word initiate

iKasi lamaKasi: A Photographic History of Kliptown

2011-06-20T09:58:00.000-07:00

Should I just say it?

2010-11-29T00:46:00.000-08:00

There seem to be general rights speak that is spoken by men when they are questioning the privileges of masculinity. In particular around gender based violence. I have had the good luck/fortune to sit in the company of such men and they bring hope to my cynical heart. These men have found themselves at a point/moment/stage in their lives where they cannot ignore gender based inequalities. I would stick out my neck and say lesbian – feminism has a lot to do with this wake-up call.

In a time of commercialised lesbian politics where fear is clothed in the coolness of it, giving it, some shelf life in the mega store of identities. What can men with hearts and eyes do but try and engage with this supposed threat to the traditional, should I name it African Family. Even though it is expressed in a somewhat awkward manner, like an infant learning to walk, whilst hoping that their heads will not be bitten off in the process.

Such occasions give me the guts to talk my mind about this disease that we live with called lesbianism and its forcefully appropriated sister/mother/step-aunt, you choose, going by the name feminism. In such spaces I found myself free to name myself as part of the plague and totally deny it in the same breath. I can own up to the confusion of a space which has become so exclusive that it makes all other women except the self proclaimed lesbian-feminists want to run and hide behind their husbands, children, powerful jobs and even high heel shoes. We need some shine for those millions of women- feminists out there standing in the dark whilst the spot light is caught up with these women, should l say it, who believe that they can be men if they want to. Scandalous!

A short road trip

2010-10-19T07:07:00.000-07:00

In search of new horizons Pam and I took a bus from Johannesburg to Gaborone, Botswana for the 2nd edition of the SADC Poetry Festival. We landed a few days before because I have been wanted to visit the Bessie Head Museum in Serowe 315 km north of Gaborone. Since discovering that there is repository of her correspondence along with a recreation of her room somewhere in Botswana I’ve wanted to experience it for myself, especially to read the letters. I have convinced my friend Pam months before that this will be a trip of a life time, so in that spirit, off we went to the unknown.

We had an opportunity to present the project we started in June in Cape Town titled No Holy Cows which is, for a lack of a better way to describe this creative experiment, a poetic visual art performance meaning that it infuses these art forms in the simplest way, to avoid confusing ourselves and the public. Thus for us it was a case of hitting to bird with one stone.

Our journey started with a night in Gaborone and we met our host from the SADC Poetry Festival to discuss our contribution and generally introduce ourselves to each other. It was over a drink in a spot I assume was quite a popular drinking hole for the youthful in age and at heart. A very accommodating establishment so when they have to chase you out because they are closing they have the decency to provide take way cups for your drinks. They don’t lose their glasses and you as customers you take your drink with you.

The next morning we were lucky enough to get a lift for most of the 315 km to Serowe, up to Palapyne where we took a bus to the village of the rain wind as Bessie Head describes it and I will add a village that has grown to a small town.

Coming from Johannesburg you cannot miss the stillness in Serowe. The people seem to move quietly with an air of tranquillity hanging in the slow moving breeze and dust envelopes it all. We were immersed in a beige surreal reality. I kept asking myself whilst taking in the curious expressions in people faces and the empty shops and semi deserted street, can I live here, in this quietude which could be so suffocating?
We drank in the sunset and had a chat with a man who had sex in his mind the conversation never diverted far from where we staying, what we doing here and our general marital status and procreation abilities. I realise some things are so common and we connect in a very funny fashion.

We came in memory of Bessie Head we landed in a museum that housed both her memory and that of Kgosi Khama lll family history which tied to the history of Serowe. Bessie Head an outcast sharing a memorial space with the ‘father of the nation’ that is something to chew over. We didn’t get the chance to read as much of the content of the boxes and besides we didn’t have the permission from the government to go over such delicate research material, but it was worth the hours we spent in that surreal universe. We had a most gracious hostess with impeccable manners for visiting tourists.

When we arrive back in Gaborone to meet the rest of the poets and visual artists at the poetry festival I was nicely nourished with food for thought which I haven’t even began to decode its nutritional value.

for usisi Busi

2010-07-13T08:03:00.000-07:00

She was dust
spirit and water than
just elements of nature
in full spectrum

Things I will like to do

2008-09-19T13:52:00.001-07:00

Before they lay me down
In the ground
Grey and nude
Without much to say

Before they say to themselves
How peaceful she looks
She must have passed in her sleep

Before the tears of self pity
Are soaked by hankies and tissues

I will like to start tonight
By going outside
Kiss the sky
Tell the moon
I am home

Maybe, before that
I will stay indoors
In the dark
With a soothing balm over my eyes

You see…
I have welcomed
The sun without protection
Sucked its rays to feed all my pores
And right know
I am sunburnt

So, after the solitude
I am going outside
To kiss the sky
And tell the moon
Yes, I am home for a while

Until the day
I yearn for the dazzling light.

On this one day

2008-09-19T13:52:00.000-07:00

I thought Lulu’s husband was crazy, that day
When he called him
Asking him when his wife will be coming home

I read the conversation in her eyes

It was not that late, maybe just after midnight
We were drinking ...
Wine it was and smoking, unwinding
It had been quite a week

Him sitting at a table behind us
My back to him
Lulu sitting opposite me
Facing him, him facing her over my head

He was on the phone
I could hear the tension in his voice
Me facing Lulu
Lulu looking at him with a perplexed expression on her face
A cigarette in the air between her fingers

I saw the mental shake
She gave herself
As she flicked the ash to the floor
Gathering her wits about her
Focusing on the space between my eyes and her thoughts

This time, I really left him
While his head was turned down
Fishing for his ego in between his thighs
Pulling his elongation
To reach his knees
Flexing the muscle
Hoping it will reach-up and over
To pat his back
Cause his the man!

I had to go

Packed what was left

I was there for the music
That never stopped
While he danced in my eyes

All this time she is speaking
To herself, to me, to us
I was not sure
Who is him…

Things that make the skin itch - a two part monologue

2008-07-22T02:51:00.000-07:00

Giving up

They announced
Change took a detour
To council with an old friend
It was around tea time
He is detained

We know once old friends get-to-gather
The moss grows under feet
He might be rooted for millennia

The progressive movement can wait
Change has been around for ages
Its agile youthful feet
Use to act just in time
For a bygone revolutionary moment

These days
The heart might be in the right place
But change is delimited by age
Just, maybe its time for a new age

Giving In

I will not look you in the eye
The blank space next to your left ear
Holds much fascination
It does not affect my nervous system
Nor aim to initiate involuntary communication

Yes, I will look at the cityscape
Pass by on the right side of your ear
It rushes past like I do
It asks no questions
And I am not giving any answers

I will not take up any particular struggle
I was not born of my mother’s struggle dreams
But conceived in between idle chatter and shopping sprees
On Longmarket street

Indifferently numb I will not comment
Answer only when spoken too
There is nothing more than this

Precious

2008-06-15T14:54:00.000-07:00

We love these rules
These codes of conduct

More precious than the gold we don’t own

They maintain the currency
Long after the rule-maker has deserted for greener shores

They testify to our learning
Speak of our power

Us experts dripping with experience

We find that cash cow
Milk it to fatigue leaving it barren
For the slaughter house

We say we not brave enough
To put the dagger right between the eye
But nicely stab the heart with a smile

Us who know more than others.

ATTACK!

2008-04-29T07:25:00.000-07:00

It once took a gunshot to disturb the peace

Shield those eyes
Close the ears
Stay in silence.

They do not come with machine guns
Not anymore.

They say” poison the mind, where there are no witnesses, a clean murder”
We are on the verge of self-destruction
Pleasure junkies, selfish and sad.

ATTACK!

Shield those eyes
Close the ears
Stay in silence.

The streets are line with rubbish, churches, beer-halls …

They do not come with machine guns
Not anymore

The bread price is just beyond the poverty line
Starve the belly
Let them drink Castle
Its penance for the sins of their great-mothers and fore-fathers.

ATTACK!

Shield those eyes
Close the ears
Stay in silence

OOPS! Sorry
I did not see you down there
The streets are crowded
Why don’t you go home?

They do not come with machine guns
For us
Not anymore

We are free to sleep on door-ways, beg for our food, kiss the ass of the money machine.

For the girl-child at home

2008-01-22T04:45:00.000-08:00

You carry your truth
A key to rooms beyond walls
Built between then and now.

You see more than the masks
Of you’re everyday living
See land once travelled
We occupy the same space.
I do not know if you recognise this pre-sent moment.

I am searching for you in open spaces
Afraid to hide
Least life passes me by.

I wonder at times
If you are the manifestation of our dreams
Tried to pinch your thoughts
To confirm this reality
But your flesh is beyond touch

I retreat to familiar mental corners
Distance…

The girl-child
The one sometimes ignored for maturity
Screams in mute tones

Do something! say something!

We Belong to the Land

2007-10-31T06:16:00.000-07:00

It rained menstrual blood
The sky was shamefully beautiful

The soil lapped it up
Satisfying a thirst
Storms could not appease

Gods of the heavens
Might converse in loud voices
Vying for attention
Speaking to all but none

On that day
Moon rose below clouds of shame
Close to the trees
To witness the thirst of the soil
Pain hung on leaves
Like morning dew bittersweet.

Landing

2007-09-14T07:06:00.000-07:00

I have found solace in the arms of a friend
Confirmation in the movement of a city recreating itself
Through the spoken words and lived realities
Of a people who translate realness.

I am home in this labyrinth
Of thought, sights and sounds.
Beautiful moonlights
Communicate the commonalities

I have travelled worlds
In just a few kilometres
The journey began in my late youth

I feel immortal
In a place where memories live
I am among stars and human mirrors
Of a vision of a future never ending

I can be romantic in this surreal space
With feet on the ground
Even though at times
I am warned of the quicksand
Still I breathe more truth
Even though lies are a part of many’s existence.

Peace revolutionaries occupy high rising buildings
They are part of this world
Maybe with pro-action
They will legitimise
The rise of a new era

A house of cards
The delusional may prophecy
But we all must start somewhere to fulfil our dream

Liberation is a continuous struggle
Without any geo-borders
I am learning that fact with every interaction.

Truth soldiers are our conscious
Even the harden criminal is aware of this
They may speak in quiet tones
For some ears
But listeners pick-up the frequency
We are connected to the same radar.

DIS-respect

2007-08-08T03:34:00.000-07:00

Shinning on my shine
Stepping on my light
Sucking my energy
Poising my soul
Pissing on my head
DISING!

Speaking My Speak

2007-08-08T03:22:00.000-07:00

In a quest for self-expression, this urbanized woman-child’s words flow from the heart of a creator to a page. After years of adolescent confusions I have found the means to speak my story and that of those close to me through pen, paper and a mic on an open stage. This voice claims its Rightful place in history.

I have seen beauty in its natural form, experienced self-love from a sassy sexy stare glaring from a magazine page. I read the caption promising everlasting exotic looks - it makes me recall those ‘virgins’ and ‘maidens’ described by the South African tourism industry in terms of an ultimate African aesthetic. I have flipped through hundreds of women’s magazines in my lifetime in search of an image of ‘self’ I can relate to. I am familiar with True Love and the women in power suits of Tribute(1) magazine. I once thought that a full-length feature about women in Tribute was a victory for the women’s movement; I have since come to believe that the power suits and ‘essence of independence’ which characterize these pages are merely another ploy to appease the women activists and to maintain the status quo. I have thus lost faith in mainstream magazines, and begun searching for images and content, which add value to my life as I, in my black woman’s body, negotiate a constantly changing urban landscape.

It is commonly accepted that women consumers support the glossy page magazine industry more than their male counterparts. As women, we feel a constant need for approval thus relentlessly search for ways and means to please. These glossy pages provide instant solutions with make-up tips and readily available and agony aunt columns. Who can blame us? After all, we occupy a world that rewards and celebrates a particular image of ‘beauty’, those of us who fall outside of this definition experience the exclusion that sets us apart from our waif-like, perfectly toned, perfectly branded sisters. I personally do not understand the idea of selling unrealistic images of women to women; I understand even less, why it is that women consume them. I guess challenging women’s self-esteem is a tool the cunning business of advertising stakes their survival on.

I don’t only look for images though...

I page through the magazines as fast as I can, hoping to find at least a page and a half of creative writing. I am unable to accept the fact that creativity is only aimed at the hip-kwaito, Y-magazine culture - the so-called urban youth with bank balances larger then their ages. I look for guidance from my elders, women forerunners in this race to pen words to paper. I relentlessly search for clues on how they negotiated their realities as women artists in such an unfriendly terrain. I do not care about the sentimentalities of the wanna be famous wanna be rich who pore over these pages to catch-up on the latest style trends. I want to open a readily available True Love magazine and read a poem by a 30-something-year-old African woman; page through Drum magazine and find a review on a book by an African writer. I do not think it is unreasonable to expect to read a well-crafted piece of creative writing in Bona magazine. I want to experience these pleasures with the knowledge that every woman who is reading, will read the same words and be inspired by them. Creative writing after all, is one of the mediums artists use to document society so that we as members of society can have a mirror of ourselves through which to view our successes and failures.

The publishers can keep their saucy cover pages, if it makes them secure in their product. I understand that the representations of women on these covers do nothing to challenge existing stereotypes, but reinforce them, reproducing dominant and destructive ideas about what our bodies ‘should’ look like, and that these images sell magazines. I cry, at the very least for substance between the glossy covers - written words that shed some light on the issues that we women face today. It is not as if South Africa is starved of skilled writers. What is the point of having creative work piling up at your desk, gathering dust while newsstands are overflowing with thousands of substance-less pages?
If you can imagine a place where women and men can be heard / A place where creative license belongs to everyone / Believe that social change and art are the harmony /
Driving us to be masters of our own destinies / The reason for our thirst for life / Giving us power / The soul inspiration of our mission / Guiding force of our vision / If you relentlessly search for a well spring of creativity / In the hum-drum of urban Africa / Then you are a visionary.

Apart from mainstream publications, if you read the academically acclaimed or independently published magazines and journals, the same acclaimed writers fill the pages with their (though well-crafted) inaccessible work over and over again. The gate keeping at play in commercial publications, merely has a different guise... When I read such, I am more convinced that publishing houses need to take a leap of faith and publish new voices - even if they do not have an academic verification, or long publication record as proof of their talent.

Talent is not confined to institutions of higher learning - especially in a country where the price of education is out of reach for large numbers. There are many writers in this country who have tapped into varied and diverse sources and knowledge’s, and produced sterling work (example?). These writers have their pulse on urban current issues; their writing is of relevance to a dynamic and changing South Africa. This is the kind of content that should be taking space in our printed pages – this is substance! As South Africans we should be realistically documenting our stories, not only to inform each other about our diversity, but also to record our own histories. The talented Drum magazine writers of the ’50s took social issues and crafted them in accessible and creative ways, a consequence of which was a South African public that was aware of social and political issues which informed their everyday lives. These days as we struggle to find an identity in a changing society, we could certainly benefit from a few cutting-edge, socially relevant information sources styled upon the publications of the 50’s. From where I stand, publishers are comfortable with the tried and tested copy they churn out, as the capitalist bosses are a conservative bunch. Driven by capital, they are not ready to take a leap of faith, not ready to trust the new voices and play it by ear so to speak.

So what options are there for publishing, especially for the so-called self-indulgent art of poetry? How do we find ways to subvert our exclusion from the mainstream?

Finding ways to ‘get our work out there’ has resulted in a shift from the printed page onto the stage alongside ‘musos’ and other performers. Young women poets, including myself, have donned a sassy attitude and taken to the stage to share our stories through poetry. The ‘spoken word’ is the term that has been given to this movement to revive oral poetry and take poetry back to the people whose stories inspires poets in the first place. The proponents of the spoken word movement have emphasized its roots being deeply embedded in African oral traditional performance and storytelling. Spoken word artists are reviving this tradition in a style and language that is understood by South Africa’s urban youth across the colour and class lines in some instances, which is a step in the right direction. In this post-apartheid era, we need platforms through which to addresses current issues in ways that are sensitive to our rich and diverse histories. We need to embrace the Sankofa(2) philosophy of looking back into our pre-colonial past in order to move forward to an African centered future.

On the flipside of this otherwise positive development, I am concerned by the shift in focus from writing and reading to rapping, the overemphasis on entertainment (without a responsibility to education) and the cattle parade sidekick that accompanies it. On that stage, on some days it feels like I’m part of a beauty pageant. While my purpose for being there may be to educate through entertainment (edutainment), I find that inevitably, the focus shifts from the words to the outfit and bum size. I have a sense that sisters on that stage gain credibility by focusing on issues defined by men as worthy of attention. But when they chant and rap about the issues affecting women and represent men in a negative light, they are not taken seriously. The applause is ‘hectic’ for attitude not for substance - it becomes about what you look like rather than your message. Ironic when one considers that the ‘spoken word’ has been a way to subvert mainstream practice...On such days the spoken word stage and those glossy magazines seem to be evil twin sisters.

From where I’m standing, the options for a self-respecting woman poet seem to be decreasing. The established publishing houses are hesitant to publishing a couple of pages of poetry as they keep their eye on the profit margin. They’d rather publish anthologies and the work of the same established poets, who have been in this game for years. Unfortunately, even when some brave publisher does publish a new voice; chances are it will be a male voice. These things make me wonder if the spirit of equality of opportunity and access that is so often bandied about, is merely lip service by policy-makers, or if some people are playing deaf.

Given these obstacles, the option of publishing your own work is very attractive - if you have the finances and contacts to unrepentantly distribute your own work that is. For me though, the need to give future generations of women writers a record of these times in which we occupy our ever-changing urban landscape, in our own words is motivation enough.

note: this piece has appeared in AGENDA-feminst journal and www.kush.co.za

Procession to Godmother courageous

2007-07-31T03:39:00.000-07:00

I have contemplated this notion of freedom for a good many years now but I am yet to pin it down. Some anarchist yelled from my stereo in a beautiful, scratchy voice that freedom is when you have nothing more to lose. I can get used to a "not giving a damn" attitude. It is appealing, especially if you do not have any fortune to speak of. It reminds me of this girlfriend of mine from back home, Kwazi: she gives off this tough sista attitude of a loud voice and ready-made insults for every stupidity you can think of. Especially if some silly men try to throw a word or two, she really becomes a loudmouth bitch. She is the kind of girl most people respect even though they will not admit to it because she is amazingly talented and she knows it. There is a sort of innocence and sincerity about her deeds even if they are dangerous; I guess she has learned that her tongue can get her out of any situation. Kwazi can travel from Jozi to Kapa with R5 in her pocket and a toothbrush and she will have a fabulous time and make more friends. She exudes charm - a born entertainer and manipulator. She is the bitch I wanted to be. In my mind she always seems to be the epitome of freedom. Freedom to be wild, brave to take risks and still have a humility that welcomes you with open arms.

She reinforced my wish to give up the fight. This constant battle to be righteous. The Christian virtue to treat others as you like to be treated and to do as I please with very little regard for the next person. To take and take and take some more. I know people who live like that and they are not any more miserable than the next person; in fact, some seem to have more joy than the average South African.

This talk of religion still makes me consider this spiritual path to goodness I have based my existence on. "Is truth freedom?" I once asked this brother who seemed to have it together. How men are self-appointed prophets? Even the humble ones will preach to any captive audience, even if it is down to a minority of one, the faithful girlfriend. He mumbled something unintelligible about wisdom and men being the chosen leaders.

I have since discovered from the gurus of this world that a virtuous woman is basically obedient while intelligent, beautiful and independent. In my short life experience I have since realised that such a woman only exists in Father Christmas's wish list, not in the streets nor a home.

I am thinking now that I should spend my energies in overcoming fears, facing my ghosts in the mirror so to speak. My life story should be about loving the girlchild within, facing the insecurities, accepting their source, exorcising the demons that chain you to the physical spaces you live in.

If I have to face the ugliness of these ghosts, the colour of their stench and smell, the familiar fears that you bury deep in your psyche in shame … As I sit and contemplate the work and the potential pain, procrastination sets in and I have to ask the self that is so reckless: "What are you up to? Do you aim to play games with my sanity for the sake of your amusement?" I still hope to have the chance to sit down with each of my ghosts to a conversation about faith and power.

These thoughts takes me back to a time when the religion I was brought up in was not fulfilling all the spaces of my spirituality, when it was not bringing me closer to community but highlighting the contradictions of the lives we live. My family instilled those values in us because that is their understanding of bringing children up to be balanced, valuable members of their communities. Community, I learnt during my church-going days, means social gatherings under the pretext of spirituality. A space where you can define your social class. It was a perpetuation of the class system which is based on Western hierarchal values. It was manifested by the seating arrangements at our church. The wealthy sat in front, nearest to the pulpit and god's glory, and the masses of ordinary people in our poverty-stricken communities filled up the rest of the church while they're aspiring firstly to be counted amongst the wealthy and thus hopefully to experience god's bountiful mercy. If not in this lifetime than in the next one. Definitely.

Mentally switching back to the task at hand, I read the notes I have in front of me. After all this is my reality, and work needs to be done …

"I guess if one should academically analyse the predicament of being uMulti one can say it is social class systems which inform lifestyles. The one that is usually perceived by outsiders to be this clique and the fantasy/reality, which is lived by the ones who qualify to be members of this group. The clinical definition of Multi, one can say, are the black children who attend white-dominated school and those who grew up in exile where their lifestyles and education were largely Eurocentric.

"This phenomenon is a class issue in the sense that those who are multi usually perceive themselves at a higher civilised level, which means having Eurocentric mannerisms and having mastered the English language; they are usually treated with hostility by those blacks who do not qualify to be omalti. The education system in South Africa created this predicament and it is up to it to solve it. It has been largely perceived that to qualify to be part of this grouping one has to be wealthy but in fact it's early educational background which is the determinant."

That is the start of the paper I am going to present to my sociology class and I am struggling to find source material because no academic as taken the time to study the social issues facing our communities today. I guess with the promotion of indigenous knowledge systems to supplement our lacking knowledge about our South African society I have to chat to a lot of multis and their families, as it is our oral tradition, after all.

There is a knock on my door. Lulama shows her head around the door like she is hanging on it. "So, Ngane, coming out for drinks?" I look at my notes and when I look up she is already shouting from down the hall, "Hurry up, our lift is on the way!"

I shout back, "I did not say I was coming!"

The reply I got reminded me that she knows me too well. "Put on something sexy. A woman never knowss where the night might take her," she reminds me with a mischievous laugh in her voice. "Sine transport mngane!" she screams, I guess from her room. I was not getting anywhere fast with this paper and I needed to go out and unwind. The fact that we have transport which obviously comes with spending money, I would be a foolish child not to enjoy a financially free night out; those do not come around as often as they used to. The older you get the fussier you become. I know for a fact that tonight has no strings or danger issues attached. Lulama and I have decided that if it is not safe it is not worth it - a nice guy who wants to spend his money on us has to be a gentleman or else he must go chase after some eighteen-year-old who does not know better. We have played this game long enough, so know what's what.

So I put on my blue low-cut jeans and a top which has been confirmed sexy by the fashionists in my life, namely Lulama and my sisters, and I can not decided whether to dress the outfit down with takkies or up with stilettos, so I shout at Lulama, "Ngane, who is this person we going with?"

"Wait, I am coming there." She walks into my room in her white low-cut dress. I knew it was stilettos before I repeated the question. She perches herself on my desk while gaaning on about the leather interior of a Volvo. The minute I interrupt her with, "Wait a minute, how old is this person?" she reassures me that he is in his 30s and does not have a beer belly. I guess that's a relief - we will all be comfortable at the same spots. The rest of the biography I did not hear while I was fastening the shoes I hardly wear, the buckle has such tiny holes. So I look up at her. "Ngane, please go do your face and your hair; you know after I am finished with these shoes I'm done." So she rushes out of my room as I shout after her, "I do not want to entertain him while you fix your hair or something, okay!"

She shouts back, "I will not be long." As I apply my lipstick I see a reflection of my notes and I ask myself, why do I have to make my life so difficult, why didn't I choose something that someone has already studied in America or something? There will definitely be plenty of sources.

I quickly squashed that thought - after all, tonight is about fun not work. I did not finish my thought before the buzzer announced our night of fun.

Driving at night always make me nostalgic, so tonight for some reason I could not help thinking back to when I first moved away from my parents' home and all my family to this city. To finally have a place of my own and new beginnings.

"I seemed to be facing rooftops of buildings in this city those days. Taking in the landscape shifting between the ground and the sky. The trick of the games in this confinement: I workshop myself with every interaction taking in a difficult facet of myself, sometimes holding in the madness to contain a sense of sanity out of fear of been judged. The critic of my desires is a mental image of myself. I still avoid mirrors out of fear of the reflection, so I try to see myself through the eyes of another's subjective view since I have long stopped in believing in objectivity. I aim to swim in their gaze but I sink to their judgement. I torture my soul with misconceived/preconceived notions of what I should be forgetting to accept who I am. I am judge, jury and prosecutor of my actions. Breathing out is not as simple as breathing in. It is the art and skill of meditation. It is the challenge over oneself. It is in the wild and wide brush strokes of artists, in the timbre of a musician's horn. It is also in the language of aggression and frustration, but I can still chase rainbows riding on the back side of the wind. I fight in my mental spaces for a place under the shadows of the sun, pushing and shoving and occasionally pausing for a breather in all this empty chaos. I am in the gut of machinery with windows only for ventilation enough to keep me alive in order to fulfil another's ambitions. Space and air are luxuries for the mental ghetto; you laugh at yourself not with yourself. I know the textures of the ghetto. I can see them with my third eye, the one that never fails to look at the inside and is also constantly roving on the outside. Tranquility is the aloneness of your ghetto. Life is a ghetto when it leads to confinement. It is childishness playing dress-up. I vowed since to take mental pictures of ghettos, fine-tune their songs and trace their origins so I can relate to them. When I look at my fears I think of failure and its reputations. The idea of been stuck at one point without direction. As I finish that thought my mind channels me immediately to means of escaping the process not the situation, thus it is easy to jump from one ghetto to another constantly roaming back and forth between dead end streets. I guess a ghetto mind is always seeking pleasure aimlessly. It never arrives at a destination because of the distractions that a low self-image poses. The road is paved with mirrors reflecting temptation for unfulfilling pleasures. It gets to a numb state of mind. When I visualise the ghetto, cluttered images are at the forefront. The trick is to sift through the clutter to see the complexities of shapes, objects and philosophies that inform the ghetto.

"It is the fleshy parts of a woman's inner thigh, the rolls and folds around her midriff. It is never far from the complexities of her smiles, which change, with an expression of a particular emotion. It is the smell of sweat and sex that cling in the air reminding one of pleasure and labour. It is never in simple lines. It is the convolutions of a simple lifestyle. It is acceptance of the silences amongst the screams. It pollinates like the smoke from a relighted cigarette. You move with it into sterile corners of your psyche. In the momentum you touch fire, igniting an old wound, healing mediocrity. You learn early the anxieties of skeletons in closets, you face demands that prey on innocence. The walls are paper thin, secrets are communal gossip.

"It is the whirlpool of our shame like hiding behind your thumb. I never did understand why people who live in glass houses dared to throw stones. We used to distinguish contours of our lives. They are as common as a whore's pubic hairs. Our shame yet our reality. It makes one realise that sometimes sex has nothing to do with love, makes you think maybe love is one of those tall tales that adults use to discipline their children. I guess when life bites you in the face you forget romance and lose your innocence forever.

"I ask myself why do men idolise innocence and naivety in women when they are disgusted by the same characteristics in themselves. Relationships between men and women are a riddle of gender politics. I guess sometimes you play into the stereotypes to understand the workings of certain minds, you play a role to gain acceptance in order to appear unthreatening. I am not sure whether to call that a strength or a weakness. I think it works in a similar fashion to prostitution. It's a question of who is exploiting who. Some argue that it is mutually beneficial, money for services rendered. I wonder if it is that simple. Old-school feminists argue that it is an exploitation of women's bodies, thus affecting the female psyche, perpetuating power stereotypes. Thus subjugating women to abuse from men. Maybe that might be the case, but such thinking decomposes a woman, undermining her intelligence. For the oldest profession in the history of womanhood it is a rather limited point of view."

I woke up around noon the next day, thirsty like I have not had a drop of water for at least a week, with a song from the night before still chooning in my head, and I did not see Lulama until I woke her up for supper.

My flatmate Lulama and I have the most visibly unlikely connection. I guess what makes us soul sisters is our search for this elusive freedom to define our identities. In everyday living it is easy to miss the essential ingredients of being human. The tricky survival tactic of embracing the contradictions, finding the wholesomeness in them. Our soul bond was cemented on the day she told me a story I will take to my grave if need be or shout in the streets for all to witness if it has to be.

"It was a day not so different from this one, neither too cold nor too hot," her story began. "I am in the bedroom packing a bag with the essentials for a woman who will be away from home for a weekend, thus the bulk of my belongings in that black patent leather bag were my toiletries. The only difference between myself and the ordinary woman who packs an overnight bag to visit her man for the weekend is that this was mid-morning on a Tuesday.

"The weak mid-morning light cast a line from the bedroom window to the neatly-made bed where my bag sat open as I moved around the room trying to figure out what I am forgetting. I paused by the window hesitating, then I decided to leave the curtains not drawn. It is funny that on most days such a thought does not cross my mind. The complex is fairly safe: everyone who is not a resident signs in and out at the gate. I zip up my bag, cast a last look around the room before I head for the door past the lounge out the front door, down the stairs to the courtyard path leading to the gate.

"As I walked towards the taxi rank the street I have lived in for the past three years was almost deserted as the children were at school and the workers at work and those who stayed home were busy with morning chores. When I turned right on to the main road I was greeted with the buzz of traffic from vehicles and people trading. If it was another working day, I might be going to class or my part-time job. I did not mind the flexible hours if the pay was not peanuts. I have never been caught in queues, I started working between 11 am and 6 pm and I cover errands in town before I need to clock in.

"On this day the badly paying job, school and traffic were minor thoughts. There was a bigger situation to face. Once it was all done I could move on with my life. I just needed to get through today. I kept reminding myself that I hardly remembered the taxi ride and the walk to the clinic.

"The first person I talked to that day was the receptionist at the clinic. I reminded myself to speak clearly so that I did not have to repeat the most humiliating words I have ever said: 'I have an appointment for an abortion.' The woman, who looked about my age, just said with no judgement or kindness, 'Take a seat and fill out the form; the doctor will be with you in a moment and that will be R800.' Half an hour later I repeated the words to the doctor, less self-consciously, and three hours later I was back at home and no one was the wiser."

After she'd finished the only thing I could say was, "Why pack an overnight bag?" She answered in her usual mischievous self, "Mngani, you never know where you might spend a night."

bread and buttered

2007-07-31T03:32:00.000-07:00

They have cast a shadow over our dead
Like fools
We are sent to fetch the moon from still waters.

I feed these words to your heart
to be swallowed whole.

I pledge my womanhood
At the alter of our rebirth
Hoping tangible time-change
Will not let these words ferment.

We have once
Delimited our convictions
Alienated our defences
Lived with dust
Worked in dust
Ate dust
Dusted ourselves.

blues

2007-07-31T03:29:00.000-07:00

We come from more tranquil times
When blue went deep
Deeper than a horn vibrating up and down a vertebrae
Of any red blooded creature

We come from more textured times
When blue
Had hues of avocado
Indigo, clarity

We have grown from grey matter
Bones and skin
Yet no more in touch
Than the ants claiming territory on my kitchen sink
They overstand solidarity, for food and land
They do not ask your permission
They claim what is due to their survival

Reminding us
That we come form more tranquil times
When mine was ours
When blue was the life source
Bringing clarity
As deep as a horn’s vibration

Born Free

2007-07-31T02:16:00.000-07:00

Diffused in a cultural hybrid
The struggle has shifted to the cultural frontier
What to do?
Purity or self-education for integration?

I make excuses for my lack of perfection
Wear our preconceived
Thus misconceived multiculturalism
Like a stigma that it is.

Stones have been thrown at the pioneers
The icebreakers
The new breed
Who are said to be born free.
Incubator children
Struggling to let out a breath
Least they betray
Speak of the next chapter
In times of timid mediocrities

Whilst we chase rainbows
In times of drought
These so called protected beings
Groomed for only success
Even though failure is part of growth.
They are said to be born free
With the burden of a history
Misinterpreted thus misunderstood.

The future tellers
Bearers of histories to come
Chosen to be mediators
Always in transit
Cursed to be traitors or masters
Depending on the sympathisers.