I’m not a rat and this race is killing me


After years of working and education, I find myself feeling more and more that I am not wired for routine.
It’s actually more than that, I’m not wired for:

  • the city,
  • traffic,
  • a boss,
  • an 8 to 5 environment,
  • performance reviews,
  • a monthly salary,
  • individuals called colleagues that I have to interact with, WTF!
  • rules of conduct
  • dressing a certain way
  • absolutely not wired for applying for leave, I mean it’s my fucking life
  • competition to out do people to get ahead

I can actually go on for a while. You know, I’m not even wired for nice things. Yes I like nice things, but I’ve lived and seen people live full and apparent happy lives without nice things. I can do without.
I watched a movie a while back, I don’t remember the title, Helen Hunt was in it. She ran into an old friend; the catch up went something like this:

Friend: “You’re married now, what does your husband do?”

Hunt: “Oh he’s a philosopher.”

Friend: “That’s interesting, which school?”

Hunt: “No, he just stays home and thinks a lot.”
Maybe that’s what I’m wired for.

 
I won’t even get into motivation and ambition and all that mess. These things are for people in this rat race that I don’t belong in.

 
I’ll be debt free in a couple of months, God willingly. Going to move back to my mother’s house and think a lot for a year or until I find another way. Or not…we’ll see.

 
P.s. I’m not depressed, but it is really cold this morning and I work for a soulless organization.

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An afternoon with Cynthia


When I was still in college I had a flat mate who changed before my very eyes, in a short period of time.

She was a very sweet and timid girl. She always kept to herself and was careful never to bother anyone. Every time something shocking would happen, she’d have this classic and endearing “deer caught in headlights” expression on her face. Everyone adored her and her life was close to perfect, until she fell in love.

His name was Collins. Not the most charming fella, but he was okay you know? He broke a girl’s heart.  But this story isn’t about him. It’s about the girl. This is about my old flat mate, Cynthia.

 

An afternoon with Cynthia

So there I was, chilling in my room on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I was putting the finishing touches on my Gender Studies assignment. In walks Cynthia with an offer to take me out for ice-cream. I was quick to put on my flip-flops and off we were. We walked to ice cream parlour then she insisted we take a stroll to the park, which I didn’t mind. When we got there, she seemed restless and uneasy. I figured she wanted to talk to me about something important. ‘Maybe she wants me out of the flat’ I thought (I was such a slob back then). Little did I know that I was a part of a covert mission to stalk someone.

We were having an unmemorable conversation about Janet Jackson’s fading music career. I had funny things to say, so did she I guess. Suddenly she changed the topic, and looked at the opened field.

“Obi do you know that girl over there”, as she signalled to a group of “free spirits” who were relaxing under a tree. I looked and I knew one girl in the group. Stella, an acquaintance I was on friendly terms with.

“Um…I know the one girl, Stella. Party animal that one, she’s probably recovering from a hangover”, I joked. I then looked to Cynthia to acknowledge my joke. No such luck! Cynthia gave me a stern look instead. Which confused the shit out of me and made things a bit tense too.

“Yes, they told me you know her” she said, in a solemn tone. At this point a million things started running through my mind. I looked at her, with as much evidence of astonishment that I could possibly muster in one facial expression.

‘Did she here something about me and Stella? What did Stella do? Oh God, has she gone lezzy for Stella? Mmmmh, if I knew we were doing this, I would’ve gotten three more scoops of this delicious ice-cream.’

She soon stopped the bullet train running through my mind, “Obi, she’s been sleeping with Collins”.

You know I thought I was a good friend/flat mate, but all I could say to her was “Oh”. ‘Oh’ was really all that I could offer her, because I had million questions to ask her dammit! Why the hell was I doing in the park, eating ice-cream and stalking an alleged mistress? Why am I getting dragged into this shit? Why didn’t she tell me about this when she first suspected it?

Needless to say, my meek ‘Oh’ didn’t deter her. She wanted me to divulge every single thing that I knew about Stella. Which wasn’t much, but she was so dynamic in her efforts to get intel, I even felt compelled to embellish a few things. Which I didn’t, I would’ve under ‘normal’ circumstances (being the eccentric I am), but the whole thing of stalking in the summer time was crazy enough.

We got into the whole thing, and I was pretty convinced from everything she told me, that Stella was indeed sleeping with Collins. It had all the clichés of the tales of a cheating boyfriend. Denial, we’re just friends, people are lying, I love you, she’s crazy, etc.

Which again begged the question, “Cynthia, why are we here? Why am I here?”, so I asked her.

“I want you to introduce me to her”, I nearly choked on my last scoop of ice-cream.

“Um, are you sure? Why? Does she know you? What do you want to say to her? Shouldn’t you be speaking to Collins? I mean this is about you two. You’re in a relationship with him, not her.” I replied in a bit of a panic, trying to change her mind.

All her faculties were surprisingly in order as she picked up on my discomfort and vehement protest of this confrontation.  Cynthia put my mind to ease. She explained that she’d been coming to this spot in the park for a very long time before she even knew about Stella. That she only found about Stella once she started sleeping with Collins. She even made farce at how she knew how crazy the whole thing seemed to me. She called it prima facie feeble duplicity (law students). She confessed that if she told me before hand, I might have disagreed, and that she didn’t have the nerve to walk up to Stella alone.

I was convinced, yet I was still sceptical. My curiosity took over and I wanted to see the story unfold. So I walked over to the shaded tree and hollered Stella’s name. Stella was infamous for her zest, she was quick to respond.

“Obi! How you doin’ doll? Come over here and gimme a hug”, I conceded to her hospitable charms and hugged her with my tail between my legs. I felt a bit dirty. But this feeling was quickly watered down by how she reeked of weed.

“So Stella, can I have a quick word with you buddy”, I smirked sheepishly. I motioned her towards Cynthia’s direction. I then realised that she might know of Cynthia, which didn’t matter to me anymore. As we took the short walk towards Cynthia, I told Stella that my friend wanted to meet her.

“Oh, that’s Collins’ girlfriend isn’t it? Is she the friend who wants to meet me? I’m shagging him. Oh fuck Obi, what is this bitch shit trap you’re drawing me into?” she laughed! Then I couldn’t help but smile at her bizarre behaviour. ‘I should hang out with this girl’ I thought.

“Stella, this is Cynthia, Cynthia, Stella”, I was very curt and eager to end this.

Without skipping a beat Cynthia went straight into it.

“Hey Stella. I’m so sorry if you feel ambushed, but I don’t know what the protocol for doing this kind of thing is. I’ve been thinking about this confrontation for a few days now and I thought it was best to do it in person. “

Stella, tried to interject. But Cynthia was determined to finish. She sounded like an automaton, programmed to confront the other woman with as much tact as possible. She continued as if she she’d never stopped.

“A few days ago, Collins ex-girlfriend contacted me. She told me that she’s HIV positive and that she’s not sure where she got it from. Apparently she told Collins and he’s been ignoring her since then. So she got desperate and contacted me. I’ve been trying to get a hold of Collins too, but he’s phone has been off since I told him that his ex called me.”

Tears started rolling down Cynthia’s cheeks, and just like that it felt like the end of summer. I took off my sunglasses and held Cynthia’s hand. Stella stood still like a marble statue. Her face looked gaunt like something inside of her had decomposed instantly. I didn’t know how to comfort her, hell, I didn’t know how to comfort Cynthia.

As if she had a potato stuck in her throat, Cynthia resumed with her monologue that now sounded like an ode to the end of a young life. The most human and most real thing I’ve ever heard spoken.

“I’ve been going to Collins’ place to try to speak to him, find him, to get some sort of explanation. I’ve since found out that he’s run back to his hometown of Orange Groove. I got tested for HIV yesterday and I’m negative. I suggest you do the same.”

At this point tears were rolling down Stella’s face too. This provided me with some sort of relief. At least now Stella was showing some feeling. And she wasn’t being the belligerent sassy girl. She was processing everything and taking it all in. Stella then gestured to hug Cynthia.

Cynthia stepped back. Wiped her tears and then there was fury in her voice.

“You don’t get to sleep with my boyfriend and then have me comfort you. Your God does not love you that much. You have a reputation Stella. For me to do this, I had to think of you as a human being and not a contemptible whore.”

I don’t know if it was the weed, or if this is who Stella really was. But she didn’t respond at all to Cynthia’s scorn. She wiped her tears, told me to take care and walked away back to her friends under the tree.

I immediately held Cynthia in my arms. She was shaking; all I could do was stand there in the middle of the park and hold her as she wept. When she regained composure, we walked home and stopped at Mirror Tables, for a late lunch. We ended up having a liquid lunch and we had a conversation about the whole thing drunk and loud. We both cried and said all that could’ve possibly been said. We had a few comfortable silences, which would end up in more tears and hugs. Occasionally we sang along to a few songs that were played on the radio.

We literally crawled home and both passed out on her bed.

The next few weeks were hell. I’d hear her crying every night, and when she wasn’t crying she was drinking. Sometimes I’d tend to her, but on other nights I pretended not to even hear her. She was not prepared to draw anyone else into this. I suppose then I was expected to carry her through this whole ordeal. But all was prepared to do was that I could possibly do, listen. I listened to her anger, confusion, regret, pain and hope. All the while I was speaking to my mother for some grown up guidance.

She got tested again for HIV and again she was negative. We were both jubilant. But it had become obvious that something had changed about Cynthia. There was nothing neither sweet nor timid about her anymore. She was now firm and a little more selfish.

Somehow she found the strength to graduate and instead of getting work as a legal intern, she decided to go teach English abroad. Her next test was scheduled for just after graduation. But I had moved back to Southville. It’s been three years, and I still don’t know if she took the final test or not. I didn’t care to ask or bring it up. I didn’t think it mattered then and I still don’t think it matters now. What nearly consumed her, saved her in a way. We email each other every now and then and she is the poster child for carpe diem. I couldn’t be more proud.

 

Collins was never heard of again.

I actually heard about Stella a week ago. She married a Muslim Doctor.

As for me…well, I’m just the guy telling the story. It’s not about me, lol.

If you want something, ask for it!


So I’m sick. Eish! I’ve been avoiding social media for only 5 days and I’m already falling apart. Smh! Its sad really. This thing called social media is going to kill so many of us.

Anyways ya, I’m very ill, its the damn flu. I know I’ll catch it every now and then, but I’ll never get used to it. Its actually such a bore.
So in my sick state, I chose it necessary to sommer kill two birds with one stone. Reflect on me slightly average/wip life and catch up on current social/media events.

As for social media…boo! Its all shit! Did 5mins of that! Oh ya, #RIP Brown Dash! I’ll always remember you. And its not only coz you died in the same year as Whitney. Its all because of your naaaice beats.

As for reflections (I hate vanity but whatever) I realised that, one of the greatest most important lesson! Like this huge! Its simple and its honestly crucial to getting any satisfaction out of your existence on this crazy (I wish I had one word to describe this planet/world) world!

IF YOU DON’T ASK, YOU WILL NOT RECEIVE. IF YOU WANT SOMETHING, YOU GOTTA ASK FOR IT!!!

Like all round, in every sphere of your life! You have to ask for stuff! From a waiter giving you shitty service, to your lover giving you D-Grade loving! From your friends treating you badly, to your God failing you! Like proper all around! Demand the best out of yourself too. Ask for more! Always ask for more!

Some people will love you for it! Some people won’t. But imagine this; being loved for wanting what it due to you.

Not sure how to end this blog post. I’m not being lazy. I just don’t know what more to say. I’m not even feeling awkward about it.

I want to blog nutz all day!

There was a knock at the door


There was a knock at the door, we all knew who it was and no one cared to open. We sat in silence, with bare optimism and desires of a dubious miracle.

I lit a candle,

Some of us prayed,

Bargaining for time,

Lord please don’t do this”

Some of us imbibed,

All of us hoped,

But we all knew

As our souls grew cold and our faces became weary, the time had come as the door became denial.

There was a knock at the door. There was death at our door, coming once again to take another person we all loved ever so deeply.

#RIP

The Good Mistress


A few days ago I had a conversation about mistresses with @KopanoMashishi. She said that she’d never be able to be with another woman’s man. It’s admirable that some women choose to stay away, but I don’t necessarily condemn women who don’t. Women who have side dick…The Good Manstress, this is for you too. Diane Lane was too convincing in Unfaithful for us not to recognise this growing pandemic.

The word “mistress” seems to have glamorous connotation. Mistress (I looked it up) means: a woman who has a continuing extramarital sexual relationship with one man, esp a man who in return for an exclusive and continuing liaison provides her with financial support. The penny chaser and the sex fiend. I’m not talking about this woman.

I’m also not talking about Glen Close’s character in Fatal Attraction.

I’m talking about a single woman who gets pursued by a married man and ends up giving in to his advances. What’s the name for her? Why does she also have to be degraded into the same class as penny chasers and sexual fiends? And if she’s lucky enough to not be called a mistress, she gets called a “home wrecker”. I’m not trying to come up with a new word for this woman, so for simplicity I’ll keep calling her a mistress, the good mistress.

We all need to understand that a relationship is between two people. The demise of a relationship and any issues that may arise can never be blamed on a third person. I believe this to be an absolute statement. I don’t think mistresses have the power to end a marriage. Every time a mistress in blamed I feel like women (society) has completely given up on men, and it is now every single women’s responsibility to make sure that all husbands don’t stray.  It’s bullshit.

Maybe there aren’t enough men to go around and the “good ones” are taken, what’s a single lady to do? I’m not advocating for bad behaviour, all I’m saying is that when “bad behaviour” happens anyway, we must be very careful who we condemn and if they even deserve condemnation.

I just wanted to advocate the good mistress. She too needs, wants and deserves companionship. If this world were perfect she wouldn’t have to accept it from a married man. It’s not fair for her to say no when it’s a perfectly viable option for her. Even when it’s not every night, on Christmas, on her birthday or on nights her lover has to be with his wife.

Postscript

  1. Dr Mamphela Ramphele is the perfect example of this good mistress I’m talking about. One of the greatest women on our continent, she was Steve Biko’s mistress and everyone knew. See how terrible the word mistress is? You can’t be calling the great Dr Ramphele a mistress. It’s rude!
  2. I asked people if there was a euphemism for mistress. I got two funny responses.  @Onklez : Ad hoc companion. @KopanoMashishi Mistress is already a euphemism for whore.
  3. But what about the kids? Truth is kids are resilient if you have a relationship with them. Many of my friends have philanderers for fathers and they turned out just fine. Many of my friends have faithful fathers and they’re fucked up. So really, leave the mistress out of it.
  4. With polygamy it works out perfectly for The Good Mistress. She can get promoted to The Good Second Wife. I guess all our first ladies, before the first wife were mistresses at some point? Not sure how it works with polygamy actually. Grey area…
  5. I love Angelina Jolie. If you want to hate someone hate Brad Pitt. Yes, I went there!
  6. Ladies, if you have to have men on the side, please don’t use the excuse “if men can do it, so can we”. You don’t need to be like men. So that really is the worst excuse ever! Cheating isn’t cool, if you do it, it best be for quality dick or untamed passion that you really can’t help…or love.
  7. That song Women To Women by Shirley, was in bed taste.
  8. If you are The Good Mistress your favourite songs are “Saving all my love for you” by Whitney Houston or “As we lay” by Kelly Price, than you deserve that call from Shirley! Smh!

MORAL OF THE STORY…DON’T BE TO QUICK TO JUDGE!

I saw a light and it wasn’t love. Part Deux


I saw a light, part deux

As she sat on the couch parallel to her sliding door hoping that the nature outside will inspire her heart, Lesedi sighed as if to let out all the soot clouding her emotions. She snuggled in to get as comfortable as possible. Her eyes caught a picture of her and Themba on the side table, from their earlier days. A Brooke Logan’esque lone tear rolled down her cheek and settled on her gown. For some reason seeing the tear stain made her smiled, she didn’t know why. She quickly got over it and allowed her mind to wander.

 

Her mind raced to when all she had with Themba was a ding dong fling. She recalled the kind of person she was before Themba. In the beginning her heart wasn’t into it. Themba came at a time when Lesedi had just gotten into her element as a young working woman. A relationship was not a priority. She’d have her flings that we’re far between and infrequent. She didn’t mind them or the frequency. “I live light” was her twitter bio for a long time, and that’s what she did. She had her youth and her fun, her interests and her friends, her ambitions and her God. “A lover in my life would prove redundant and excessive”, was what she’d tell herself on nights when she indeed wanted to fill the other side of her bed. She’d spend the same nights thinking of what love had meant for her in the past. These nights would awaken a dormant demon that nearly took all of her. Her first love, Mashudu. She’d quickly banish his memories to the hell they belong to and soon just accept that love can’t be defined by a boy who she loved when she knew nothing about the world or herself.

 

Lesedi picked up the photo frame and realised that at the end one cannot help but think of the beginning. “A trip down memory lane” she thought. She felt pathetic for a moment and reminisced on her first encounters with Themba.

Themba was smooth but not in a sly way. It it came from a place from a good place, a tranquil place. He was a young man at peace with himself and everything around him.

She wasn’t a fan of having a “might as well approach to life” but he managed to make her feel comfortable enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. Something about him made her tick like the finest Swiss watch. She felt all these things seduce her senses and yet she still played hard to get. She chuckled at the number of hoops she made him jump through. Then she stopped for a while and realised that he wanted those hoops, he wanted to jump through them to make her happy. Themba was always making an effort to serve a purpose in my life. She soon let up and gave Themba what he desired her love. She’d loved for much less. This was worth it. Thinking in hindsight, she questioned how much of her love was she giving. She now felt that Themba deserved more.

 

Themba was fast on the ball once things were undoubtedly official with Lesedi. She was shown around and introduced everywhere as Themba’s girl. This started getting to her as she started feeling like she was being swallowed into someone else’s life. She’d bring it up with her friends and they’d all make her feel like the beautiful girl with a scratch on her Bentley. So she just let it go and soon started enjoying the fruits of a relationship. One of these fruits definitely had to be the sex they had.

Themba would make Lesedi feel like a Goddess and a whore all in one thrust. She’d never really thought of sex as the “be and end all” of a relationship before. Themba however pulled tricks out his hat on so many occasions. Lesedi would sometimes even feel the need to applaud him once he’d taken her to heaven and beyond. She even went out of character and bragged to her friends about it on a drunken night out. She was however never comfortable with cuddling, even when Themba would insist on it. She never understood his desire for this as she had none. On some nights she would try to cuddle with Themba, but on others she’d just turn over and rush to have a cigarette. On one night Themba confronted Lesedi on her lack of intimacy. This shocked her as she’d never been required to explain this part of herself. Lesedi didn’t force an explanation she didn’t have or wasn’t willing to give. She just told Themba that it’s something she just can’t do. Themba protested that he felt like it’s something she can do, just not with him. These words pierced through her heart. She had come to care about Themba. She didn’t want him to have feelings that questioned her sincerity. The feelings of guilt would soon fade away and their sex life became more and more clinical. Bleeding away all the passion and desire they’d ever had for each other.

The relationship didn’t change much as a result of this. The only difference was that she felt like they were more in love when they were around other people than they were when they were alone with each other. Their time spent alone felt like rehearsed scenes from a sombre Sam Mendes movie about a yuppie couple in suburbia.

 

Looking for a little distraction from herself, Lesedi reached for the remote control and switched on the TV. The last person to watch TV was Themba so it was no surprise that it was on Nat-Geo-Wid. The animal of interest was the lion. She watched a lioness with her cubs. This gave her a warm sort of feeling inside. “I want babies one day” she thought to herself. She was quick to reprimand herself, as this was the most inopportune time to even think of such.

 

Lesedi noticed the time on the information bar and realised how time just flew by. As if fate had cursed her, she heard the sound of the door opening and she immediately gasped. “What am I going to do?” she said under her breath with grimace. She quickly turned to the door like there was any hope that it could be someone else except her future ex.

 

Themba walked in with roses, a wrapped box and sparkling wine. Lesedi felt like the worst person in the world. It slipped her mind that today is their third anniversary. She stood up quickly and looked at Themba dead in the eye feeling lifeless.  Then fell to her knees, letting out a cry of sorrow and joy.

 

She saw a light and it wasn’t love. It was content and it was beautiful.

 

The end

Moving on or Giving up


I am not the most enlightened person in the world. Which is why I do this, to get enlightened, from your opinions.

Where do we draw the line between giving up and moving on? It might as well be the same thing. I’m looking back at all the things I’ve abandoned in my life; relationships, gym contracts, clubs and societies etc. At the time I though I was moving on. Now think I was giving up…

As I grow older, I’m constantly becoming aware of the importance of being honest with myself. And the decisions I make.

Seeing it as moving on is actually like seeing the glass as half full hey?
What do you think?

Tango


Abstract thoughts doing the tango in my mind. This tango is complex. This tango is not easy. This tango is twisted and this tango is confused.

I’ve seen the tango, I’ve never danced the tango. I only wish I could, maybe then I can be in tune with the dancer within.

Oh how I wish I could keep up. With two left feet, I’m cursed to stumble. Stepping on life’s toes. I’m constantly frustrated.
Frustrating myself, and the dancer within.

This dance is fast.
I am still.
I want to tango.
I need to dance.