A Note for my Unborn Daughter...

---Learn so that you may teach. Gather in knowledge and in spirit so that they learn from you. Unite in the name of Ubuntu so that we may generate seeds that will grow and build Afrika. Live so that you may say to your children and their children....ours was tough but it also was the last. Go to battle now so that we become the trees that fought to breathe amongst the evils of the weeds and in so doing our concrete flowers will only reap peace---

Maybe it’s an inherent trait of my kind or maybe it’s the maternal instincts as they kick down the insights of our wombs. Or is it just the latest trend, it could be that we're impatient and hurried for the germination of our seeds. Is it because our own have started to bear theirs? Are the ticks to the clock getting too loud? Are these the prime years in which we find ourselves longing for the companionship of those we wholly create? I don't really care, I don't wish to know what is that has pushed me to this letter, my only desire is to write this to her, to let my unborn know life, to teach my daughter about her people and the sacrifices of her ancestors.

Dear Daughter,

I need you healthy, I need you brave, I need you free from fear and free in thought. Dear child, I want you tough, I want you daring and expressive of whatever dissatisfaction you will inevitably have to deal with. Beautiful child of Afrikan soils, I need you warm, I want you happy, I wish for you undiluted freedom. Child of my womb, before you escape this safe haven that is my body, you must understand what you have gotten yourself into, Inkoskazi ya se Azania, intwana yase khaya lam', you need to find your place as a global citizen, know and take pride in your heritage, as an Afrikan woman. Setloholo-hali sa Moshoeshoe, trace your roots and know about your great grandfather and his great grandfather. Smile child, for you have now blessed this place with your presence, this land is only too happy to see you struggle, toil endlessly for the empty promises it has made to us and to our parents of equality and iniquity, which remain a mystery to us.

Child, I beam at your existence, I am in awe of the miracle that you are but I am also scared for you. I am scared that you will never find your beat and baby I am scared that just like your mother you will fear the unknown. Be nothing like me, be everything you are meant to be, a conqueror, a heroine, a student to the revolution and an active member of your community. Child I want you carrying the pains of your people boldly on your shoulders, I want you to speak when your moved to do so...this is the third world my baby, you will come across situations that will disturb your heart, you will witness living conditions that no human-being should be subjected to, your heart will hurt and your tears will flow.

I expect too much from you but don't let that distract you, live for yourself but more importantly, for your people, be one with them, share your all with them. Be an ambassador for ubuntu, oneness. Dedicate your time to teaching them, immerse yourself in Afrikan literature and gather knowledge from all walks of life. Child, I want you nothing like me. Be enlightened, know your worth and know who you are...find your pace and stand firm on the ground, be confident in yourself, never self-conceited or too knowing of anything. You can never know enough.

Rise, on the premise that you are a beautiful blaque rose, gradually growing from concrete, prove the laws of nature wrong, never conform to popular believes, challenge the status quo, ask when you don't understand, regardless of the seeming stupidity of your question. Child, I want you curious like your father, embed his passion, inherit his charm, be like him and be your own, be welcoming of everyone, love them all but be your own best friend.

I can't wait to meet you, get better acquainted, be your friend, your mother, a confidante. Ingane ya gaz'lam, be a free spirit, when they say right, you go left, I want you free in thought, unbound and unconventional, unchained from political and religious doctrines, be free in spirit, follow your heart and never second guess your intuition. It’s always right.

Khosatsana ya ntlo kholo, lehakoe la pelo ea 'm'e oa lona, stand with giants and let them guide you. Find those that speak your language, your mother tongue, your native vernac and share your vision for the future of Afriqa. Be ambitious, be the dreamer that your mother is and believe in yourself.

Binti wa tumbo langu, yes I am scared for you, I know of the trials of being a black woman in a world rife with patriarchy and the subliminal racism that you will be a victim of. These are the residues of apartheid, a system that repressed many of your people. I know you won't have it easy, the curse of being double oppressed, that you have unfortunately inherited through being birthed in a continent filled with a history ripe with racial and economical disparities. I hope you make this your weapon, let this tragedy be your triumph as you aim your chainsaw at those that wish to imprison your mind, or your being.

Be free child, you can fly if you wish, if they say you can't, tell them I said you can. As you stride the earth on your quest, as you tread amongst nations and preach on your peoples behalf, as you climb the Maluti Mountains, in search of peace from the silence of the valleys of your mothers’ homeland, know that I love you deeply and I love you always.

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

 

Stella Needs a New Groove!

---Too many of us are hung up on what we don't have, can't have, or won't ever have. We spend too much energy being down, when we could use that same energy -- if not less of it -- doing, or at least trying to do, some of the things we really want to do" ---Terry McMillan

Stella getting her groove back...

For the most part I'm happy. As I've alluded to in previous posts, I am at a good place with my life yet lately I've had to go back to my earlier proclamation and thoroughly examine its sincerity. Am I really content with the spaces that the universe has tossed me in or do I announce that I am, with the hopes of shadowing the delicacy of these petals that I claim have grown in strength? This state of so called mental liberation that I preach to self and others, does it really serve anything greater than the brief periods of self satisfaction that lead me to believe that I have done my part for humanity? Do these notes and rambles, written with expectations that they might lift a heavy heart out of misery heal me or do they heal a nation? Does this count as me actively getting up and boldly declaring that I wish to become a martyr for my people? Do I walk the talk of a true revolutionary as well as I write it on these pages? Do I even know the duties of a true comrade or am I taken aback by the glorified tales of our struggle heroes.

Audience of mine, Stella might seem like she's in tune with the timeless melodies of the revolution, she might bop her head and stomp her feet from time to time, give the impression that she can break it down on the dance floor of black-consciousness advocacy, anti-capitalism, pro pan-Afrikanism, the liberalist and socialist movements but can Stella even bust a lyric that might guide and bring you in tune with what the real revolution in essence is about. Does Stella even know what a revolution sounds like? Can she identify the beat to the struggle?

Last night, at a wonderful dinner with class mates, was the usual long table conversations and chit chats. Now, these people have demonstrated an intellectual grasp of some of the most pressing issues of South Africa, of ubuntuism, of what real democracy entails and of what the political landscape of this country is in need of. Yet last night, between wine sips and pasta servings was a continuous rant. A black rant.

Last night we dined and whined so much about our blackness that our white counterparts went out for a suspiciously lengthy smoking break. We talked about the successes of personalities such as Tiger Woods, Oprah Winfrey, Will Smith and Beyonce and to a lesser extent, those of Morris Chestnut, Vivica Fox and....well "black" entertainers as they so put it.

The argument that one of them made is that to be successful as a black folk, one has to let go of their "blackness" to find themselves appealing to a more affluent audience which naturally is the audience that holds the decision making powers as far as ones success goes. In my simple interpretation, the only alarms that were going off from this black, angry outburst was that white supremacy still rules and consequently still pulls the decision making reigns in all aspects that concern our well being as a black people- a truth that despite my being aware of, still causes great discomfort at the conscious realization of the world order as it currently is.

Now, I don't know much about how far back this world order goes. Though I would like to think that probably every continent has taken part in its practices, whether through apartheid, imperialism and other systems of oppression in Africa or the racial segregation of the 60's in the United States, oppression of the black people has been a prevailing force since the days of Jim Crow and continues to leave emotional scars that refuse to heal to this day. Scars that are still puss-filled with the pretense that black people are finally emancipated. Yes, we are free from the physical chains but the shackles that they so persuasively tie to our minds are far more dangerous and can only cause the ultimate collapse to the progression of our people. The advent of true acknowledgement that the jim crow laws still exist however concealed to the confines of our slave mentalities will be the start of our revolution.

My believe is that a true revolutionary stays true to self and his people. A true revolutionary is not bothered by street or party politics, he is too preoccupied with the real slave masters, the capitalists that still have mama Afrika at the whelm of their greedy pursuits. True revolutionaries will shine a light by educating and enlightening their people and attempting to unchain western influences. A true revolutionary will make it a point to let their people know of their blessings because it is only when one awakens to their blessings that they can only ever be free from the clutches of imperfection.

We can't break down the walls of oppression, capitalism or exploitation when we don't even know how they affect us at an individual level. Only when we know of our position in the fight will we then willingly give it all we can.

This Stella is somewhere mid air, half stepping to the influx of western ideologies. But this Stella has stopped dancing to the rhythms of illusions of freedom, is in search of a new melody, one that will see her tapping out of this shell and into her own...This Stella is creating her own harmony for her and her people to groove to.

 

"The state has not failed to protect us from our enemy, the state IS our enemey...."

 

 

 

Until next post,

 

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

 

When Lauryn Hill leaves...

---“I pray for the people who don't understand me. And I tell you, be honest with you, I pray more now to be understood. No, excuse me, to understand then to be understood. I pray now to learn how to love and to be loved, because God has given me abundance …. these people don't understand me, they think I'm crazy …I pray I understand them so I can talk to them"--- Lauryn Hill

I love Miss Hill. Hasn't always been that way though, I will admit that at some point I thought this woman had reached the deepest ends of crazy, the kind that could not be saved, not by Jesus, Allah, the Bhudda, nobody. But then I crossed over to that side and I finally understood Lauryn for whom and all she really is and what she represents. I took time out to study this lyrical buff and I came back with nothing but respect and the highest level of appreciation for her. Say what you may, call her what you will, fact is...Lauryn Hill is god and try you can, but not anybody is getting her down from the pinnacle grounds she soars at.

Alright, let me take it back a bit and bring in some perspective. I'm thumping down the street, minding my own when out of my phone (which is a reliable source of music in the outdoors) and into my ear canal pops Talib Kweli talking about...

"Ms. Hill got skills, that's a gift, it's real
get ill, What you spit got the power to uplift a hill

I wish I could talk to Lauryn
I mean excuse me, Ms. Hill
and let her know how much we love her its real
the industry was beating her up
then those demons started eating her up
...

her songs still better than anything out
that "Hot" or "Power" play
remember how they accused her of saying
she did her album without help
then she went to Rome to sing
and tell the Pope about himself"



And just like that Kweli's summed it up. His gone and extracted a piece of my brain and out of it captured my emotion and articulated it into one neat verse. This is what Lauryn does for me through her music; uplifts, inspires, encourages, teaches and strengthens all facets of my being. And what is the thanks that this overflowing fountain of talent has gotten from an industry that should only be so flattered that she has once blessed it with her presence? While you figure that out, I'll go on.

Kweli now on the second verse of the glorification of Lauryn Hill has got me thinking....what happens when Lauryn leaves? Not the acknowledged kind that she has already decided on but what is going to happen when we lose Lauryn? Not the industry but the world. This is my thinking, it is the way of my uninhibited thoughts and I ask that you excuse them; they can't help but think of reality and the consequences of its occurrences.

I'm reminded of Kanye West's wish of Lauryn’s heart still being in rhyming because "who are the kids going to listen to if it isn't her"...truth is Kanye, the kids still aren’t going to listen to Lauryn regardless. What, with an industry single handedly saturated by Nicki Minaj and the occasional support of a self destructed Rihanna, I don't see where Miss Hill could fit in, in this setup.

But on the real though? My own question hit me hard, I took myself back to the year Aaliyah died, the tears that flowed, naturally we weep for our icons soon as the become fallen soldiers. Still I can't begin to fathom the state of my mind on the day Lauryn gets back home. Its not a day I look forward to, its one that I am almost certain is no where near our grapples because this earth goddess still has so much knowledge she needs to unwrap and disseminate to young minds across the world.

I suggest we listen now while she still has her chance to speak. Give back your roses by appreciating this teacher of inter-nations when she is still here.

 

 

Until next post,

 

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution....

Generation Y Diagnosis

---Now that the struggle is supposedly over. What are we gonna do? Do we roll in beds of comfort or do we peek between the curtains that cloud our vision?---

I am feeling guilty right now. Not for any particular reason, I have not engaged in any tomfoolery in recent days as far as memory serves me. I am just feeling guilty, for all of life, for all of humankind and for all the youth that belong to my generation. I am sitting here feeling guilty for the choices we make and I am also feeling guilty for feeling guilty. A triple layer of guilt, someone snap me out of it.

Today I am tired. No, scratch that, today I am exhausted, housewife kind of beat, the last push when in labor type of worn out. My blood is fatigued, my mind is drained and my body has chucked the deuces up on all of it. Like one friend of mine would put it- "I am tired like bitch"...I would not have ever bothered to know what exactly this phrase means but today I am curious to find out, it sounds so apt for the way I am feeling.

Okay. I go on about being worn out like I just crawled out of war and am deserving of all the gold medals of the world when the truth really is that I brought this upon myself. My big headed self happens to think I am immortal, an eleventh wonder of sorts and for that reason I am constantly under the impression that I am immune to certain things- like the flu. Last week I found myself stuck in cold and angry drops of rain, instead of making a plan to duck out as quickly as I could, the Chuck Norris in me decided to make the best of this uncomfortable situation. I played with those heavenly showers, kicked puddles, and caught droplets in my mouth as I giggled away at my juvenile behavior. I will not lie, I had my fun.

However, even fun must come at a cost. Being a self-perceived wonder of the world has taken its toll on me. I feel nothing close to admirable, infact, the only wonder right now is where in the world was my mind when I decided to befriend the rain. I am frozen and that rain from last week is probably having the last laugh asking who I thought I was. I will hold nothing against it though, it was just answering to the call of nature and I just happened to think I could join in on that conversation.

I know better now, than to interrupt nature by thinking I can have a little fun at her expense. My ice cold self knows a lot more than it did last week about naively assuming that 'a little rain aint gonna hurt nobody'. Now we know a little rain can hurt anybody, even those that think they are like superman, probably even superman himself. Although I bet his always been smart enough to stay out of the rain.

I'm rambling. Sorry. Its not even the cute form that will have you get out of here having learned or thought of something differently. Nope...I'm fresh out of those today, all I have is this icy ramble that’s been stagnant from the get-go. Even my brain has gone into freeze mode and deserted me and my sniffles.

My case of a miniature cold has sparked some light though. Here it is....my symptoms read as follows; lethargic, lack of vision, teary eyes and blocked but runny nose, involuntary trembling and a devoted chill in every last atom in my body. I am mentally deciphering these symptoms, thinking up how I am going to deal directly with each one of them when the contents of my diagnosis strike me as similar to those of the youth of today.

I am probably not being as profound as I had wished to be but I still make a pretty valid point if you ask me. I often say that our generation cannot produce icons as celebrated as Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Kwame Nkrumah, Hector Pieterson, Malcolm X or Thomas Sankara because we have it as easy as it gets. We are born to democratic times where BEE, tenders and political affiliations work in our favor. We are the born frees who have never had to think a day about choking on tear gas or the feeling of rubber bullets on our backs. We are the generation Y that believe in swag and praises pop culture, the millennium generation who walk the world with blinded eyes, cottoned ears and shackled minds. Us, we are the passive group that have forgotten the blood, sweat and tears that got us here.

We are the generation that has caught the cold and could not be bothered to get checked out. With our blocked nose, model c accents and "Ivy League" education, with the laziness of the brats that we are, the vision cluttered by materials of the world, eyes too preoccupied with trends on social networks and with trembling hearts that send chills up the spines of the boomers that birthed and paved the way for us....we leap into a world that expects us to be agents or catalysts of some, any kind of change in the social transformation sphere. 

We are the tired generation in need of an emergency vaccination! 

 

Until next post,

 

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution....

Do the Right Thing....and Sequel

--- I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live---Ecclesiastes 3:12

A month and some ago, Rhodes ran an hiv aids awareness campaign on campus. With this they hollered and tooted all across the streets on the importance of why one should be in tune with their health. They offered tests in types and all rounded wellness advice...these people spoil us, I love it here!

Any who, I wont go any further before I explain why it is that I chose to write the oh so terrifying hiv or aids 'un-caps lock-ed'. A few years ago, in 2008 I was reading books, as had always been the case since the days when daddy started to shove literature into my life. So this habit of reading stuck with me for life and I am forever grateful to him for instilling the love for literature in me from that delicate age. It has become one of the best companions I could have ever wished for.

Let my digress-full self get back on topic. In 2008, I was no longer reading the cinderella or puss 'n boots or the rapunzel's that daddy had filled my mini bookshelf with. Nah, in 2008 I was reading grown folk books, you know, the type that wake the third eye up, spin your entire psyche around and get you thinking about life and all its offerings in ways you never thought you were capable of. Yes, that’s what I was reading in my confused state of eighteen years old.

I met someone I now consider my best friend in my first year of varsity, at sixteen. I hate the term 'best friend' trust me, the passion with which I absolutely despise this term is too untamed to fit these pages. Labelling friends and my relationships with them has never been a practice of me and so I only use this term 'best friend' loosely, to describe just how highly I take the big-sister-I never-had relationship I have with this daughter of the soil and to add to that, how "bestly" her presence in my life has molded me into who I am today.

But that’s not where I am right now, I am in 2008 and I am reading books. And amongst these books I happened to stumble upon a few by motivational speaker and author Louise L. Hay. Let me explain how in the world I came to cross ways with Miss Hay...I am going to have to bring in my big sister I never had once more, she is an inspiration fiend and is a sucker for this motivational type of writing. For two years straight she had been trying to get the bug to bite me but I never pitched, I did not have the time to show up to a self-help book feast when I was too busy checking out Gwendyln D. Pough's 'Check It While I Wreck It: Black Womanhood, Hip-Hop Culture, and the Public Sphere'

I now realize that it has taken me three whole paragraphs to explain why I refuse to hit the caps lock on hiv or aids, but I guess thats the ugly of writing, one needs to paint contexts into discussions. The reason I have gone against the standard rule grain is because of Louise. L Hay. She wrote in one of her books, one which the title has now escaped me that she does not give aids or hiv the satisfaction. She went on to explain how we as global citizens have shown all respect to a deficiency or virus that has wiped out billions of our own by deciding to honor it with capitalizing its every letter in the way that we do only the first letters in peoples names. We don't even caps lock our full names yet here we are giving this aids guy all the glory!

Anyway, back to where my story begins, out of curiosity of my body and what its been getting up to, I went for a pap smear test that would have usually cost a small fee but was free in that campaign week. I went in there with the gut of a captain and came out feeling pretty good about myself. Fast forward some six weeks later and here I am....trembling at the knees as I drag myself back for the results. I'm pretty sure I have tried at being a good girl and to some measure, have succeeded so I should be clean, yet words like herpes, yeast infection and other similarly ugly terms float endlessly at the back of my mind.

The end to this long story is that I finally did the right thing. I have been postponing picking up my results for weeks now, for fear of the unknown and today I had finally had it with myself so I grabbed me by the roots of these locks and I dragged myself to that healthcare centre, pulled a 'bravery' on myself and asked for my pap smear results. And just like I thought, all that freaking out was for nothing, but when the possibilities seem more factual than the reality itself, then like Houston, we got a problem.

I did the right thing by being inquisitive about the state of my health and deciding to take that pap smear then I almost fell out on sequel-ling that by collecting my results. I'm learning on doing good and following that good right through to the end… completion of good deeds make me feel good, it’s a whole chain reaction of goodness...

With all that said, lets all learn to do like a Spike Lee joint.

 

 

 

Until next post,

 

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution

 

Certain Uncertainties

---Women are the rivers in which joy and sorrow shall forever flow in parallel spaces. Creatures complicated enough to simplify the complexities of life---

I just had what is called a DMC with a very good friend of mine. According to her, this is a Direct Meaningful Conversation and we have been having a lot of these lately. Although I was under the impression that all our dialogues are meaningful in at least one way or another, I still appreciate that we dedicate some weekday evenings to have these.

So, where two women meet, there is always danger. Trust me, I warn in kindness. Our topics of choice for the night swam somewhere between love, light, peace, education, success, men, food and ended right back to the same shallow end that it began with- love. We both are at a place where we are trying to figure out this mischief of a word and all the baggage it comes bearing. But what a dreadfully anticipated mystery love can be! Mh

Here is the problem. In this DMC sits two fairly young ladies, entangled in the webs of the education system yet alert to the possible outcomes that this might impose. We realize what we got ourselves into the minute we sent those confirmation letters to the Rhodes student offices and asked that they reserve us seats in this life pursuit, you would think we would be satisfied with things at this stage, but no, we are women, what would we know about satisfaction and such? This currently, is the least of our problems; men seem to sit at the centre of tonight’s DMC.

Let me tell you why we are not satisfied, this friend of mine and I. Or rather, let me attempt to figure it out in this write-in because to be quite honest, I don't think I have all the answers myself right now. I will only tell you that DMC's have possibly become my new favorite activity, they allow one to put so much into perspective and if they are done with an individual wise, smart and honest enough to at least attempt to draw you some direction when you feel like your falling deeper into the maze trap, then hey, all the better.

I give praise to whomever it was that invented DMC's, or at least decided to add a title to the one pasttime that women, the world over have overly over indulged in. By putting titles to these mini random chats, we have come out more unbolted and unchained the fearfulness of what our friends might think of us if we dare expose our deepest darkest, night time secret thoughts. I for one have leaked my heart out like a BP oil spill, I have let everything out into an ocean that is my friend and let my environment or universe suffer the effects of the damage. I left nothing unsaid and no thought unturned, I buried my hopes of my life, career and relationship in her arms as she carefully unpicked the bits and tried to make any sense out of them.

I asked questions that I really did not expect answers to, the common what if that and what if this that’s quick to knock when indifference starts to creep, kept coming into the play of conversation.

"Those are the uncertain uncertainties that you are just going to have to take up on your own friend. The only certain uncertainty I know of is death" came this unexpected answer.

I had to repeat this to myself over and over as I tried to make sense of all the uncertain uncertainties that flooded my mind in that moment. One thing I'm certain of is that women love to talk in little intimate gatherings, not for any specific reasons but because they can. They love to listen to themselves talking about themselves and then inwardly shriek pleasantly at what seems to be some sort of validation of their sense making abilities from their friends, it’s just what and how we do, we can't help it. But seldom does one expect answers in DCM's that force immediate reflection on particular issues that require just as an immediate an action to that reflection.

But in this instance, my friend was not even trying to sound anything more than the natural intellect that she really is. She really was just a woman caught between genuinely helping a friend out, by listening and offering the little feedback she could, in the best way she knew how. And I love her for that. For the fact that she does not pretend to know all the answers but will make the effort to find them out with you.

I thank the Heavens continuously for placing in our paths, the most single rightfully magnified blessings that this life could offer in the form of friendship. Friends I say, are the guardian angels that God sends when He wants to make his presence felt in our lives. These are the life blessings that he handpicks and carefully places along our alleys to help make us understand situations that we are too afraid to confront or deal with.

Lethabo Sekele has been one such Life Angel. Her gentle words of advice weigh tons in impact. She deals with her own uncertain uncertainties but still attends my ceremony of such with dedicated presence. She has sought to seek my unhappiness behind forced smiles, reached towards my heart and left me bear.

If there is another certain uncertainty besides death, that is stacked up next to these uncertain uncertainties I’m forced to deal with. It is that the role of friendship is greatly underestimated and too often we forget to offer these guardian angels the roses that they so heartily deserve.

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution

 

Lost in A space

---Still haunted by my own anxieties. Little girl frights as life jumps on me. When you have been forced to live, survival becomes the only way out. When life happens and leaves you the victim, immunity to places where trials pile in heaps should not be a choice but obligation. Living is the only victory---

This year I reached a milestone. Not in the traditional sense, but in my sense. This is the year that has gotten me one year closer to my crown birthday- that’s right I will be 23 next year on exactly the 23rd of June. While many of you may celebrate this thought and worse even, my mother may anticipate this day, well, it is freaking me the hell out!

No, don't get me wrong, I love growing, my maturity level has taken a brand new peak and the knowledge and wisdom that can only come with age bring with them an indescribable sense of pride. But to be blunt about my situation, I am getting old, that is the truth to the matter, a truth that has left me bittersweet with the turn of 22.

Look, twenty-two is not a bad age to be at, and personally it’s not a bad space to be in either. I am at a happy place; I have found peace in myself, in my shortcomings, my life and with everyone and everything else in my immediate surroundings. Even so, no amount of peace found can and will conceal the very fact that I am still getting older. I am two deep into my second decade and by the look of things, there’s no stopping here, I am about to get in deeper. Oh the joys!

I am a tremendously reflective person, I do this everyday if I can and on a much broader spectrum, I do it every single year. I reflect on my achievements from the past year and on what I hope and wish to achieve in the current year. Turning 22 for me was just as big a deal as when I turned twenty-one I guess....I expected a drastic change from self, from life and from the universe. None of them served me my anticipated bulk of change, if anything, the past two years at zoom have felt tortoise slow but they haven't really been.

I have done what I always do, what every one of you does I am sure. I have gone and found myself lost in a space, not space, but a space. Reflection is good, it’s great, it helps with maintaining the greater vision for your life, it helps with gauging ones progress with that vision, whether they have achieved their set goals or could they do with a little push or shove in the right direction. But reflection is also dangerous. Hold, before you start to wile out and end up tripping, this is only my observation; you may have your own, one that’s entirely different to mine.

For me, a self confessed reflection-a-holic, I spend most of my time lost somewhere in the avenues and lanes of reflection ville, not realizing what I end up compromising and putting at stake as far as my mental and emotional well-being are concerned. Yes, I understand the dynamics around The Power of Now, A New Earth, The Awakening, what every other meditation guru and yoga class instructor will let you in on....focus on the NOW.

· Be here. In the now

· Live in the present moment

· Be conscious of your environment, smell the flowers

· Listen to your thoughts, be at peace with them

· Block out the clutter, refuse the troubles of tomorrow and the regrets of yesterday

· and.....and....and

Trust me, I have heard it all, read it all and still continue to drown myself in it all. Its good advice, plain and simple...but if only the execution was just as plain or simple or both, unfortunately, it is anything but. Its now October, this means panic attack season for students like myself, the nagging thoughts of what is to be of you next year will not stop tugging away at the sleeves of your mind as you think up a gazillion and one possible options that stand before you. Should I carry on in the safe and secure clutches of the education system? Should I pull a brave face and join the workforce? Or should I pick up a gallon of courage and register a business...come on, we all know it’s impossible to escape these ringing questions, especially at this time in the year.

So these very thoughts are exactly what find me here, lost, once again in a space somewhere between consciousness and hopes of the future. This space plays away with my thoughts like they are twins, this is the only space I have come to know of, and quite frankly have become comfortable in. This is a space I passionately detest and want nothing to do with. It’s a space that gives room to worry, anxieties and fear of the unknown. It is a space no one should be looking ahead to finding themselves in, of course its inevitable at times, thoughts are thoughts and they tend to stray but in one of these many 'Now Moment' texts lies a truth that the mind is only that, it can be trained by practice and various meditation methods.

I will be the first to admit that yes meditation does me wonders, it calms away the apprehensive thoughts and feelings, not knowing what’s to be and what’s to become; but I still find myself freaking out internally, in spaces that I now consciously try to avoid but are so inviting in their trap. It’s almost effortless to fall back into the claws of a space that finds you wasting energy on worry.

So as I wait for my fate, or rather, for the universe to return back to me what I have put out to it, I become aware of this space, I still wonder in thought but I refuse to get lost in this space, I am awake to its familiarity and I stray as far away as possible. Yes it is a place that I will pass through from time to time, but I will no longer find myself lost and trapped in it, gasping for air while it’s oh so familiar inhabitants: fear, worry, anxiousness and apprehension pull away at my arm, inviting me to come and play with them.

So what if I am growing, the most important bit is that I am here, in the now, still mapping my way to success and greatness.

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution....

The inherited Land of my Ancestors...

---I am a descendant of the struggle, of oppression. A child of Earth, sole inheritor of e-Bhisho soils rich in culture and heritage. I am Africa, I am blaque. I am exploited and have been left exposed. I am change, I am hope. I am a mother to a nation arousing and inspiring revolution through my presence---

Now, as some may or may not know, I am unashamedly and hopelessly in love with the Eastern Cape, for reasons that I could not state if I were ever to be asked.

For those that wish, here is a little schooling: the Eastern Cape is the largest province in South Africa. Home to an apparent array of tourist attractions, it boasts of nature reserves and coastal areas and views that find two of its biggest cities, East London and Port Elizabeth drawing in a significant number of tourist income into the province. However, this also happens to be one of the poorest provinces in the country.

Okay, this is not a lesson on the economical benefits or lack thereof or the geographical facts of the E.C, this perhaps is an ode to a land that I admire without reason. Of a land that has birthed some of the greatest leaders to ever bless the South African political and business arenas. This is a dedication piece, to a place that fathered sons that revolted against oppression, a land that has seen little, if any benefit for the wars fought by its children.

I see it as no coincidence that the founding fathers of the ANC, the current governing party all hailed from the grounds of the Eastern Cape. Steven Biko is the founder of the Black Conscious Movement who died in the hands of the apartheid police, who tortured and abused him to his death.

They say that every revolutionary act is an act of love, and what Biko sacrificed in the name of his peoples emancipation is high and beyond love even in its most abstract definition.

Biko's acts were not only of extreme humanness but epitomized what a true revolutionary is and stands for. A man who gave up everything else for the freedom of his people. I applaud him eternally.

Nelson Mandela, Walter Sisulu and Oliver Tambo, more of the Eastern Cape natives who, for whatever reason, spent their entire lives fighting to ensure social stability and racial equality in the greater South Africa.

For the devotion of its sons to the fight for democracy, this is what the adaptive land of my ancestors has been reimbursed with, for the blood of Biko, the strikes of Mandela, the time of Sisulu and the sweat of Tambo, their father land has become subject to some of the highest and most shocking statistics in regard to poverty, literacy levels and hiv aids prevalence.

As if the ruling parties abundance to this land of my ancestors has not been heart striking enough, nature has also decided to forsake it through current floods in the province. A place that is accountable for the many roses that have led South Africa to its ranks today stands in danger of drowning the future concrete roses that are held responsible for protecting and taking the socio-economic and political interests of this land further.

I love rain, in the coast is where I find solace, between angry waves and tides is where my peace of mind is tucked away. And in all honesty I have been at joy with the pouring of showers from the skies in the past few days, oblivious to the fact that these same rains that I find my bliss in, are the same rains that have drowned my brothers and sisters all across this land.

I have nothing, no one binding me to these soils of iMpuma-Koloni yet my love and appreciation of this land and its people flows so deep in the valleys of my veins that it unsettles me still. I have inherited this place, for its history so rich, its people so culturally wealthy and its heritage so safely kept, I have become a part of a people that take pride in their struggles, a land that has issued world class heroes yet remains so humble, so modest and so unphased by this new South Africa that has everyone else fastened at its brims.

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

 

Hip Hop...no longer the love of my life

---"Little did I know how much Hip Hop would be a part of my life. She was as young, naive, confused and sometimes as innocent and mischievous as I was. And as I grew up, she grew with me, and along the way it took away all my baggage, my dreams. I felt Hip Hop and Hip Hop felt me"-- Sanaa Lathan

Anyone that knows me knows of my estranged relationship with hip hop. Once upon a time I referred to it as 'the love of my life' and at some point it had become nothing more than 'the devils music' to me. You see, me and hip hop go way back, well as far back as 2005 to be precise, and our relationship has proven to be more complex, more genuine, and more passionate than most other relationships I have ever been in. Call me crazy, it won’t be the first-or last.

I remember hearing Sanaa Lathan belt out these lines in the movie Brown Sugar and I said to myself, this is one woman who understands exactly what my relationship with hip hop was about. Sanaa and I were what were called 'heads'. A group of people that listened to hip hop for its deep-fetched, thought provoking, rebellious lyrics that came complete with smoothly laid out beats and a flow compelling enough to hold the listeners attention for well over the three minutes that an average rap track is scheduled for.

Hip hop became the core of my existence the day my ears matured enough to tolerate the bitter commentary that lay with rappers that are exhausted of what they call a 'corrupt system'. It transformed my mind to not only understand what this system was about but turned me against it as well.

To me it was a teacher, a political leader, a voice for the voiceless, a platform for expression, a craft for creativity, an angry child that was never content, a grown man who felt cheated, an abused woman who was tired. Hip Hop was all these things and so much more.

I love hip hop so much that I have dedicated a few of my pieces to her, in one of them I explained how 'she took my hand and then became my friend'. How I wrote it, is how it happened. This charming genre met me at a point in life when nothing really mattered, existence reigned over living. It stepped into my presence, ever so calm, introduced itself to me and spoke of truth, of freedom and of the revolution, a language I didn't quite understand then but loved listening to nonetheless. It spoke to me in a manner so enchanting, whispered in parables and preached in verses, it taught me of sixteens and bars, of free styles and cyphers, of emcees and rappers. It gave me lessons in rebel-hood 101 and passed me to a level of recklessness.

I had easily agreed to its cause and then began a friendship that blossomed into a life long love affair. I loved it and it loved me, it repeatedly proved that in lyrics that I felt were written specifically for me, in pain filled verses that echoed me every sentiment. It never disappointed, at least for some time.

Comedian Chris Rock once said in one of his comedy shows "Women that listen to hip hop just don't give a ph*q"...a statement I personally did not take kindly to. Rock moved on to justify where his obscene remarks had stemmed from. But the damage had been done. He had sent me deep into a journey of self-seeking and soul searching, to a place where I constantly fought with my thoughts, where I scolded myself over and over for embracing misogyny by allowing hip hop to step into my turf.

So began the downfall, I tried to make it work. I listened still but this time around with less emotion attached, but truth remained, hip hop and I would never be the same again. It was ruined, even for the few good guys who celebrated women as pearls of nature; I could not view them as I once had.

Truth be told, I still love hip hop, the same way Sanaa Lathan described her growth with it, is how I still feel when all is said and done. I still cry, laugh and remain amazed by how graceful she remains in her purest form. I'm still awed by her courage and boldness to say some things as they are, and the sheer creativity in which she does this.

I have failed to be politically correct, my male friends slap my wrist by the mention of hip hop being a 'her'- I apologize, for me she still resembles femininity in its full representation...it is still as supple and firm and soft and beautiful and curvaceous and unpredictable as a woman is. It still speaks truth, still stands for the people and is still a voice of the nation.

To Hip Hop: contrary to what the title of this post may infer, you are still the friend that became the love of my life. I just got sidetracked somewhere along the way....still feels like I sampled true love.

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution....

 

Why I am the Rose that Grew from Concrete...

---I am tough yet fragile, I am a delicate soul with a heart of stone. I am struggle, I am pain but embody strength and endurance. I am scared, I am brave. I am a lot like my momma Africa, rich in spirit yet withers away at the first sign of abundance from its sister nations---

American poet and author, Maya Angelou once said; "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."

The first time I came across these words I nodded in disbelief, not only because they rang true to me but because I could not comprehend how Maya, a world renowned author, who has penned some of the greatest poems this generation has ever come across could possibly know of this agony fuelled by letting your story go unheard.

It is obviously easy for me to sit and wonder how Miss Angelou could possibly torture herself like that, with an untold story when writing is as natural to her as breathing is to common folk. It was easy for me to think like that because I did not consider her past, her struggles and the battles she had to conquer on her way to the top. You see for me, Maya has always been great, it has always been that way, how else could she get that good?

This was my thinking until I actually started reading Miss Angelou. Her five part self penned biography is testament to why and how she came to make such a statement. You see, here was a woman who had bottled up her fight with the world for so long that she needed five books to really put her story across, here is a woman who had silenced her thoughts and her wrestle with life until she was toppled with emotion and finally burst in rage.

Maya was once just like me, just like you, just like us. Sitting with a story that was worth hearing while battling thoughts filled with insecurities probably questioning whether her tale was really worth telling. She became a woman who won the battle with fear, chose to listen to her hearts desire and squash all that fear by proving how worthy her story was of being told.

Enough of praising Maya. But her story is one that I resonate with, it is one that spells from 'pad to published'. It is a story I sit and daydream about as if it was mine, in the hope that it will one day become mine.

I am constantly growing and discovering myself every single day, facing battles that I sometimes feel that I can not win regardles of how hard I put in a good fight. I wake up to find days that make me wanna get right back into the warmth of my snuggly blankies and just block out the entire earth. But another wise man once uttered words along the lines of  either you continue your sleep with dreaming OR wake up and chase your dreams.

This is why I am a shining blaque rose, because I chose to believe so. Because I chose to filter all the other crap* and stay steadily on my hustle. I am a rose because life decided to pull the silver spoon out of my mouth and taught me to fend for myself. I have not been the kid that had it easy since I was six, I have been like the beggar that moves in ambiguity, hoping that a different turn will lead him to a few dimes. I dream in darkness, I praise in the absence of faith, I show gratitude in times of despair and I smile through my pain.

I see the light that shines and I am a hopeless dreamer and believer despite the deals that are dealt to me, or rather that I deal to myself. I would sooner be the 84 year old Maya Angelou who now sits in a well of wisdom, and basks in the knowledge that she did the right thing rather than a twenty year, even thirty year old Angelou who second guesses herself while undermining her capabilities!

I am not saying I am there yet, but I am saying that my thorns have sharpened and my petals, weary and bruised as they are, are still so beautiful and bright, and can only grow from strength to strength. It is not for some, it is for all, we are all troubled by the same concrete mix, it's the drive and persistence embedded in our roots that will determine whether our stories will ever be told.

I finally know why the caged bird sings, it is because it wants to be free. Free from fear and free from the agony that comes with bearing a story untold. The only way that this bird will sing uncaged is to press on, continue to sing for its freedom and sing its story, sing to itself until it is heard, sing so loud that the shackles that cage it will open in aggravation and let it free.

Until next post,

Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...

The revolution has arrived....

---And I am here, the rose that continually grows from stubborn concrete. I only come to make other roses aware of the beautiful petals that they possess. Beautiful blaque roses of Africa. Let us rise and be free---

Before I take this introductory post anywhere else, I have a confession...

I hate blogging! I have never done it and have never had the intention to do so. But alas. The ever so great and thoughtful internet has offered me the platform and I the aspiring writer could possibly not refuse.

The very first line on my google profile reads 'Blogs are over rated' and indeed they are. My extreme distaste in blogs stems from the realization that every Dick, Mary-Anne and Moselantja thinks they have what it takes to become a blogger. And they are entitled to these thoughts, whether it bores any relevance or the potential to change the lives of individuals, well, that I am not too sure about. But hey, I am not here to fight.

I am only here to join in on this global revolution as we march foward with blogsspots filled with rife emotion, prose, poetry, fashion spreads, gossip galore, rambles, psuedo-intellectualism and our most internally clipped thoughts and emotions disguised as tools of democracy hoping to wrap away the exhibitionist natures of the 21st century internet dwellers. We are all here to claim and utilize our freedom of thought, of speech, of being your own self and of showing of---whatever it is that we may.

Kudos to the internet for handing the technologically savvy citizens of the world, a pair of balls to come foward and demand a space where they can finally say, say, say and maybe every now and again be heard or read!

Cheers to the brave hearts that have poured their hearts and souls into these word boxes, planting a similar seed of courage in the rest of us!!


Besides it helping me brush up my writing and coherence skills, my intent with this blog is not yet known to me. I am passionate about a lot of things...spoken word, written word, Africa and its daughters and so these will be the primary issues that I shall test these waters with. But we all know that thought is free-flowing....a lot is bound to spring from these pages. We wait and see. Until next post,


Africa Rising, Peace & Revolution...