He got away.

I had been holding on for dear life, hoping that the urge to leave me would have subsided after I decided to let go. However long that was. I was wrong. He got away.

Sanity got away.

I think he felt used. Underappreciated. Taken for granted. All these things, if not much more.
He went and left room for mental illnesses I never thought I would have. That’s what happens when you take for granted the little big things that keep you going.

That’s what happens when you binge-think destruction and revenge for all that started the battle between you and your sanity instead of fixing your relationship with him. I did this. I did it.

Our relationship was a little rocky. Maybe the “little” is a lie but allow me to make myself feel a little better, even if it’s for a split second. I don’t deserve it. I need it.

I dug the skin on his loosely hung arms with my nails. A part of him had to stay with me. That’s the part responsible for piecing together these words. The same words I can’t sprinkle on this lonely road so he could find his way back to me. If he ever wanted to. Not that he would.

That’s how selfish I am. Maybe that’s why he left too.

Sweet consolation is stuck neatly under my nails though. A part of him, small as is, does lift my heart to heavenly places. That’s all I ever wanted.

I want to pray that he comes back, but one third of me prays God keeps him away from me. I am poison. I am death. By leaving, he chose life.

He got away.

Sanity got away.

Because who stays awake and pieces together a post personalizing the word “Sanity”? Only Sanity’s divorcees.

Thank you for reading.


On like, awkwardness and stuff… yeah

I am sitting contemplating kicking myself in the face, thinking about this one incident that happened when I was at Campus Square strolling the aisles of Pick n’ Pay.

I ran into KB, a guy I know from church. We say “Hi” and he holds out a fist, to fist pump me of course. The confusing thing was that, with that same hand, he was holding a pack of diapers. So, in my perfectly sane head, he is giving me the diapers because in a parallel world in my head, people go to supermarkets, pick up diapers and give them to random people who do not have babies.

I am sure you can imagine the whole two minutes of him pulling back his kids’ diapers and trying to fist pump my very confused hand which was now going for a handshake.

I hate being awkward. It’s like every part of your body is constantly looking for a way to betray you. It’s fishing for a way to make you look like you constantly do not know what you are doing or why you’re doing it. You are the guy always going for hugs when the other person is going for a high five.

Let me tell you about another time I looked like myself, the person who doesn’t know why she does stupid things. It was after church. We were just having coffee and mingling. Luthando, a friend of mine who also has her funny moments, is talking to these two guys, brothers, Tim and Brandon. I am just sort of there but not contributing to the conversation (because well, I am that person whose head moves from face to face in a group interaction, but they never really say much).

I do not remember the subject of the conversation. I just remember Luthando going, “Bye David and John,” at the end of the interaction because she is boss like that. I could not believe this girl! How could she deliberately get their names wrong like that? I had to jump in and correct her and, you know, be the better black. My only contribution to the conversation was, “No, Luthando. It’s Tim and David.” My brain was literally two nanoseconds late in reminding me of Brandon’s name. I turned around, slowly, and walked away.

And that’s the thing with being chronically awkward. Your brain is forever just nanoseconds late in thinking of the appropriate thing to do or say. It’s almost like it just chills there, waiting for you to mess up and then goes, “Haha, uyadidiza yazi (you’re slow, you know). You should have shut up instead.”

Being a person who suffers from anxiety, I spend most my time alone mentally kicking myself in the nose for awkward situations I was lead actor in decades ago. My brain recreates those episodes and plays them in a continuous loop. For each episode played, I want to bury myself in hard clay.

I seriously need a cure for my social awkwardness.


Teach Me How To Dougie

On my inability to gwara-gwara and how, in a parallel world, I am stupid, dumb and all other ableist terms.

I love dancing. It is also no secret that every time I try to dance I look like a flamingo with impaired mobile ability. Not in my head though. In my head I look like the cooler version of Cassper Nyovest doing the shoulder wiggle in that Tito Mboweni video. I wouldn’t particularly carry rhinoed notes called tigers to make myself look cooler though, but each to his/her own right?

There was a point to me bragging about my dancing abilities that do not manifest in the flesh. I am desperately trying to find it somewhere between my ears. Oh yes! The South African school system. Wait? What does the shoulder wiggle have to do with…?

It’s okay I got you. You see now, in a parallel world somewhere in my grey mush, I am a child desperately trying to prove they can dance because here, intelligence is measured in dance moves. I can do geometry and mechanics but here nobody cares about that. If I cannot gwara-gwara I am [insert ableist term, the most common being “stupid”].

Flip it back up to this world where a child who gets a 23% in biology is not the sharpest tool in the toolbox because all they can do is ballet and contemporary dance. I mean, how dare they not be interested in human anatomy and the balance sheet?

You know what’s worse? When the system has established that, despite many efforts to “help” this child, they cannot grasp the structure of the cell, the response is not “why don’t you try something else, like music?” The response is at least get a 30%, fail to get into varsity for any of the things you would be interested in, have a hard time contributing to  the economy, then turn to crime, then we get you into another system, the social justice system. Yet another system that will fail you.

Our schools still prioritize academic excellence and put little effort into grooming soccer players, dancers, actors, hockey players from school level. So many of our learners who do not have the chance to go to private schools and some previous model-C schools seldom have a chance to show and enhance their talents because there are little to no facilities to harness that talent.

Academic excellence is good, but if sometime this lifetime, kinesic intelligence is afforded the same attention as mathematical intelligence, we would have achieved a lot.

*does the shoulder-wiggle*


I am going to publish this very personal post. I am probably going to regret it. Or by the time I am done I will talk myself out of clicking that “publish” button. I don’t know. I do not plan for it to be perfect so it will probably have typos and lack correlation but five minutes spent correcting it will probably lead to me deleting it.

So, I have been going to this therapist, I don’t know, hoping he’ll fix me or something. Hoping that whatever it is that I feel that I fail to explain, he’ll make it go away. I was devastated when he told me that that was not his job. His job was not to make the constant feeling of inadequacy, of prolonged sadness (I still avoid saying depression to this day, I don’t know why) go away.

I was hoping he’d make me stop failing everyone around me. I was really banking on him being able to bring back a Mbali that could sleep with dry pillows and smiles. The disappointment in both his face and mine, as he told me only I will be able to do that. He can only guide me through that journey.

Even at that, I am still failing, hence articles written at 2am because sleep is for normal people, for happy people. Okay maybe that’s not true. Because sometimes I cannot get out of bed because getting up means facing the world and sometimes I am not ready for that type of responsibility. I am not ready to play happy people and laugh and post jokes on Facebook like nothing’s wrong. Ah I’m derailing but whatever.

Let me tell you a story.

So this one time I was sitting in the lounge with my aunt. As usual, sharing jokes and funny videos (yes, my aunt is cool when you don’t get on her wrong side). Then a random thought hit me: “Till when are you going to put up this facade of a happy, put together person?” it presented itself.

The realization that I do not have a space where I can do really ugly loud cries while pouring my heart out to someone hit me like a ton of bricks. I am always putting up a happy face, to EVERYONE (well until recently).

When it hit me, I started doing the ugly cry, out of the blue. The last time my aunt had probably saw me cry was when I was a child and somebody in the house had spanked me for something. She had never experienced the adult me being emotional.

That’s why I do not blame her for walking out on me without a word. She avoided me until I stopped and came back. I showed her a meme on Facebook. We laughed. Life was back to normal. We never spoke of it again.

Why I am telling you this story I have forgotten but I am trying to keep typing so I do not talk myself out of at least writing out my feelings, regardless of whether I press the publish button or not when I feel I have exhausted the contents of my brain and heart.

Okay let’s talk about lighter stuff.

Let me tell you about myself.

I love food. Yeah that’s about it. I’m joking. I find comfort in food. Thank God for my fast metabolism. I also like nice music. I always thought I was an introvert. I just had low self-esteem and therefore wanted to keep myself out of people’s eyes as best as I could. Until I grew older and started being comfortable in my own skin. Then I discovered I am more of an ambivert. An introverted extrovert, if there’s such.

Okay. Let’s leave it here. Looks like I haven’t talked myself out of publishing this. It could be taken down though before the end of the day.

That felt really good.



Black Men, Try Harder

I am sorry but I do not exist for your entertainment. I do not exist for your consumption. I exist for me. Every part of my being is for me. You do not need to like it. You do not need to understand it. You just have to keep it moving, same way you do when I’m being violated in front of you.

Okay let’s get talking.

I cannot remember how many times I have been asked why I “hate men so much”. LOL this is really funny because hey, I love men. I love black men. Black women love black men. I mean, you can see this in the way black women who do not identify as “feminist” or those who are against the #MenAreTrash movement come at those who do on these social media streets when men are being called trash. That’s love guys.

Pity you fail to reciprocate that love when you pass the very same women who defend you tooth and nail on social media, on the street being catcalled, raped, beat up because “it’s none of my business,” and “what did she do, he wouldn’t just beat her up,” oh and your favorite “why is she dressed like that? She is asking for it.”

You fail your mothers, your sisters, your daughters each and every day by enabling these incidents in your environments. For every Bongani who is a friend of yours who preys on a drunk girl at a club in your presence, there is a Sbu preying on your daughter the same way, because people like you keep quiet when such things happen in your watch.

You fail your daughters every time you tell them to dress “less provocatively” because “men are animals out there.” You are telling them to duck bullets and doing nothing to stop the people firing them. You are basically useless because they can only duck so many bullets.

You are saying long skirts and dresses prevent rape but 6 month old babies still get raped. By you, your friends, your colleagues, your sons. These people are in your circles. You turn a blind eye because you respect them with their bullshit because they are men.

It’s amazing how something as measly as a short skirt can make you lose respect for a woman, but something as serious a rape will not make you lose respect for a man. It’s amazing how you react “haha” to Facebook posts calling women “bitch” “hoe” and all the names you have for us under the sun but write researched think pieces on how you alone are not trash when women call men “trash” because the whole #MenAreTrash movement is about you. See your life?

Men, why are you so scared of calling out other men?

Why would you rather forbid (because you own them right?) your girlfriends and sisters from going out to party than face the men who prey on them? And then you hide behind that “no man wants a girl who…” line because our entire existence is dependent on what you as a man want in a woman, right?

Let me tell you why. You are this over protective over the women in your life because you know men are trash. But when we point it out on we are man-haters. We are breaking down black men. We are building anti-men societies.

The whole world has beeeeeen anti-women. It still is. What are you doing about it besides getting touched whenever women claim the little spaces you have not occupied? What have you done besides making sure the status quo is maintained because it favors you as a man?

So, men, I’ll say the line you force down on us when trying to control our choices in clothing : “This is coming from a place of love,” do better.

One last thing: The rand is stable. The sky is still blue. Men are trash.