On Race, Identity and Relationships. When I was about 15 years old I started going through a bit of an identity crisis. I was a black girl, going to a predominantly black institution (PBI), and I didn't like almost everything that the other black girls liked. I hated Afrobeats, and could only tolerate it in small amounts. I was not big on Gqom or House or eventually amaPiano. I liked 'sad white girl' music and a lot of alternative indie stuff. For context, I was simultaneously going through a pick me crisis but I grew out of that quickly, thank god. Anyway, I liked Pink Floyd, The Beatles, BRONCHO, Atlas Genius, Tame Impala, Cage The Elephant and so on, you get the gist, liked reading (but not Nora Roberts, Harlen Coben, James Patterson etc, think more Lev Grossman, Neil Stephenson, Neill Gaiman) and was into stuff like fantasy. I could speak and understand Ndebele, which was the dominant language quite perfectly, but because I have and had anxiety I was too af...
The Art of Mothering Men I often wonder why breakups seem to be much harder on women than on men (most of the time.) After a breakup, it's commonplace to hear a woman speak of ‘finding herself’ but it is rare to hear of men embarking on these elaborate spiritual and emotional journeys, to find themselves again, to learn self-love, to learn their value outside of romance. There is this common phenomenon in women that I will call ‘wife-ication.’ I would describe this as the gradual loss of self, and the phase when one makes their male partner quite literally their entire world. It begins like this: You’ve gone out to the club, it’s girls’ night and everyone is having a blast. Your friend’s phone rings, it’s her man and he wants to see her. Goodbyes are said and she leaves to be with her man. Over time you hardly ever see this friend, she is always with her man, but funnily enough, he isn’t always with her. He still hangs out with his friends and maintains a healthy social life....
Where are all the people going to? Why is everyone marching determinedly in that one direction? I am trying to follow, I am, but these heavy slow feet get caught up in the mud and I am slipping, falling down, down into the squelchy depths. Every effort I make to get up fails, my limbs are useless limp noodles attached to my body; I cannot move them. Where are they going? Why can't I follow? Please everybody, anybody, somebody, just wait for me, I am coming. Please do not leave me here stumbling around in the mud which I notice is colored a strange russet. Horrified I see it is also blood; all the blood from every wound I have ever had. I am drowning in myself. When I open my mouth to scream that mixture of mud and blood wrestles its way into me and my mouth is filled with the metallic taste of blood. This is what it feels like, to die. The crowd does not, cannot hear me even though I am making a racket and a mess of myself. I am dying in front of them, why can they not hear me? I...
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