The Concrete Rose Revolution

---It's like the grass that grows between the cracks of ghetto streets, relentless in spite of the everlasting--- Tamia

This blogspot was inspired by what I consider to be one of my favorite poems- The Rose That Grew From Concrete- by the late Lesane Parish Crooks, better known as Tupac Amaru Shakur.

“Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete

Proving nature’s law wrong, it learned to walk without having feet

Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams

It learned to breathe fresh air

Long live the rose that grew from concrete

When no one else even cared”

These words are what gave birth to this space and are to a very large extent what continue to stir most of the opinion that comes from it. I built this space with the idea of identifying and encouraging concrete roses from the world across, the intention with starting what I still envision as a movement was to form some ground of inspiration for anyone who comes from a disadvantaged past and is willing to overcome their circumstances and go on to make a difference in the lives of others.

“We wouldn't ask why a rose that grew from the concrete has damaged petals, on the contrary, we would all celebrate its tenacity, we would all love its will to reach the sun, well, we are the roses, this is the concrete and these are my damaged petals, dont ask me why, thank god, and ask me how”

I have and still continue to come across so many concrete roses, while some know it, so many remain oblivious to the power that they possess in order for them to grow from concrete and into the best versions of themselves that they can be- myself included. This platform will rise to see a revolution of concrete roses actualize, this place will not die down until the potential of the deprived child has been realized, this space will not go anywhere until freedom reigns and opportunities are seized. 

 

“Where There is a will
there is a will
to search and discover
a better day

Where a positive heart
is all you need
to rise beyond
and succeed

Where young minds grow
and respect each other
based on their deeds
and not their color

when times are dim
say as I say
"Where there's a will
there's a way!”

Thaba tsa Lesotho li nchebile

---“ Thaba li nchebile, li mphata ka lipotso li re ke tla fihla neng sehlohlolong….” --- Bonolo 

I fall under the list of Basotho who are only guilty in saying - for desiring to travel the world before they chose to travel in and around their own country. I do not know how many times I have engaged in the “foreigners know our country better than we do” conversation only to turn right around and google the cost of a flight ticket to Dubai instead of looking up Maliba Lodge in the telephone directory to make a booking, the sad reality for me is that as much as I love Lesotho with its beautiful scenery, gigantic mountains and sterling greenery, I still find the thought of interacting with different cultures and learning from them more compelling than that of going up to Molimo Nthuse for a little serene time with mother nature.

Molimo Nthuse Lodge

I imagine the side looks that are coming from all directions for my admitting to this, its fine as it is expected but the upside is that I have really started to change my thinking as far as travelling and learning about Lesotho is involved, although it always boils down to excuses, I have vowed to start small.

So when the opportunity for an impromptu road trip presented itself on the eve of Lesotho’s 48^th year of independence, I did not say no because I could not think up a better way to celebrate the so called independence of Lesotho than being on the road- not only admiring the beauty of this place but also taking the time out to deeply reflect on what it is that went wrong, how it got to this point and why this country is not free forty eight years after it was declared an independent state. Quite frankly I am tired of the same discourse surrounding the progress of Lesotho but it helped a great deal that I was in the company of someone who takes development theories and economic planning seriously because I felt enlightened coming out of this experience and while talking about these issues changes nothing really, I am of the belief that it does spark a seed of courage in those that engage in them to one day be the forces behind change in the political and economical landscape.  I trust that the more we talk about the incidents of our country, the better placed we are to understand the intricacies that govern the decisions made on our behalf and when we are able to comprehend such, then we become better equipped to make contributions that will eventually help Lesotho settle into its own. 

“Nqenehele pele u nkhenela, mohlomong ke eona karabo” – Ts’epo Tshola

As I gazed out to the backdrop of these mountains and was hit by the rays of the setting sun that blanketed them I could not help but feel sorry for this country that has raised me. I felt sad for having been so harsh with it for not achieving full independence, specks of guilt presented themselves as I thought back to an entry I posted on here this time last year. These mountains that I craved to confront on Lesotho’s state of affairs pleaded with me, they asked that I empathize with this country that finds itself in the clutches of leaders who do not have its best interests at heart.

In that moment, ha ke shebane le lithaba tsa Lesotho, they whispered to me the wishes of those whose sweat and blood founded this Kingdom, lithaba tsa Lesotho urged that I do not give up on them, on the beauty that is this nation, they asked that I keep the faith alive for the sake of my children’s’ future. Lithaba tsa Lesotho li nchebile, li re honna ke se lahleheloe ke ts’epo, these mountains spoke in inspired tones and stirred a new layer of hope and expectation in me. Lithaba tsa Lesotho li re this is not the end but rather a new beginning and while they do admit that this state has not tasted true freedom as yet, they insist that you and me not give up on the hope that lies between their valleys. 

I have concluded that even if it means taking a young drive out to Mafeteng or Leribe only to bond with the tranquility of my motherland then that is what I am going to do because it is in the silence of these mountains that the answers to advancing my Lesotho are stowed 

Until next post,

Afrika Rising, Peace & Revolution....

The Female Chronicles (Encounters of City Women)

---Watch these streets like a hawk, listen with intent to the hearts of women roaming this city, feel the sadness of souls whose eyes tell stories of their past turmoils---

When you walked past Nhlahla yesterday you could not have noticed her even if the two of you were the only ones sharing the bustling Kingsway Street. She was the strange looking one who walked face down and weary eyed amongst the crowds, rocking her dark brown hand knitted one-piece dress and black tender tekkies better known as  ‘bo nkhono ba tatile’ and a doek messily wrapped around her head- her dress sense alone was as invisible as she aimed for it to be. Nhlanhla hates to be noticed or spoken to with an intense passion, you see when she was just a young girl of thirteen- innocent and spontaneous- she was stripped of all the courage she had worn after her mothers death; her step father, who could have been forty three at the least had his way with her. Nhlanhla’s stepfather was a tall man; he hovered about the house as a giant would, lifting her up to poke and prod at her then intact flower and throwing her against the furniture whenever she would sob at his attempts to do so. You could have never noticed Nhlanhla because her very existence seized in those moments, the confidence of this young woman was shattered just as her face was against the corners of their dining room table, in between those dreadful nights where she lay flat facing the ceiling as this man she once considered a father forcefully entered her, her soul had been destroyed, she could no longer function as you and I do, even after she gathered the strength to run away from home a year and a half later, she never stood a chance at normal. This man that had climbed on top of her every night for two years after his wife had died had robbed her of her chances to prosper in life and he never knew this, even in his death where he now lay he could not have known this. Although Nhlanhla had run away and never looked back, she had carried in her tummy a remainder that would forever tie her to the atrocious past she tried so hard to forget, that little girl who was barely a teenager could never get back what she lost in those early years. She was a grown woman approaching thirty now but still could not look her fourteen year old daughter in the eye because of the pain that she aroused, despite all of this she loved her daughter with all she had and proved that by waking up every morning before the crack of dawn to get ready for work in the industrial area Chinese factory where she was a sew-stress to ensure that she support and provide for her.

The reason you did not notice Nhlanhla as she walked right by you is because you were too occupied staring at Morongoe as she passed by the Vodacom Centre and turned towards Shoprite. I do not blame you because Morongoe is quite a sight to see, in her gold sequined high heels and figure hugging pants that revealed her perfectly shaped ass and the Daniel Hetcher top that allowed an acceptable amount of cleavage to peep out from the low neckline of the shirt, she glided in such confidence that you ended up following her around the corner just to catch a good glimpse of her as she sashayed past the Hungry Lion tables. What you do not know however is that Morongoe is facing charges for the murder of her husband as well as possession of an illegal firearm. Earlier that day, she had met with her lawyer to explain what her close friends and family already knew, that she had shot that man in an act of self defense, she had gone to explain to the lawyer that she had stayed in her abusive marriage for close to twenty years and had had to endure blow after blow from the man who once looked at her like she was the only woman who walked the surface of the earth, he had gone from loving to possessive to abusive in what seemed to her like an instance. She had had to go through surgery twice to reconstruct her face because he had beaten her to a pulp, but still she stayed, convincing herself that it was for her two sons and daughter. But when her husband had come home drunk and wreaking of cheap perfume, stumbling into the house to accuse her of having an affair with her gym instructor, Morongoe had lost it, he had leapt in to teach her lesson as he would usually refer to his incidences of violence when she shoved him back with all the might she could gather and succeeded in pushing him to the floor, as he hit it head first, a gun that Morongoe had never seen slipped from the side of his waist and without thinking twice she had reached for it and shot that bastard five times before she dropped the gun by his already lifeless body to rush to her kids bedrooms to check if they were okay. The reason you had missed the permanent scar on her right cheek was because of the expensive make up she used to conceal it, that scar only came out at night when she was alone behind the comfort of her bedroom doors. It reminded her of all she had had to endure, it told a story of survival, a story that she was not yet ready to share with the world.

Passing by Morongoe right at the entrance of Shoprite, you noticed Keke as you made a mental note of how fine she looked in her school uniform, for a minute, you wished to be the ice cream she was licking. For a student, Keke looked overdone, spotting a weave with blonde streaks and blood red lipstick, she seemed a lot more mature for high school. And that’s because she was, Keke would never date her age mates, as a matter of fact she was on her way to her sugar daddy’s office who worked in the LNDC building just across the road. The minute she had heard the iPhone 6 had been released she had immediately thought to go and tell her ‘Minister of Finance’ about it as she knew that her single mother, who bent over backwards to put food on the table for her and her little sister could not afford a phone that cost more than her school fees for an entire year did.

The awkward moment came when Keke crossed the road to the Block C of the LNDC building right in front of a silver Volvo XC60 driven by a beautiful woman who seemed as though she was smiling to herself. Behind the drivers seat of that luxurious car was Dr. Lisene, the wife of Keke’s sugar daddy. She had just knocked off at her surgery situated in the CBD and Keke who recognized her with ease only assumed she was headed home as she had already missed the entrance into the LNDC parking lot. What she did not know was that the reason for Dr. Lisene’s smile was because of the seductive text she had just gotten from Sam, her ‘toy boy’ or Ben X as she jokingly referred to him. Sam had come into her life at the right time; Dr. Lisene had lost her daughter who had committed suicide when a month later Sam walked into her surgery as a patient, because her husband seemed to be dealing with the death by distancing himself and acting cold towards her whenever he was home, she had felt the need to confide in Sam about her daughters untimely death and how she too had heard the rumors of her alleged pregnancy and her suicide being a result of an attempt to kill the baby, surprisingly Sam’s words of consolation sat with her as he suggested that they go out to a hang out spot that evening so that she could ‘clear her head’, she had reluctantly agreed to going out that evening but had found herself enjoying the company of the young man since.

Before you got into the four plus one that would take you to the borokhong area, you saw Dr. Lisene hoot at a young lady just by Victoria hotel. The young lady was Mookho, a daughter of her friend and also the friend of her late daughter. Mookho had just recently gotten engaged but her face lacked the excitement and glow that a newly engaged woman is expected to carry. Instead, her eyes looked heavy as though she had either been crying too hard or had just hit a dagga joint. Although Mookho was engaged, she was nowhere near knowing or understanding what love was, she had managed to convince herself that everyone had to settle down at a certain age and start a family, she assured herself constantly that she would learn to love her fiancée and would be happy with him eventually. This was the price she had had to pay to get out of those all too familiar pavements of the Victoria Hotel that she had once frequented every night as a ‘call girl’ those many months ago. 

*The names and characters used here are all fictional and in no way portray the lifestyles and/or actions of any specific real life persons.

My People Know of Ubuntu

---But if there is nothing else said about my people except that they are horse riders and blanket lovers who are only good for the livestock they herd, let it be known that my people are a humble people, a giving and thoughtful people---

Ntate Katiso Curtis Sello does not only have a big belly but he also has a nice big heart to complement it. This he proved on Saturday evening at the Gala Dinner that his company- Lesotho Funeral Services (LFS) or rather, ‘Ha Sello’ as we laymen usually refer to it, or even Lesotho Funeral(s) in the plural as Mama Doti kept stating– hosted as a means to raise funds that would help to bury ninety corpses that have not been laid to rest due to their not having anyone taking responsibility for them.

The gala dinner, which was held at the Maseru Sun Conference Centre, was packed with the crème de la crème of Maseru’s most elite list. With a ticket price that sold for M500 each, it was no surprise that those present at the event looked, ate and talked the part, opulence dripped right before my eyes, an air of affluence heavily occupied the room so much that I wanted to pack it up in a doggy bag and take it home with me to learn a lesson or two on how to join this club of only the highly esteemed. It was quite a sight to observe and also a beautiful experience of a lesson in humility. I watched as the room buzzed with women in nine-inch heels and beautiful night gowns and gentlemen in bow ties and fancy wristwatches rubbed shoulders as they snapped the night away with expensive phones and gadgets while they drank wine and feasted on mushroom a la gregue, asparagus vinaigrette and a host of other dishes that looked much simpler and less appetizing than their fancy names suggested. Nonetheless, they savored the food and they gulped their wine with such grace, it was as though they did this every night.

And so the night went on, a poem was made, songs were sung and speeches were heard, Cura the comedian stood up to make us laugh for a good fifteen minutes, an ice basket was passed around the room for those who could to put some offerings in and then finally, came a segment of the night that I never saw coming, the part where anyone could stand up to pledge whatever it is they could that would help towards the burial of the ninety souls that had been left alone even in their very last hour. The first Good Samaritan went on up the stage and pledged five hundred maloti of which everyone in the room weightily applauded, then another went up to pledge M1000, ahs and wows could be heard, then another went up to pledge M5000 and another followed with M2500 and a few more who swung between these amounts. Then there was the man who stood up to pledge two sheep and another a cow, there was also a lady who said she would bring the pork because it was her specialty, then another lady who offered samp and vegetables and a gentleman who sided with her on the vegetables, then there was the man who pledged to buy the coffins and also offer transportation for all those who wished to attend this mass funeral, Cura stood up and promised his mighty presence as well as his sound system and emcee skills, women who owned catering companies stood up to pledge their culinary expertise, promising that they would cook all the food that would be brought. All this while my jaw dropped a little more each time someone climbed that stage, I was left in awe of what a success the night had been but more so, of how giving my people could be when circumstances demanded them to. All in all, the money that was raised on the night, minus all the other provisions was a round-of of M36 000.

When it was all done, I went home to think about how often such cases plague our societies yet more often than not; those in a position to do something about it would rather turn a blind eye to such ill occurrences. This is not taking away from those who, like our Social Development minister, Mme Matebatso Doti are doing all the good they can in our communities in order to make some kind of difference in the lives of those who are less fortunate. I thought long and hard about how this event could serve as a platform in which various social inequalities are addressed by regular citizens of this country.

I write from a place of pride and happiness in my people, Basotho have warmed my heart with their giving and considerate hearts, they have restored my faith in humanity and have inspired me to live to make a change and difference in the world- no matter how small.

Basotho ba heso, I salute every one of you who stood on that podium to pledge on that night and those of you who, like myself, were present in good faith.

Aluta! 

Until next post,

Afrika Rising, Peace & Revolution...

The Concrete Rose That Grew The Greatest: Honoring Pac

---“We remember Tupac Shakur as the son of a fighter, and as a young lion. We remember his passion for equality born from justice, and justice born from honest confrontation of racial and class inequalities. We remember him as a protest artist who used words to conscientise and to resist the claws of White supremacy, a system that fed on the dehumanisation of Black people. May the memory of this young revolutionary artist remain in our minds, for through his work, he has earned his immortality”--- Malaika Wa Azania

Yo, Pac

I have not written in a while so please forgive me in advance if there should be any visible rust from these writings.

First and foremost let me thank you for being the thorn on which the rose that I became was able to grow from. Let me thank you for the hunger and passion that you demonstrated in every single record that you have ever played on (Yes! Every single one). I would like to thank you for being the rebel that you were, for riding against the tide, weathering multiple storms in your life and for keeping hope alive for the Black child that chose Hip Hop only as a tool for escapism. Thank you for igniting the radical in me, for sharing your thoughts through words despite your militant efforts being frowned upon at that time. Thank you again for being the visionary that you were and for liberating my mind long before I knew I was a slave captive to numerous systems.

Secondly, allow me to salute the legend that you were and still are to this day. I hail you dear Pac, for leaving behind a legacy in Hip Hop that no industry rapper has managed to fill up to date and probably never will. A legacy that does not amount to record sales, how well you spat or the entendres that you summed up in your tracks.  Your legacy can never be measured by rap industry standards and for as long as Hip Hop exists, your name will never be erased from the origins that pioneered its suppleness.

I do not recall the exact moment that I fell in love with you Pac, but I do know that just like everyone else who grew up around my era, you were the only rapper that I know that was able to cross musical boundaries in ways that only you knew how. I still remember how my cousin brother- a self confessed House Music fanatic and DJ would come alive every time your song played on the radio or television. Although it was through him that I was initially introduced to you, our real official introduction would only come much later- at a stage where my love for Hip Hop was more prevalent. I will be the first to admit that in those early days, I never appreciated or listened to your music much, to me you sounded just like any other angry rapper that my young ears had been exposed to. It was only later that I began to listen and understand the sermons that you preached through rap music; it was much later when an epiphany dawned on me that you were not just another rapper trying to hit the big time but you were in fact a

prematurely sent angel from a black-nationalism heaven of sorts.

More than all the music you have put forward, more than your curious and rebellious nature- that perpetually refused to believe that the Black race was indeed inferior to any other race and would thus be subjected to being treated as second class citizen- I want to take time out to appreciate the confidence that you have instilled in me. If I love you for nothing else, it will be for your efforts to inspire every black child who was raised under pressing circumstances towards a better life. It was not only in the lyrics you spat but in everything that you stood for and spoke for that I and the troubled youth of my generation learned that we possessed the power to overcome any situation regardless of how hopeless it seemed.   

In an attempt to describe your character, Eric Dyson in Holler If You Hear Me says that you told the truth although you struggled with fragments of your identity. I could not agree with him more. You chose to shine a light on the black community although at times you found it difficult to locate or even comprehend your own, you represented an entire race of people by re-installing faith in the notion of Black Pride and Consciousness at a time when Hip Hop was mainly engaged by many only for commercial benefit. You told stories that would later remain timeless in what you understood to be mere studio vents; you stood for a truth that many lived to ignore.

Today dear Pac, I would like to honor you for the impact you have had on me personally.  It was not only in your music that I learned to speak my truth but also in the opinions you expressed outside the booth.

It was your life lived inspired that gave birth to this platform- a revolution for all of the concrete roses that are yet to discover their greatness. It was you that taught me to embrace all of my damaged petals and to celebrate my tenacity and will to reach the sun!

Long Live the Rose That Grew From Concrete When No One Else Even Cared.

Until next post,

Afrika Rising, Peace & Revolution...

Of Side Chicks, Side Thoughts and Side Notes

---“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple---Jack Kerouac 

~Of Side Thoughts

When I started this blog, I swore to myself that everything I bring into it would always be a reality that someone close to me, or myself had experienced. I vowed to deliver real life incidents and accidents in these text boxes, this was set with the intention of constructing opinions that would hopefully stir off meaningful debate and discussions far beyond the desktops of those who found themselves reading these entries.

Unfortunately, when I made this promise to self, I had no idea that there would be future implications involved. I was blind to the fact that I would have to dig deep into myself in order to make peace with my past encounters, I figured that this way, I was guaranteed a somewhat objective inside look at self –which in turn would then allow me to open about my thoughts, feelings and insecurities to literally the world. I was also not aware that as a psychology scholar, a lot of what I wish to share in these posts is motivated by those around me and the choices they make in their lives- whether good or bad, I am not one to judge yet I still feel the need to convey and interpret those very choices they make.

Here is my dilemma, I am sometimes afraid to write posts such as today's one in the fear that some of my friends and close acquaintances will feel that I am being a tad judgmental of their life choices.  

Yes, some of my very good friends are side chicks. Some of them are main chicks with side dishes while some take on the role of main chick and side chick at the same time.

But like I said, I am not here to criticize anyone, I mean, I have found myself placed in all of the above-mentioned positions at some point in my life, having admitted to that- let me just confess that being a side-chick is the hardest role and entails the toughest decisions that one could ever confront as a woman.

To have complete access to someone whom you know is not yours but wish every single day would drop the life they have begun with another person to start a brand new one with you.… Go figure.
 

~Of Side Notes

On to today's post, I have said it in the past that times are hard, ratios are imbalanced and everyone longs for some belonging, this is how I justify the growing culture of ‘side dishes’. Anyhow, I still feel that people that subject themselves to this kind of lifestyle must start of with some form of evaluation where they weigh their losses and gains as a result of the decisions they make.

   

Ha ke hane hore Sesotho se re motho e mong le e mong o fepa pere eo a e palamang but I am trying to make sense of men who string three or four permanent side chicks minus ‘wifey’ and STILL maintain these women financially. For the life of me I have tried to understand what could possibly possess someone to be so overly generous as to feed so many mouths without being obligated to do so. Unless one is a billionaire who has run out of orphanages to support, I really cannot comprehend how average income men will choose to go out and find side chicks that will only leave their pockets holed every month end. It makes no economical sense to me how some men will put a hold on their family plans just so they are able to cater for grown women who are perfectly capable of providing for themselves.

The causes of this kind of behavior are obviously far more deep-rooted than I can ever emphasize and call for a psychological analysis of the individuals themselves- a lot of factors can contribute to men (and women alike) searching for approval in one another so much that they comprise more important things for this temporary feeling of belonging

~Of Side Chicks

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My favorite species in the entire world is women. I cannot speak about them enough; I can never fully articulate how I feel about them, regardless of the number of posts I have dedicated to them. I know first hand the situations we find ourselves in; I know the thoughts and feelings that come to us when in these spaces we get cornered in. I know the pain of caring for someone who will never feel for you how you do about them, I know the hurt that comes with being rejected, I know the agony of being left by someone whom you entrusted your entire life with, I know of the shame that comes with having to turn down someone. I also know that some situations are in our control, I know that we sell ourselves short at times; I know that we love the thrill of that forbidden fruit, we can pretend not to care when we really do, we can avoid those feelings once we start falling for someone but most importantly, we can control how we react to the situation when we find ourselves playing the role of side chick.

Either you get in there and take it with all the excrement that will inevitably come your way or you keep your heart at a distance, whichever way, it has never served any purpose to invest all of your time and energy to someone that was never yours to begin with, chances are they are simply stringing you along and will never be yours alone anyway. Its better that you know and understand the

rules to the game so that you play accordingly, the side chick character cannot be played by the faint-hearted, the weak or the clingy, it is for those that know to draw lines between the heart and the mind, that go along casually without expectations. I repeat, this is not to be played by the weak at heart. We would be doing ourselves a favor by avoiding the expected heartbreak that will follow. Trust me.

Until next post,

Afrika Rising, Peace & Revolution...

'Racism must be Nationalized' (Thoughts of a Radical Being)

 ---“I believe in human beings, and that all human beings should be respected as such, regardless of their color”---Malcolm X 

Nationalize: verb (used with object)

1. To bring under the ownership or control of a nation, as industries and land
2. To make into a nation
3. To naturalize

I am happy. Not because two privileged and intoxicated Afrikaaner boys went on a hate crime binge that ended with one Damane Muzi Gwebu, a black student at the University of the Free State being at the receiving end of their atrocious activity. This is not what has made me happy, in fact this has birthed a brand new kind of anger in me, it has inspired once more, the radical part of me, this incident has me wanting to find Juluis Malema so that we can chant apartheid tunes together that are now deemed as hate crime and can’t be sung anymore. What took place at the UOFS campus this week has me wishing that we could revert back to the teachings of El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz who once said that “Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery”. I am not saying this must happen, I am saying the events of this week has the radical in me wishing back times when freedom would be fought for, by any means necessary!!

I am happy because this turn of events has again taken the South African and more particularly UOFS fraternity ten steps back. This is a racially charged institution that still heavily battles with demons of its past and now once more these demons have awakened to prove a point- that nothing is ever resolved by blatantly denying it and sweeping it under an already over-flowing rug as soon as it occurs.  I am happy because the trampled-on dignity of Damane shall be used as an example (unfairly so too) to uphold that racism is still very much alive, it is just well concealed in very many cases. I am happy that this episode has sent an uproar, especially amongst the youth and has shown their lack of tolerance when it comes to such. I am happy that the UOFS SRC has defied the university’s management and voiced their outrage when instead the wish was that they keep it on the hush-hush. I am happy that much of the narrative behind this incident is driven by the youth, I am happy that they feel some kind of way about it and more so that they have taken a united stand in peacefully fighting away such troubles.  I am ecstatic for people are fuming instead of hiding behind transparent curtains of pseudo-rationale as has been done by Prof. Jansen. I am glad that unlike him, everyone else calls this spade, a spade and they have opted to “assume” that it is a racist attack when he has told them not to jump to [race card] conclusions.

I am only glad that some form of dialogue has been unbolted and that blacks can bask in this glorious moment of anger. Rightful and justified anger.  I am almost as happy as a clam that blacks and whites alike have flooded twitter under various hashtags stating that racism must be dealt with beyond just text and theory.

 "Denying that there is a serious racism problem in our universities will not achieve transformation [1]. Instead, what needs to happen, first, the acknowledgement that these problems are present [2]" @YouthLabZA 

"If we are going to truly challenege racism we need to reflect on the way systematic injustices manifest...[1] In order to challenge racism we need to engage the trauma of our past... [2]I feel quite strongly about the two young white men being prosecuted, but this will not undo racism[3]" - @coconutBOY101

I am glad that although it has been a rude awakening, those that have believed that racism is of the past have opened up to the reality.

The radical in me wants to gather everyone together and suggest that racism be nationalized and by this I simply mean that it be acknowledged and recognized as a mental sickness that must and should be dealt with. I propose that right-wingers confined to anger and bitterness of a history that is plagued by racial inequality and impurities disclose their discomfort with the black race. My radical standpoint believes that when we talk about issues, we work towards healing them, when we open about our anger and our hatred to certain things, we allow for them to leave our conscious state and into the open. When we talk about how we feel, we open up lenient methods of confrontation, when we encourage honesty and frankness in our societies, then we get closer to the root of the problem. But when we suppress social injustices by choosing not to talk about them, we create lead ways to them becoming taboos. I wish for a society that openly communicates their thoughts and feelings in a constructive manner, regardless of the seeming offensiveness of their proclamations. 

This backward form of progression is the brainchild of a radical being. It is not to suggest that those who actually are racist go blurting it out or expressing it through harmful means, it is merely to recommend a communicative nation, especially where the dynamics of race are involved. It is to start by first acknowledging the anger that many still harbor and then talking it through in an attempt to heal from it.

Until next post,

Afrika rising, Peace & Revolution....