Run Away As Fast As You Can

If he easily gives you the last dumpling
But is never around when you need him –
If he runs himself ragged for others
But is too this or that when you call him –
If integrity is something he values
But all you have is a pile of broken promises
Under a heap of half-truths
Hidden beneath a wet pillow,
You might want to consider that perhaps –
Perhaps he’s not the lover you need,
Perhaps you’re not the girl he wants.
Let Yeezy teach you:
Run away as fast as you can.
-Beauty’s Daughter

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The Heart Wants What It Wants

Easy to say, not so easy to practise.
Because we forget.
What happiness looks like.
And we lie.
About what flowers feel like.
And what love tastes like.
And we buy into the lie.
That love hurts.
We settle for mirages and avatars. Because loneliness.
Because loneliness.
But if we’re honest.
And ruthless about our flowers.
About gathering them.
And gifting ourselves with them.
Not imitations. Not simulations.
How can the universe not hear that?
But loneliness. But loneliness.
But fear. But fear.
-Beauty’s Daughter

Wednesday, First August 2018

ZANU fought ZANU and ZANU won.
-The Real Story of The Un-coup

END OF 2017

I remember asking what, exactly, was being celebrated.
‘Let us live,’ they said. ‘Let us be happy. It is a new day.’

They cheered and cheered and called him ‘saviour who restored the dignity of the nation.’ In their revelry they forgot who it was in the first place who brought shame upon the Houses of Stone.
They forgot his past, his true name, and fooled themselves into forgetting his true intent: the point of power is power. And because they forgot they thought he too forgot but he did not forget where he came from or where he was going. The long game. He played it.

Had they remembered that history repeats and people don’t really change they would not have been so foolish as to expect kitten antics from a crocodile.

But they forgot.

AUGUST, 2018

‘We will not accept any result but the one we want,’ they said, as if 2008 did not happen, as if 2013 did not happen. Independent observers they demanded and received, perhaps thinking observers would make a difference, as if observers independent or otherwise have ever made a difference.

Define, if you will, ‘observer.’ Remember, if you will, ‘sovereignty.’

They thought, perhaps, that the crocodile had become a gecko in old age; that time had brought forth a repentance from violence and nullified degrees in the same.

Perhaps they thought a house-lizard of unfailing tameness now stood in the crocodile’s place.

HOW TO ZANU

Drink enough tea out of tiny enough cups with enough cameras pointed at you and they’ll pull the wool over their own eyes and forget who was sitting where when history unfolded. When 2000 happened. When 2002 happened. When 2008 happened. When 2013 happened.

Send somebody to selfie with the masses on a tank, send somebody else to fist-bump a few natives and the stench of decades of murder will be remembered no more. And when you sin (not if) they will say of you not that this is who you are, but that you have changed so much in such a short time.

Decades of sin remembered no more. Because selfies and fistbumps, because tea in Borrowdale.

They thought to bend the tea-drinker to their will. They tried with the eager sincerity of amnesiacs tilting at windmills. They approached the tea-drinker – but where were their leaders? – they stepped to his doorstep thinking him a tame lizard to allow such liberties, only to find grinning back at them the bloodied jaws of the Butcher Crocodile of ZANU, jowls glistening and teeth dripping with the blood of his children.

***
Harare’s children murdered in the streets while pretend surprise and shock litters social media. It’s sickening and I am disgusted and disappointed.
‘But…but…selfies, fistbumps, how could they?!…’
Stop it.
You know what ZANU is. You know what ZANU has done. Do not act brand-new when ZANU does what ZANU does. We mourn the lives lost. Do not dishonour them by pretending to be surprised.

R. Kelly Admits It And So Do I

Is R. Kelly amazingly talented? Yes.
Is that in question? No.

OK.

I admit it, I was a big fan of R Kelly. Big fan. Super fan, even. Lyrical genius, talented af, can’t take that away from him.
I admit I saw him live twice and screamed like a whole groupie throughout both shows.
I loved liked his music; I didn’t know much about his private life and I didn’t care because art is separate from artist.

I admit I defended him when he first went on trial.
I admit I’ve never seen the golden shower video but back then I believed it was a smear campaign: it wasn’t him, just haters hatin’.

I was doing pretty well hiding my head in the sand until I read something written by a Chicago native detailing how he operates (yes, still) in high schools around Chicago, and I admit I experienced vicarious trauma. This was around Write Me Back days and as a result I never owned that album nor any that came after, nor have I intentionally listened to him since.
I admit I’ve tried though.
I admit that for a while I tried to play my old favourites but he was ruined for me. I’d be singing along as one does and then the thought would hit me: he’s probably singing about a child. All this lyric’ing and the inspiration is likely a girl aged 14-16.
I admit it, I could no longer separate the art from the artist.

I admit I was one of Kelly’s biggest fans, and I admit I kinda miss his kinda lovin …
But eish.
I admit I can’t anymore with him. Because right when I’m getting to the good ol’ nasty bits a little voice reminds me: he likes ’em young, real young.
There are solid receipts out there if you care enough to find them. The stuff he’s gone to court for is the tip of that gross iceberg.
He’s a sexual predator of note and that’s not just the dark side of genius, that’s young girls’ lives ruined by a grown man.

I admit that that hits too close to home.
I get that genius comes with madness but his madness is pure evil and I cannot pretend it’s anything less. Not anymore.

I admit that I was a big fan of The Weatherman, the R in R’n’B, the Pied Piper, the King of R’n’B.
I admit that I miss Kells’ music in my life, that his fall hurts like hell. I admit all that.
All I’m saying is I don’t fux with him anymore because my love for Black Womanhood trumps my appreciation of his art. This new song tugs at heartstrings I didn’t know I have but knowing what he has done and continues to do to young black women tugs even harder. I admit it.

Listen to the song here.

For Harriet posted video commentary on R. Kelly’s latest release. I listened to the beginning but because I couldn’t quite catch the song audio I thought let me listen to the song for myself. I listened to that amazingly talented, gorgeous black man admit to not being shit, make excuses for not being shit, and play the victim card all while gassing himself up. Nineteen minutes in which my emotions ran the gamut from disbelief to sympathy to despair to negro, please.

And I’m triggered.
Please listen so we can be triggered together. Strength in numbers and all that.

Happy New Year To Me. The Eve of 37.

It has been a scary half-year in so many ways. I fell in love with mist and when it dissolved under the heat of reality I fell apart and in so doing I fell into myself. I was drowning and then I wasn’t and then I was dancing fully naked on a cliff-edge and I had choice: before me was set life and death and to be honest I did not so much choose life as chose to breathe one day at a time, despite the pain. I breathed once, twice, and then the sharp pains in my chest and the trembling of my body became growing pains because the universe is merciful and – let’s just say I found myself and anchored myself not to wisps of dream woven with fantasy, but to the solidity of me, to my will; I became my own salvation and I slowly brought myself together again. I’m still bringing myself together again.

*By half-year I mean from the beginning of the calendar year to now. I know it’s more than half a year in real time but who cares about minor details? My real new year begins tomorrow and all I can say is – I’m ready.

This is the last post of 30 to 37; the last post of this challenge I set myself. When I started I had not written consistently in a long time. When I started my writing was clunky and awkward and formulaic – but I’m here now, 30 days later, and while I’m not where I wish to be in terms of my writing, I am here and I am ready for my new year, for new beginnings, for new challenges. I’m ready to step into my new year and leave the anxiety and filth and fear of the shitty year that 2018 has been thus far, behind. Cliched on the eve of a birthday that isn’t even a milestone birthday, maybe? Perhaps, but true nonetheless. And who gets to decide what is a milestone birthday and what isn’t if not the birthday girl herself?

This is the year I lost and found myself again. The year I awoke from slumber, the year I uncurled and stretched and rose and stalked this world to find my dreams. So much that is changing, so much that *I am changing – too often we forget ukuthi izinto azizenzi, zenziwa ngabantu.

And so on the eve of 37, happy new year to me. Dear Goddess, happy new year to me.

On Faith. 2 to 37.

Someone said: make a list and trust God for it, and I didn’t. And when I saw her again she asked me if I’d made my list of things I want my partner to be, do and have. I told her no. She said well if you don’t trust God then there’s no point in making such a list, anyway.

And I thought to myself, if only I could articulate what it’s like to carry the doubt and the knowing of God/Goddess. If only I could explain why calling the Divine God no longer works for me. If only I could describe who I was when I used to post on that other blog, the ‘Christian’ one, and why I’m no longer that person. I think I’m scared that I’d first have to explain who I am now, who I’m becoming, and I’m not altogether sure that I can, though I think the universe is nudging me gently yet insistently to figure it out.

I believe that the God/human relationship can only work if it’s personal. It’s not easy dismantling years of conditioning and unlearning learnt ways of thinking but I am of the opinion that you can’t be truly one with the universe, with God, Goddess, Divine Intelligence, whatever you call that Power that fuels the universe – I believe you can’t ever know anything about that if your knowing of it comes only from external sources. I believe the deep in me calls to the Deep and while I’m a student learning from teachers, while I appreciate the guidance of those who have walked this path before me, I know that ultimately I will walk my own path, climb my own mountains, reach my own nirvana.

And two days to thirty-seven I can’t help but think that if nothing else this is the year I will find the divine that lies in me. I’m ready. I think.