The Things No One Will Tell You.

1. No one will tell you that happiness is like a loan.

At first, you will get it in a lump sum but proceed to spend your life paying it back in installments of pain, confusion, indifference and hate.

2. No one will tell you that being loved is often harder than loving. 

You will question the sanity of those who attempt to colour you in with their affection. You will doubt their sincerity, their utter determination to turn you; a block of ice; cold and in solitude, into water; carefree and fluid. The thought of being loved, entirely as you are, will puzzle you and send you into a daze, a relentless coma that will sometimes only be cured by the phrase, ''I love you, too." These words will sting. Your tongue will attempt to repel them.

3. No one tells you that sometimes blood is not thicker than water.
No one tells you that the very same water comes in the form of friends and lovers who will fill the very same voids that the blood created as it gushed out of your body in the form of family betrayals and hurts. The lovers will kiss the places that are sore because of the graves dug by our mothers and fathers. The friends will bring the wine and the chocolates that will heal the cracks you acquired while trying to please your parents.

No one tells you these things.

Ramblings of a recovering mind pt 2

"I will post SOON", she said. She lied, clearly.

 

It is hard to write when you are doubting every one of your opinions. It is hard to write when you are trying to weed out what the world thinks and what you think.

 

We will continue with music later, I hope.

I just wanted to tell you about books.

Please can we read, please. Read anything and everything that makes it feel like tiny angels are dancing on your imagination.

Halfway into High school, I took a liking to African Literature. There are so many classics hidden on this 'dark' continent. Books that are possibly better than your current favourite books. I am slowly discovering this genre and slowly sifting through what is readable and what is not.

There is a certain pride in reading something that you find familiarity with. As a non-default - I am black woman who is far from thin and I have natural, kinky hair and I speak more than one language - it is rare to find a book that will have a character that sounds so similar to what you are and who goes through things that you do or that you will go through.

And I found this character in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie' s Americanah. <sigh> I love that woman (Adichie, that is). When I grow up I want to be her. I want to write books that will make undecided girls like me want to write as well. In any case. I would ask you to read her books. All of them:

 

Purple Hibiscus

Half of a Yellow Sun

The Thing Around Your Neck

Americanah

She is my current favourite author. I would like to here from others about their favourites

 

I found more!

 

 

pictures

I think I have forgotten that at the beginning of this blog, I was the photographer and Nozie was the writer. Of course, I did mention that I would dabble in writing but I think I have gone overboard now.

 

so here:

 

 

 

 

 

That Bits and Pieces type love

You want me in sections, I don't like that. You gaze over my body like it's a buffet. You are not amazed by all the options and you aren't willing to try out new things, instead you arrive at the table having already chosen what you want. You want bits of me. You want to saw off pieces of my flesh. You only want what suits you. In fact, you only want what Society tells you is appropriate to take from me.

You want to cut open my personality and select what suits your palate. You don't like the fire in me...you have never had a thing for hot things. And so you kill the fire by watering it with ideas of how "i'm being emotional" or a "woman". Apparently, you missed my vagina or breasts while scouring over this here body and saw only sexual gratification and not the fact that I am indeed, a woman. My feminine ideals dont suit your palate. Femininity in its entirety gives you a premature vasectomy. I am sure you have noticed how your fellow customers refuse to indulge your opinion about how everything female is awful and bland? You don't like how I am not intimidated by your seemingly superior and macho characteristics. Bitter taste, aint it? You don't appreciate how I recognise my worth; it rubs your testosterone straight into "oestrogen filled, emotionville" doesn't it?

You don't get that I am an acquired taste and that those who understand and love my taste, celebrate me every chance they get. You are missing out on some 70% cocoa dark chocolate here, sugar. You are missing out on some age-old whisky here, honey. You are missing out on some grilled and gorgeous Queen Prawns here, boo boo.

You just want to love bits and pieces of me, and call it Fine Dining. That time, we are both aware that you don't even fully appreciate what you do select from the buffet table. You peck and frown at every little piece, hoping your judgement will motivate the food to meet your ideals. Would you like a glass of water to help you swallow that large Truth, sir? When you realise that the goods offered here do not need your validation would you like something stronger? Something strong on the rocks might just put your world back into its axis.

Next time you are hungry, don't delude yourself dear picky customer. This is not the buffet type restaurant (but we do offer that on sunday mornings for loyal customers). This is a restaurant built on good service and great wine and even better food. The menu is decided by the owner. Take it or leave it, dear. Changes are made when and how the owner pleases.

You see the people behind you, sir? Yes...them? They are waiting to come in. I would advise you to appreciate the restaurant for what it offers or you can make space for those who do.

This here personality is staying.

This here body is staying.

Both of them can and will be highly appreciated. We don't need your money here. The people who have acquired the taste of this place tip heavily :).

We don't need your I'll-take-this- large-meal-in-a-small type love. We don't need your Can-I-have-this-vanilla-ice-cream-without-the-chocolate-sauce type love. We don't need your Bits and Pieces type love.

Mr. Einstein

i look at you and i see irony
not in the sense of Fe

i look at you and i see a Cole world,
no Jermaine but you make my Power Trip
my lights switch
my mind flip
and like a coin,
bless your head
but where's your tail?
because to you i see no end

perhaps like an ocean meets the horizon
like the way crimson meets eyes
like the way this wine needs ice,
you and i go together

But

you are my irony
not like Fe
more like fuck me

no wait. i'm a lady
so i'll say, "hi"
(don't forget the gh)
because our pH
is perfect.

you are
my irony.

Ramblings of a recovering mind

Good evening.
Long time, hey? I am not sure if we have reached the stage where an apology will be widely received and welcomed so I will refrain from apologising for my disappearance. No…there must be at least one person who kept on checking relentlessly for a new post. Therefore, I apologise to you.
You know what happens? It is like having too much fun at an outing and forgetting to take pictures. Life was happening to me and I forgot to document it.
Sigh, where do I begin?
I just realised that penchant for being disrespectful towards English punctuation and grammar. Please bear with me, folks.
I often wonder if I will feel like this in my 40s; this constant feeling of the metamorphosis of my soul and mind. I feel like after every quarter of the year, my body aligns itself more and more towards the person I am aiming and meant to be. Not to say that it is a beautiful process; this growing stuff is the pits man. I think the compensation for some of us is that while we are going through this pain; our parents are still partly liable for our actions. Otherwise, there is no telling what mayhem I would have been inflicting on myself or the world in the past couple of months.
I feel I am waffling.
Music and words have been stitching my gory wounds. So I have taken it upon myself to widen the horizons of my consumption of The Arts.
Let’s start here: I haven’t taken photographs this year. I promise, more to myself than you, that this month will not end without having a truckload of pictures. I feel this photography thing would be easier if someone lovely were to buy me a camera. I’m just putting it out there, hey (._.’).
Music: so I have been listening to music that evokes emotion more than intellectual thought for some time now. I like listening to music that reminds me of the future and makes me fantasize about the past. I know we all have our different tastes, but may I recommend? Ha-ha, I just realised that this is MY HOUSE so; I will basically do what I want. Here are the recommendations that I am forcing upon you:
Listen to Erika Badu, people. If you enjoy our blog, there must be some part of you that will connect with Mama Badu. Listen to Next Lifetime; Orange Moon; Telephone; I Want You; Green Eyes; Out My Mind, Just In Time; Incense. Those are my current favourite’s en ce moment. You will find many more pretty ones, guaranteed.  Erykah Badu makes heartbreak desirable just so you can croon to her songs with the same curves and dips as she does.
Lianne La Havas – PEOPLE! She only has one album out (If you know her, make a plan and get her to release another one) and I am already prepared to starve for a few months to catch her live. She, like Erykah Badu, makes you want to know and understand her life story. Her album is ‘Is Your Love Big Enough’. Listen to ‘Lost and Found’ last. Other tracks that will have you: Gone; Everything Everything; No Room for Doubt; Elusive…Just listen to everything.
Listen to James Blake. I am still new here. His songs are like an emotion.  Sometimes I feel like describing my emotions with his songs. I love Retrograde; Lindersfarne; The Wilhelm Scream (Also check out the Kwabs cover of this track) and DLM.
The XX – their album sounds like one long song that changes slightly everyone now and then.  This is meant as a compliment. I love their use of pan-drums and bass. I also appreciate how well their voices complement each other. I have actually ended up loving all of their songs on the album ‘Co-exist’ but notable ones are Angels; Chained and Reunion.
I just realised how many more artists I have in mind.  I have not even started talking about books. I haven’t even started talking about South African artists who stir my organs. I will pause there for now. I can imagine that you can only read what I write in bite-sized pieces.
P.S Did I mention that all of the above tracks are highly recommended to be listened to with a bottle or two of wine? You don’t drink? Have coffee…your immune system is not ready to listen to this without some sort of beverage. Actually, you were never ready.
I will post SOON.
Khensani
(please suggest music to me as well...I will suggest more as time goes by)

Hello, everyone! :-)

(i say everyone because the stats say there's people in Russia, Germany, Canada, India, Indonesia and Sweden reading our blog. i can't express how mind-boggling that is.)

the purpose of this particular blog post is to offload, i think. not in a 'sad-let's-get-tissues' type of way but rather reflective. it's been a while since i've wanted to pen my entire thought processes down so here it goes :)

1. IT'S A NEW YEAR!
duh, hahaha. on a serious note, however, it really is a new year. 2013 at some point just didn't seem like it would end. then there were bits of it that flew past so darn quickly that i barely had enough time to internalize it. i remember january to around early april were perhaps the worst of 2013 for me. a lot was going on with me academically, mentally and health-wise.

academically, it dawned on me that i was in the wrong field. the course i was doing didn't make me happy but i refused to acknowledge this for the longest time because so many people were depending on me to make them proud. i'm sure a lot of you can relate to the pressure that comes with wanting to serve your parents well and ensure that their investment reaps rewards. unfortunately, the seeds weren't too fruitful so a drastic decision had to be made: change of school and course.

which led to the mental part. the transition wasn't at all easy. i had gotten so accustomed to the freedom i enjoyed away from my parents..and i don't mean the out of hand freedom but rather the mental liberation that comes with living on your own. if i was stressed, i could take a stroll at 00:00 at not be asked where i was going or what i needed a walk for. i also missed the friends who had quickly became family. most importantly, i missed learning. i think that was the first time i realized the power of education. of course i'd hated my course but i yearned deeply for the discussions, debates and enlightenment that happened constantly within the university.

naturally with all these emotions and mental conflicts going on, the body responds by shutting down in order to jostle you a bit. and this happened with me. ironically, i hadn't even noticed that i wasn't eating as much and subsequently losing weight FAST.

fortunately, i have an phenomenal mother. she, a few days before my birthday, realized that i was sinking far too deep within myself and decided to yank me out. and what better way than to get away from everything? her, my younger sister and i took a vacation to the beautiful city of Kasane, Botswana.

i can guarantee that the google images do NO justice to this place. i'd actually just like everyone to pencil a visit to Kasane in their bucket list. as atheist as i am, i'm pretty sure god resides there. when all the forces of beauty, peace and tranquility collide, it's called Kasane. i honestly can't say enough.

anyway, :), while there, we took a drive to Zambia where i bungee-jumped for the first time ever. GUYS! this too needs to get penciled into the bucket lists. i guarantee NOTHING ELSE will test your faith in life itself like bungee jumping does. i remember looking 111 meters below me at the greenish/blueish water and questioning my own sanity. was i suddenly handing my life over to the shackles at my feet and the men that were to reel me up? if things went wrong, was i content with the way the nineteen years of my existence had been lived? had i said everything that needed to be said? had i done all that needed to be done?

all these questions were swimming, rapidly at that, in my mind and before i could answer, i leaped off. i simply jumped..threw myself into nothingness. i leaped into the unknown. all i was sure of was the river that flowed below me. that was all i knew, that was all i saw. i remember thinking that i was a lot like the river; blue (in a melancholic sense), green (with envy..envious of a better future, a life where i knew where i was headed and what i wanted, envious of the happiness that everyone else seemed to effortlessly wear) but more than anything else, like the river, i was flowing with a scary nonchalance. easily, slowly and with little sense of direction.

before my thoughts floated any further, the ropes that bound me to life jolted me back into reality and i realized i was at at the end of the leap. i must have hung upside down for about six minutes before i got reeled back up. i promise the person that jumped off the wooden ledge six minutes prior was not the same person who came back up.

i think that was the first step to recovery.

no actually, i KNOW.

Words are still beautiful.

by www.letters-to-nobody.tumblr.com

You’re sixteen and seventeen or nineteen and twenty and you’re starting to realise that growing up feels like slowly pulling out a thorn from your flesh. You’re sitting alone and watching the sun come up and everyone you know is still sleeping, or trying to, or pretending to. You learn to walk away from phrases like Let’s give this another shot. You simultaneously become more sensitive and more detached. You hand out parts of yourself like souvenirs, until you have trouble grasping onto what’s left. But — but — there are still the few people who are willing to peel back their skin for you, show you what’s underneath all the layers. And yet you learn to stomach your feelings and keep your memories to yourself, because when you tell a memory too many times, it either becomes more than it is, less than it is, or something different altogether, blurred by time and tampered by loneliness. And sometimes, you put his name into Google Images and stare at all the strange faces of people with the same name as him, scrolling page after page until your eyes blur and you momentarily forget the angle of his cheekbones and the lines on his palms that were once midnight roads to places you thought you could call home. At night, you lie awake trying to curl your palm around old feelings and old memories. But in darkness they are slippery, falling through the gaps between your fingers and joining the list of things that were once tangible, and now only wisps of feeling, absences in the shape of your empty hands. It gets harder to breathe. In your mind, you move from the bed to the couch to the floor to another country, another continent, another life altogether. You constantly try to reconstruct yourself, renew your body and mind into something someone might be able to love. Into something you will learn not to destroy. But when the curtains are closed and the dust settles into your hair, you learn that growing up cannot be transformed into anything else. That at 3.a.m. you cannot excavate yourself. You can only wait. And feel. Close your eyes. You are sitting at a piano in a bombed-out warehouse in a country where nobody listens to music anymore. Forget how your mother once tucked your hair behind your ears. Forget the words your father sliced through your skin. Forget the boys who liked you better with your shirt off. Forget the teachers who you loved but disappointed. Forget the person you used to be. Forget the person you want to be. Listen to music in languages you can’t understand. Watch TV on mute. Change your handwriting. Fold yourself in half, in half again, and once more. Slip yourself into a stranger’s pocket and let them carry you to places without names, to people without faces.

So cup your hands around the absence, and learn to grow into it. Learn to fall into it. Mould your body like clay. Light candles. Light lanterns. Light matches and campfires. Follow the light. Swallow the light. Impregnate yourself with all the light until the darkness folds in on itself and something new is born. Growing up is learning to be comfortable with the softness of your tummy, the body that you live in. Tattoo yourself with feeling. Touch the torsoes of trees. Burn incense. Mourn for the people you miss, the people you loved, the child you once were. Choke with feeling. Shake with feeling. Now stop. Slow down, breathe. Pull out your insides and thread your DNA into something that the world cannot control. Build yourself up from the ground. Knead the dough of your mind. Turn yourself into a feeling. Turn yourself into something you cannot touch.

Drag yourself outside, stand at the intersection and hand out the best parts of yourself, until you are left with something small enough to skip like a pebble over the lake, squinting into the sunset and watching as it stops and sinks slowly, softly, uncertainly to the bottom.

Now get up and walk away. Don’t you dare look back.

after foraging through my pictures.

Spring; Is the grass greener?

September.

Spring; calm, colourful and comforting the woes of Winter, crept silently in.
The door, left open and unattended by the chills of before, was welcoming.

Naturally, as dust does on furniture, Spring found an abode.

My Mind Has The Flu (Part Two)

he is blocked, my mind.

 

no amount of tissue aids

 

pharmaceuticals provide temporary relief

 

he is blocked nonetheless.

 

he aches, he yearns

 

he coughs

 

he hurts

 

fluids have done nothing

 

 

he is in limbo, can't make any decisions,

scared, possible consequences have him shaking in a corner

 

and he hides within himself

 

and he yearns for a time when he was once healthy

 

he yearns for a time when he could:

SEE music

HEAR beauty

SMELL love

TASTE photographs

and very importantly to FEEL the sillages of common law lovers.

 

my mind, shame

He has the flu

any remedies?

he is suffering



My Mind Has The Flu (part 1)

i am afraid of life happening to me

Age & Love; April.

April.

On the nineteenth of this month, I turned nineteen. Not only was another year added to my existence, but a new level of love was built and solidified on my heart. If ever I knew I was loved, I KNEW it on that day.

The purest of messages, like the one attached above, poured in from all spheres of life. One might find this normal because it was my birthday and naturally, people would be jovial. Quite the contrary applied for me. Just before my birthday, I'd been detached, heavily at that, from the land of the living. Perhaps it's safe to say I merely existed.

My birthday showed me WHY I existed and that's why it is perhaps by far, the best month of this year. I learnt love, I received love and believed in it again. What was taken away, had been restored. 

Lesson: Love lives.

Hello Hi..

When I first started writing this, what I first wanted to do was apologize to all the beautiful people who read our blog. I was going to speak of how I haven't had internet access and how my laptop kept re-incarnating as a piece of hardware that did nothing. The last two are true, by the way. What isn't however, is my apology. 

I'm not sorry.

The time spent away from our blog has been quite the interesting one. There's been growth, knowledge, laughs, misty eyes (because thugs don't cry. .) but most of all, there's been a plethora of thoughts. I'm not sure if I'll be able to tabulate them well enough but attempts are in order.

Perhaps for clarity, I'll use months because each thirty or so days brought a new perspective to life. Some months were and are still prettier than others. All months, however, were real and invaluable. 

Walk with me.

N.
xx

Scrambled

Scrambled

The fertile one has been broken,
its remnants lie splattered-
like the broken morale of a defeated
team and lying in ruins like
the spirit of a broken dream.

The shield, the protective white
has been stripped of its nobility
while the yolk of potential
has been spilled for all to see, to ridicule,
to mourn.

Together, the broken ones have
been mixed into one
indecipherable blob- potential,
youth, fertility all lost in
the heat of a hurried breakfast
pan.

The complexities of
wasted youth, lost potential,
mistaken worth all rendered
helpless in the simple plate
of a hungry man.

 

by Shiksha Dhedha

A Promise, A wish almost.

Sometimes we think we have outgrown something. Sometimes we don't realise how misguided our minds are. Sometimes, we don't realise that our younger selves may have been wiser than our current selves. And so, within those ambiguous statements, I promise to revive the budding dream that was this blog. And hopefully, a small little person I so dearly love, will return as well.

So this is a promise to blog regularly. A promise to myself more than anything. A wish almost.

The Problem is Staying Alive

A hidden gem on campus.

Orange on the Table.

 

They say it exists.

 

 

 

I was on a date with myself.

 

 

 

And then I wasn't any more.

 

Wondering About You

Wondering About You

 

I wondered if I would ever see you again

If your sad eyes would make the same folly

of locking glances with me.

If the wind would caress the darkness

of my gashed face and send messages

of pleading toward your carefree smile.

 

I wondered if all the rhythm in my unsung song

and the beat of my unmoving dance

would still amaze you, even now,

after all this time.

 

I wondered if the white canvas of my heart

would be cleansed of the gold stains

of your dancing emotion. If your tragedy

would illuminate my music ever again.

 

I wondered, under a tree, in the shade of

thought 

sheltered from the brightness of youth, if

I should ever meet you and if I ever will

write poetry about wondering about you

when I wonder about you.

 

By Shiksha Dheda

From my perspective

Yes, I am a romantic.

However much I would like to deny it, I can't.
Which leads me to saying that I'm an optimist.
And as an optimist, I find myself being a photographer( let's use the less professional...I'm a person who takes photographs).

I find myself wondering these days if one can be a photographer without being an optimist, or atleast having an optimistic gene in your body. Essentially, a photographer's job is to find value where others don't. If they don't then there is no point to their job because they wouldn't be documenting a fresh perspective of someone, something and some place.

And I wonder, how is it possible for my bones to be optimistic when my flesh is cynical. I guess it's just a shield. Maybe I find optimists weak. Perhaps my cynical flesh is serving the purpose of protecting my fragile bones. Life stomps on Optimists. I don't like being weak.

I'll leave it there for now. I promise myself to finish it,