Africa is often separated by geographical areas. If you live in Soweto, you might face this level of desperate poverty, but chances are that you won’t unlike if you live half an hour away, in Orange Farm.

Yes, my grandparents were poor. But they had decent furniture, electricity, running water, basic appliances, a roof over their heads. Sure, they would have to use taxis and government hospitals, and they had little in savings but they could afford to have a meal at least once a day.

And then there is the other poverty. The poverty where scrapping a meal together a week is a mission. Where one member of the family who has a minimum wage job is supporting eight other people and not all children. Families where eating thrice in a week is sheer luxury and a fridge is a far off dream. Families where vegetarianism and organic eating don’t register as choices because just getting any food in any form is a blessing.

And I think, do I have an obligation to these poor people? Yes I do because it is expected of me. It is expected of all of us who live in excess. We have more shoes than we need. More clothes than we need. We go out every other day of the week and waste more money than we save.

Helping out that one child with school uniform is going a long way to easing financial pressure on these families. Donating a 25kg bag of maize meal a month to ensure a family is fed is going a long way. Giving away that you no longer need so that someone can have a decent outfit to wear when they go job hunting is doing your bit to easing the desperation in one family.

COST THIS...

We can estimate how much a strikes,, HIV/AIDS and people who abuse sick leave cost the economy. However, we fail to estimate how much sexual harassment costs.

Sixteen Days of Activism Against the Abuse of Woman and Children kicked of on 25 November and we are all suddenly inundated with stories sexually and physically abused women and children. I’m not underplaying the seriousness of these crimes but somehow sexual harassment in the workplace goes unmentioned.

It bothers me that the government and other statistic producing companies have all kinds of stats for all sorts of things except sexual harassment and discrimination against women in the workplace. You’d think that this is an important statistic. Let me break down what sexual harassment, in my opinion, costs the economy.

The Cost of Litigation- Civil and Criminal

Women who dare report sexual harassment are likely to want to see the cases through to the very end. They may want settlements or the men to be severely punished. Most costs related to sexual harassment are intangible, but surely costs related to litigation can be reduced to hard cold figures.

Counselling For Victims

Sexual harassment for most victims is traumatic and they need to be counselled so that they can be productive citizens and move beyond the incidences. Most companies think just because someone has been given a warning the situation has been dealt with, this is because sexual harassment is treated lightly and the long reaching effects on the victim and the perpetrator are ignored. So why isn’t this considered to be a cost?

Decreased Productivity

The time a perpetrator takes to harass his victim at work is a loss of productivity. The time the victim wastes on thinking up ways of dealing with the perpetrator is a loss of productivity. The time the company takes to deal with the harassment is a loss of productivity. The increased absenteeism by the victim who is afraid to come to work because of the abuse is a loss of productivity. And you are telling me this can’t be measured?

Reputation Loss for Companies Who Don’t Deal With Sexual Harassment Well

I can list companies who have a bad reputation when dealing with sexual harassment cases. Just go to the CCMAs case load and you’ll see them. I wouldn’t want to work for a company who doesn’t handle my rights as an employee to legal and personal satisfaction.  Companies lose the very best female employees because of this.

When it’s all been said and done, sexual harassment costs our economy big bucks. Just because the majority male CEOs in our country don’t think that this is a real cost, it is.  It is almost as if we are fighting a losing battle.

No man has a right to treat a woman like her sole purpose in life is to be pawed or to spread her legs. I just hope in a decade when we look back we no longer worry about sending out wrong signals to our male colleagues because they will no longer look at us as commodities but as intellectual equals.

Sexual harassment is the biggest form of professional disrespect and it is time it stops. 

The Hippie’s Favourite Clichés on Life

Life Is…

A consequence of many things. Some good. Some bad. Some out of our control. Some in our control.

…More than my next pair of heels

That’s right. It’s about the people we share moments with. Family. Friends. It’s the hard times that shape us most and the people who hold us together during these hard times mould us and yeah, I’m glad I have such a great family and such beautiful friends.

Life is…

New experiences. New realisations. New places. New faces.

…More than what the world sees

There is so much depth in each of us. Sometimes you meet a new person. You might or might not have a conversation with them. You might or might not let them in. And sometimes after a decade of knowing them you realise, you haven’t even scratched the surface of who they are.

Life is…

A smile. A cry. A laugh. A shout.

…More than what you have

Sharing is really caring. Giving something that means the world to you to the next person who needs it more than you do. Offering a helping hand, because you can. And opening yourself up, even though you might be copied or your ideas stolen or maybe you might be betrayed.

Life is…

For the living. I love my books, but I cannot live through them. They are not the air I breathe. The heart that breaks. They cannot taste on my behalf and laugh at that joke for me.

I’m alive and I love being alive. It’s not always flashlights, spotlights and fireworks. There are times I wish I could stay in my house and not think. Not feel. Not breathe. But there are more times when I would rather share my laughter, my thoughts and my joy. Days when I want to run barefoot on green and hopefully dry grass, and lay sprawled out under a huge tree looking up at the blue African sky on an African summer’s day.

…Living is Loving…

Love and be loved. 

a Review: The Legacy by Katherine Webb

The Legacy By Katherine Webb (Published by Orion)

The legacy is about the Calcott family and it’s legacy of secrets, much of which surround a gypsy family that lives on their property during the summer seasons. The book unfolds these secrets as two sisters look for healing and want to break the vicious cycle of unhappiness in their family.

 It took me a hundred plus pages to get into this book. This is Katherine Webb’s first novel. I would have loved to love it.

Katherine Webb relied heavily on the reader being curious enough to find out the great family secret. There was sense in the detachment of her novel. I got it in the end. If Caroline was so detached to her surroundings, it wouldn’t have made sense to attach her emotions.

I didn’t much care for main character, Erica, she was “too” perfect. Erica’s only short coming was that she didn’t have a lot of responsibility. Her sister is depressed from a secret she’s been running from since she was twelve. She made her characters too fragile to be sympathetic.

Even though that this book took me a while to get into, it was very good at the end. She managed to grip me and to take her story forward. I will definitely read her next book, as this book held a lot of promise.

SHOE LOGIC

Today’s blog is about all the life scenarios that are just like shoe shopping. Different object, same excuse!

1.         You can’t wear comfort

Only men and women with really bad taste in shoes buy shoes merely because the shoe looks comfortable. There was a time in my life that I would buy a heel and wear it regardless of the fact that I needed to move from class to class with that shoe. It wouldn’t matter, the shoe looked good.

This is a typical woman syndrome. Where women suffer for beauty.  Have you ever tried to lose five kilograms? It’s really hard, tasteless protein shakes, raw fruits and vegetables and a hell lot of gym time. Who needs comfort when looking good is at stake? Hell, looking good is comfort!

2.    I’ll make a plan if it doesn’t fit

Ever found a shoe that speaks to your heart and it’s either too small or too big? Sometimes the discomfort is worth it. You can work with it.

I have a pair of heels that I’ve had to give away simply because they are way too big. I’ve tried stuffing them with all sorts of alien cushioning. They are still too big. I love these shoes but I can never wear them. I just had to let them go.

I bet you’ve had a relationship just like this. Where the guy looked good. Said all the right things. And yet he made you realise that that long list of requirements that you have isn’t really what you thought you wanted.

3.    I’ll make it work

You find a perfect shoe. You don’t have a single item of clothing that will match the shoe in style or colour. You don’t have an outfit that could ever live up or down to the shoe, yet you buy it anyway thinking that you can make it work.

For the next year of your life you become obsessed with finding an outfit for this shoe. You try everything, and yet nothing seems to work. You wake up one morning regretting why you bought the shoe, by then it’s too late to take it back. The shoe is stuck taking up precious space in your wardrobe. And you keeping holding on to the one day it will work out?

You might have wanted it (be it your job, your friend, your man) so much that you ignored all the faults and all the fundamental things that aren’t working out. I figure if it hasn’t worked out after a while it’s time to let it flow Toni Braxton style, accept that the risk hasn’t paid off and that sometimes one day never comes.

SHE HATED RED: A SHORT STORY

She stared at the wall. Daring it to change. Wanting it to change to what it had been before.

Was it a day before? It didn’t smell so new. She turned away from the offending wall. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to look out of the window. She was, maybe, just a little scared. Just ever so slightly…

She wrapped her arms around her body to still the shaking. To stall the thinking, if only for a second. For that moment.

He’d asked her. She’d told him. Honestly. And yet, as he always did, did it anyway. He didn’t care that it would be weeks before she could change it. Longer still, for the memory of the horrid colour to fade.

She sat on the white tiles. Put together in perfect symmetry. The tiles had been her only input into this damned room. The only input in his life. She folded her knees. She wrapped her arms around her legs.

She would have to live here. She would have to, for days on end face the redness she detested just so that she could keep that little bit of him. That part of him which was contrary, rebellious. Foolish and so beautifully tasteless.

She buried her face between her knees. He should have…

Oh, she couldn’t hear her own thoughts in the loudness of this damned room. She felt too much here. In all this redness, that he’d chosen after she’d refused it. This redness which reminded her.

She jumped off the floor. Shaking furiously. She paced trying to calm down. She blinked back tears.

Oh, she hated red. She hated it all. She hated it!

She threw herself against the wall. Had he painted this section? Had he laughed when he thought how’d she’d react when she saw it? What had he thought as the room transformed from white to this damned…

She ran her hand on the wall. She hated red. She hated red. She closed her eyes and saw him in the street in his Nike running shoes, his faded green shorts she’d promised she’d one day burn, and that old greyed white t-shirt that had been soaked red from the gun shots that had torn his heart apart.

She could feel his body lying on the pavement. The eyes of the passer-bys who only whispered amongst themselves in surprise in shock, in pity for the man’s family, in relief that it wasn’t anyone they knew.

He’d been such a good man, despite his horrid taste in colour. He’d been so stubborn. So…

She opened her eyes and looked at the window across the room. In here. Time had stood still. In here, his spirit lived on. In here, he would have the red he’d wanted. He’d have his mischievous moment of trouble and he’d laugh as she struggled to find furniture to match the wall colour.

She tore herself from the wall and walked to the window that overlooked the pavement where he’d taken in his last violent breath. People walked over his washed out blood stain. Already ingrossed in their own lives.

She turned away from the busy street and looked at the red wall that she would forever hate and love just because it had been the last thing he’d given her.

DISEASED

What is it about human beings that causes us to live in denial. Or maybe, sometimes, in voluntary ignorance? How many times do we need to hear the same message over and over again before it sinks in. Before we take notice and change?

We are a sick society. Very little is healthy about us. Our minds are sick, our emotions are twisted and our bodies are filled with all sorts of viruses.

You might be reading this and thinking I am not sick. Maybe you aren’t but someone you know is. Last year a woman who works for a TV production company had to research sexually transmitted illnesses formerly known as sexually transmitted diseases. Don’t start rolling your eyes.

She told me that South Africa is so divided that even the STIs we contract are somehow different. Where more black people get infected with HIV, more white people get infected with some or other STI that isn’t HIV. More of our society, black or white, than we are willing to acknowledge have or will be affected in one way or another by a sexually transmitted illness.

My girls and I were discussing STIs on the weekend. Listing all the ones we’ve heard of and their symptoms. Which ones are difficult to treat, and which ones go to “sleep”.  This was a scary conversation and too heavy for a Saturday. But what turned my blood to ice was the fact that none of these infections and viruses have visible symptoms in the beginning.

It’s easy to disassociate ourselves from sexually transmitted illnesses. A clear indication of this was a radio discussion a couple of years back when the DJ and newsreader were talking about how high school children have started having anal sex to prevent the possibility of pregnancy. In all that while the words HIV or AIDS were not mentioned.

There are many ways to get rid of an unwanted pregnancy (yes all you self righteous cringe), and you can cure most STIs, but there is no cure for HIV AIDS.

On  December every year the world goes on  HIV AIDS awareness mode. Knowing your status is encouraged and we are bombarded with information on this virus. Sexually active people are encouraged to be more responsible.

We hear. We know and yet for most of us, even those who are affected by the virus, still consider condoms to be an option and not a necessity. How many times do we hear of somebody who got an STI from someone else who didn’t even know they had it because the infection was inactive?

No one asks to get an STI or HIV. Before you and your partner decide that condoms are taking away spontaneity from your relationship ensure that you both go to a doctor and test for a full panel of STIs and HIV. You don’t want to be another statistic…

THE LETTER: A SHORT STORY

Khanyile stood the podium. The children looked so angelic that morning in their blue and white uniform. And the teachers looked sombre. She looked down at the piece of paper written in her daughters untidy scrawl.

They’d ask for the memorial service. It was as if they had cared. It was as if Thandi had been wanted here. She hadn’t understood. She’d thought that Thandi just didn’t want to go to school. She remembered Thandi the morning it happened, the way she’d looked.  Her  just combed hair was already ruffled and somehow her knees had become ashy.

She’d pushed around her breakfast, refusing to eat it. She’d taken what had seemed like an age, then, to get her bag so that they could leave. Khanyile wished in that moment that she had stopped and hugged her daughter instead of screaming at her. She wished that she hadn’t been filled with irritation when Thandi slammed her car door. She should have gotten out of the car and kissed her daughter goodbye.

The children looked up expectantly. Thandi’s classmates were in the front rows. They were all crying. She looked behind her. Thandi’s class teacher was dabbing a tear. How could she start. How would she start.

Khanyile was suddenly filled with anger, she clung on to it.

“Thandi left a letter,” Khanyile said looking at the school, “in her bedroom. The day she died.”

She ignored the flashing light of a press photographer’s camera.

“You see, I am a working mother. I leave home with Thandi in the morning, drop her off at school and I come home long after her. Sometimes I get home long after she’s gone to bed.

“I didn’t listen when she told me what was going on in this school. I didn’t see when the light left her eyes. I, like many parents, didn’t hear the change in timbre of her laughter.”

Khanyile looked at the school children. These innocent looking children had caused her child so much grief. There was no justice in the world. They lived when her child died. Their parents still came home to the sound of their children laughing in front of the TV all the while her home was quite. Too big for only her.

“Thandi wrote a letter. Hoping that I’d understand. She was only twelve.

Dear Mom

Things haven’t been good lately. I’ve tried talking about it, hoping it could get better. But the longer I go on the worse it becomes.

I want to laugh again and really laugh. I am tired of being hurt, of being a failure and of everyone hating me.

Last week Mrs Shaw told me that I must such a disappointed to my parents. Two days ago, mom, you said the very same thing.

I’ve been afraid to go to school. My class mates push me down the stairs and the teachers just watch and they blame me.

On Monday Philip spit on my book and Mr Andrews laughed and told me to wipe it off. I spit in Philip’s book too, just to get back at him and I got thrown out of class.

I remember when I was young. How we’d go to Durban and I’d dig a hole with dad and climb into it and dad would fill the hole until only my head showed. I found that so funny then, but now I want to be buried whole. Never to have to wake up again. Never to hear my classmates calling me names.

I’d give anything to remember how it feels like to have a friend. To have people smile at me and mean it.

I’ll miss you mom.

Thandi

Khanyile looked up from the tear soaked letter. She looked behind her at Mrs Shaw and Mr Andrews. They looked shocked. She looked at the principal. She looked back the school filled with children who had chosen to hate her daughter.

‘Who should be held accountable for my daughter’s death. You?’ She pointed at Mrs Shaw, “you?’ She pointed at Mr Andrews. “Maybe you?’ She pointed at the principal, ‘for letting this go on and not doing anything about it.”

‘Who’s Philip. Stand up Philip and look at the mother of the child you’ve just killed. Be tough, just like you were when you spat at my daughter.”

Philip didn’t stand.

Khanyile drew in a deep breath. ‘Or maybe, I should be blamed. For not taking her out of here. For being too busy to listen.”

She closed her eyes and remembered Thandi, not as the twelve year old who had become withdrawn but as the baby who would cry her lungs out. In that moment she just wanted to hold that warm, noisy baby to her heart and promise her to be the best mother the world had ever seen.

She looked at the sea of blue and white before her. In a week, maybe by tomorrow, Thandi would be forgotten. Some would pray to God for forgiveness, and for her daughter’s soul. Others would tell their spouse that her daughter had always been unstable. And the children would grow and forget. Maybe find a new child to bully. Ultimately, nothing would change. Thandi would still be dead and no one would be held accountable for it.

DREAMS

Tell me your dream? What is it you see at night long after you’ve closed your eyes?

Tell me your dream? What is it that wish for in the depth of your soul that you have never shared with anyone else?

Tell me your dream? When you gaze out of your office window, where is it that you go?

Tell me? What is it that you want so badly that it scares you sometimes. It is scary isn’t it? The wanting, I mean. Well, it scares me. A lot really.

I wish I didn’t have dreams. Mine are ridiculous. Yes, I do sometimes dream of you. Sometimes they are good dreams. Sometimes not. I write entire movies and books in my dreams. I do. And maybe that’s what is ridiculous, I know how hard it is to get there. But when I’m not here, that’s where I am.

I don’t know. Don’t you think that wishing is foolishness? It’s like a meant to be. How do you really know, you know? I don’t either. It’s crazy. I wish, here I go again. I can’t tell you that. You won’t understand. Most people don’t. You’ll think I’m possessed. I sometimes think if I talk about it, it won’t come true. I am even too afraid to think of it.

That is where I go. Most times, I mean. That is where I run to with spread out arms. I laugh more, when I’m there. It’s a good place to be. It’s not that I don’t like this place. But that place is where I think I’ll be happy most. Never mind, you don’t get it. Not really.

Yes, I know. We all have dreams. We all want stuff. I’m no different, and maybe that is what truly scares me. The fact that I might just be like everyone else. I don’t want to be invisible. I don’t want to be that person who dies and a few months later no body remembers you. Not really, any way.

You right. We do sometimes wish to be so different that we end up being the same. But how come so many of us want the same damned things. Why can’t they want something different. Why don’t I?

If I knew that I wouldn’t be here. Talking like this.

Hey, where you going? You can’t leave, you haven’t told me your dream yet…

Regret Is A Sign Of A Life Well Lived

The biggest lie we tell ourselves is that we have no regrets. About anything. And if we could do it all again, we wouldn’t change anything.

I suppose if you are in your teens, you haven’t lived much, this sentiment is honest. Yes, I know a lot of teenagers go through stuff that I never will and have had a lot more life than I. But can you really have no regrets? No “if I knew better than I would have done better” moments?

Yes, I have regrets. A lot of them related to people I put in my life that I shouldn’t have. Some to do with choices I made that weren’t the best thing for me. And a few to do with how I’ve treated people.

I suppose what regret is, is that choice you make that isn’t the best thing for anyone and you are either ignorant of the possible repercussions or in that moment, you just didn’t care. Or maybe that choice you made that you felt was the only choice you could make and wished it weren’t after you’d made it.

I’m big on choices and I suppose when people tell me that they have no regrets the thought that enters my mind is that this person in all their life they have never had a difficult decision to make that led to losing a friend, or even a tiny little bit of their innocence. 

I suppose the reason why I dislike memoirs and autobiographies is that the life you’ve lived is often dulled by the story teller explaining away all their bad decisions. Very few writers of these works ever admit to making bad decisions. Or admit that they would rather change a certain chapter in their life so that it didn’t happen at all.

We make decisions on a daily basis. We are good a lot of the time. Bad sometimes. We make right decisions frequently, and the occasional bad decision. We are not perfect, and yes we might get to a point in our lives where we don’t need to justify or explain ourselves. But I suppose we all look for exoneration and redemption from our bad doings by claiming ignorance or the fact that a certain decision was necessary.

Maybe it is too much to hope for that the next time someone tells their life story they’ll include the backstabbing of family and friends. The lies they felt compelled to tell. And yes, the stolen ideas.

I just think that regret is the biggest sign that you are apologetic. That you still have a seed of empathy. And that as successful as you are, you acknowledge that you are merely a human being who has lived a lot of life and have rarely ever backed down from making the hard decisions that got you where you are. 

The Memory of Love by Aminatta Forna (published by Bloomsbury)

The story is initially about a man, who feels like a part of him is dying and he feels himself disappearing in his life. This man, Adrian, decides to go to Sierra Leone soon after its civil war end to “help” broken people get restored. He meet’s a man who is about to die, Elias Cole, who wants to share his life story but is really looking for redemption. Then Adrian befriends a young local doctor named Kai, who has been greatly affected by the war and harbours a secret which has caused him to lose the great love of his love.

Adrian falls in love with  a local woman and somehow in her he finds hope and falls in love with war-torn Sierra Leone.

The story has a lot of twists and turns and is a beautifully written story. However, some parts of it are forced and there are too many coincidences. It is bleak and humourless. What humour is in the book is slightly forced. I feel where Aminatta Forna could have left me, the reader, to assume some things she explains them.

I particularly found the end of the book interesting. By the end of the book, what I would have thought was Adrian’s story becomes Kai’s story. I suppose what really confused me was whose journey was she writing.

The book was a slow read. It isn’t a high paced, can’t put down book. It’s written to evoke emotion and thought and therefore you can’t speed through it.

Overall, it was a good book and is definitely on my recommended summer reading list, and if you belong to a book club then this will be a good pick. 

The Spring Clean

Now growing up and moving on comes with it’s own baggage. The more you stay in a place the more garbage you collect. I use garbage loosely. It could be anything really, stuff you have that you don’t need and some things that you use that you don’t need.

I’m not a hoarder. Letting go of things isn’t a drag for me. Except things of a high sentimental value which are few and far in between. I needed space in my house, so I chucked out CDs, gave away books to the library and clothes to someone who’d know what to do with them. Easy.

But seriously, there are things I hold on to that I shouldn’t. They are not material but more emotional and mental. I hold on to emotional boundaries that maybe sometimes do more harm to me than good.

I don’t forget a lot of things. Especially not conversations. Mental garbage collection. As a sufferer of erratic sleeping patterns this is not good, nor is it healthy. There are some nights when I’ll wake up and think about something so and so said, then remember something else that person said a week before, a year before, a decade before. This can go on for minutes or hours. It might make sense of something or nothing.

I hold grudges. I’ve learnt to hide this weakness. But I do. I don’t confront people who’ve lied to me. I don’t have the time or the emotional capacity to deal with the added drama of confrontations. Mental Garbage. But I will remember that you lied about A, then two days later you lied about B, then I’ll remember when you talk to me like you’ve never lied to me that I can’t rely on anything you tell me because I can remember every lie you’ve ever told me and have believed that I believed you. And you can get me angry, and I’ll most probably lose my temper and you’ll pretend it didn’t happen and I’ll pretend it didn’t happen but I’ll remember until my memory starts dimming.

And yes, I pretend quite a bit. Mental garbage. And the thing is, people don’t know when I’m doing it. The moment when my smile isn’t quite genuine. Or when I simply don’t care what they are talking about.

I can deal with a lot of things. Like paying bills on time. Getting my hair done. Returning phone calls and being there for family and friends when they really need me. But one thing I’m really bad at is dealing with all the things that go on in my head. I suppose it’s time for a clean up. And this is easier said than done and who the hell needs the drama of listing all the things that are slowing you down and listing every little thing that crosses your mind when so and so phones you to ask you for a favour.

And the “how dared she phone when she knows that she…” thought.

I always say that forgiveness if a gift you give yourself. I have mentally forgiven but I’m not a forgetful person. So as I type this, I’m thinking. Maybe some mental spring clean is in order, then I think I have hardly had coffee today. After my coffee break I have to prepare for a review session then I have a report to type then…

A Review: The Thousand Autumns Of Jacob De Zoet by David Mitchell

I am weary of books written by much revered so-called literary writers. I am not much of a fan of these so-called literary books. I find them pretentious and overbearing and for a person who reads for entertainment value, this aspect in these books often falls by the wayside.

But I must admit being impressed by David Mitchell’s tale. He tells this story of a young Dutchman, Jacob De Zoet, a lowly clerk who leaves his home of Zeeland in 1799 for a Japanese trading post in search for wealth to prove his hopefully future father-in-law that he has the mettle to provide for his love Anna whom he wishes to marry.

This trading post of Dejima is racked with corruption which Jacob is enlisted to investigate and report to the zealous Chief resident who later becomes just as corrupt as the people he is investigating. Jacob is pushed on his quest for wealth all the while remember the solitary kiss treasured upon him by the beautiful and pious Anna…

That is until he meets Orito, who is a mid-wife and the daughter of a high ranking samurai. He harbours deep affection for Orito which is forbidden in Japan at that time. But even if he could have her, certain events transpire that ensure that he will never. You have to read the book.

This is a beautifully and skilfully told love story and maybe a bit, as a romantic sceptic, a story of life. If you’ve ever read a love story by a man you know how this story will end.

It is a great read for those weeks where you want to put aside your chic-lit and read something heavier but not leaden with intellectual analysis and point by point descriptions that sometimes do bog down a book.

It has humour at some places, it is sad at others. I love good love stories and this, even though it doesn’t end the way I wished it would, is an exceptionally told tale of a loosish love triangle.

My Sweet Romance

I am single and I like doing things to make myself, as the most important person in my life, feel valued. This are a few things I do to romance myself and to remind myself that there is no one else in the world I would rather be with:

• Drinking tea out of the bowl while the sun rises, and listening to the stillness of the morning on my balcony.

• Reading out loud to no one but me. It makes the book and the words come alive and I can imagine the character saying them and the texture, tone and the feel of the words.

• ·    Long walks around my neighbourhood. Letting my thoughts run through my mind. Letting myself daydream and having that convo with me that I’ve been putting off for weeks. Realising how much I take my car for granted.

• · Stretching on my living room floor or in front of the mirror.

We often wait for someone to take our breath away. To do something for us that will make us sigh, and often this is something we are too afraid to do on our own.

I think another freedom that democracy has brought me is the right to have a decent job and to do whatever I need to do without leaning on a man or asking permission from anyone to spend my money.

And hell, I have a right to fall in love with me every single second of every single day. I have the right to buy myself flowers and chocolates and to take myself out to  nice restaurants, the movies, ice skating just because I love me too much to wait for someone to offer. 

And You Thought You Hated Mondays...

4rm…is not a word. Four and rm reads fourm and not from. And please don’t send me a text that looks like this: I dOnT uNdEStAnd ThiS & It GiVeS mE a HoRrId HeAdAKe. pEoPlE Is AlReAdy A pLuRal 4 PeRson So WhY uSe PeOpLes?

You might like the sound of your own voice and seriously, I am happy for you. But I don’t want to sit here listening to you object to every suggestion made for the hell of it! Hell, if you know someone has just said what you’ve just said, why repeat it?

If all my answers are yes/no or no answer at all. I obviously don’t want to have this convo, so why you still talking?

In case you wondering, I do have the proverbial stick firmly lodged up my ass. It isn’t bothering me, so why are you worried?

And if I wanted to be a good person I would be wearing recycled cotton t-shirts printed with vegetable paint, I would recycle my junk, I would donate money to save the universe causes… And yes, WordWeb, some people omit more carbon emissions than others…I can’t ride a bicycle. I’ve never ridden a bicycle nor have I ever wanted to learn! Eat that!

And hell, just because I occasionally chat to you it doesn’t mean that you know me, so don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do to my hair-that’s why I pay my hairdresser for!

Oh while I’m on a roll, I can’t stand rudeness. You don’t have to be all sunshine, but saying hello to the chick on the other side of the till won’t kill you!

We all have problems. Deal with yours and don’t take out your stress on me! Hell, I don’t need to know how broke you are and how much school fees cost…

I’ll skip the paragraph with all my issues of people and their offspring…but if I’m on a plane and your six year old brat won’t stop crying…hell, I think you are a bad mother and yes, I am judging you!

And you might get away with changing your mind every ten seconds…but if I say no. I mean no. Don’t think you’ll call me on Thursday and I would have changed my mind.

And while I’m whinging… if you are forty and you still suffer from peer pressure…GROW UP!

Dear Mr President- It May be Almost Over, But I Hope You've Learnt...

I am glad the public sector strike is coming to an end.  However, I do not think that the government has listened to what the problems are. 

I am affected by this strike. My aunt who is very sick and cannot afford medical aid fell sick a couple of weeks ago and was turned away from Chris Hani Baragwanath twice because nurses were on strike. Her illness progressed until she couldn’t walk. The family had to gather money to take her to a specialist who then had to phone Baragwanath and insist that they admit her. Thank God she didn’t die.

I went to visit her on Saturday in hospital. I haven’t been to Baragwanath in more than five years and I was shocked that nothing has changed. They have not repainted, retiled, the machinery has not been updated. And if healthcare is a priority to government why is it then that this hospital that services one of the most congested regions in our country has not been properly maintained?

Imagine then, all you people who do not get why nurses who have to work twelve hour days six days a week in such environments are angry, that you are a nurse at Baragwanath and you are expected to work with malfunctioning machinery.

Why are teachers on strike? When last did you take a walk through a township school? We sit here pretending that we get it. We get the anger. We do not teach children who come to school hungry, we do not teach children who have HIV or are raped on a daily basis by a relative, we do not teach children who are raising their siblings, we do not teach in schools where there is no electricity and desks and chairs are either broken or in short supply.

Where children who attend schools in suburbs can afford to buy their own exercise books most of the children whose teachers are on strike only receive exercise books in March and have to share textbooks. Do you get the frustration of the mess that these public servants have to muddle through?

Add the fact that our elected officials squander money on luxuries while basic needs are not met. They cannot give teachers and nurses and other public servants increases yet they can afford to throw multimillion rand parties.

They cannot afford to upgrade schools without the help of private funds but they can afford to attend international conferences.

They cannot afford to fix hospitals and equip them properly yet they can afford to spend millions on pushing forward bills that will protect their corruption from being revealed.

I should be angry at nurses for going on strike and depriving my aunt of decent healthcare. Yet I know that even if nurses weren’t on strike, the hospital my aunt is in isn’t giving her the best healthcare because the hospital is derelict and unkempt.

I can only hope that government keeps its promise to give the poor proper healthcare and education because at the rate they are going, it will not be unruly public servants that they will be dealing with but the poor who are forced to use crumbling infrastructure.

And They Said It Was A Wedding To Remember...

I have been to some pretty amazing weddings. I mean, amazing! Some weddings are just what a wedding should be sometimes communal, sometimes intimate, but always about two people vowing before God and man to be one and to honour each other until they draw their last breaths. You feel honoured to be invited and you imagine that should you ever get married, you want your wedding to be like theirs!

And then there are the other kind of weddings. You know what I mean, you have been to one. The ones you wish your invite had gotten lost in the post or you had not wasted a perfectly good Saturday and attended. Here are my experiences of the most annoying, ill organised or bizarre wedding I have ever attended…

Power to the Hood

I’m not hating on township weddings, a cousin of mine got married in the heart of Soweto and it turned out pretty well, but then there was this wedding I went to…

It took place in a community hall. The bride had just turned nineteen and she wore a white wedding dress with a five meter trail.  I kid you not. In a dusty township. That was the beginning. Her bridesmaids wore electric pink satin like fabric dresses…the shine, oh, the shine. Her father, who walked her down the isle, had on a tie in the same fabric and the bridegroom was also in white!

There is no black wedding without istep! And God, did they choreograph it. They were getting down in perfect symmetry. It took the bridesmaids and the groomsmen twenty minutes to get to the end of the isle and the Mifikizolo track was repeated four times!  

And of course what is a wedding in the hood without the two hour photo session while your guests are starving waiting for the newly weds to return. I said guests? I mean the invited guests, and the guests invited by the guests and the guests invited by the guests who are invited by the invited guests.  And never enough chairs and tables to accommodate even the invited guests.

And then there is the convoy around the hood in borrowed BMWs where the hooters are going off like it’s going out of fashion. I said that people are still waiting for to be fed while all this is going on, right?

There is nothing like a hood wedding!

I went five star then ran out of money

The power of This is what I want versus this is what I can afford…this is often revealed in the tiniest of details. A lot of sensible people step back and they throw they best wedding they can afford while others will put up the façade and then…

I should have known when I had to drive through four kilometres of gravel that it wasn’t good. The wedding lodge had a postcard sized board announcing it’s existence. It was a beautiful brownstone building and we were ready for a good wedding.

Ten minutes before the wedding started we made our way to the gazebo by the river and patiently waited for the wedding couple.

First the Master of Ceremony announced that the groom was running late. It was funny for the fist half hour after a full hour I started worrying about the bride…she could be ditched at the alter. Then shortly after that the groom arrived. My ass was sore from sitting for an hour waiting for his tardy highness to decide he was ready to get married. Then we had to wait for the bride who showed up in a boat.

How horribly romantic. It would have been have we not have been kept waiting for two whole hours.  They were pronounced man and wife and it was announced that the guests had to carry their chairs to the marquee. 

Okay, first I need to describe the scenery. From the gazebo, where my ass was hurting after sitting for almost three hours waiting for the bridal couple, was a thirty degree steep climb up a hill to get to the marquee. An easy feat if I wasn’t wearing twelve centimetre stiletto heels and if the hill wasn’t grass, never mind me carrying a chair.

I was not about to climb a grassy hill in my stilettos carrying a chair!

If they wanted to go for full on pretension they should have either rented out more chairs or hired porters to carry the damned chairs!

You didn’t come here for the food, right?

People normally starve themselves before weddings hoping for a feast.

So imagine, you are invited to a wedding and you are already thinking about the chocolate dessert at the end of it all, and you sit through the bride walking down the isle with some chick who can’t sing singing Hillsong and assaulting your ears and you ignore it all and pretend that it is the most magnificent wedding you’ve ever attended. You sigh and clap at all the appropriate places and you just want the reception to come around just so you can have some food!

Ha! The reception is not really a reception but a little block of time set aside for the bride and groom to thank everyone for coming to their “big” day. Where is the food you ask?

Small little cucumber and cheese sandwiches, water and some grape juice?

You still hungry?