MY CHRISTMAS SHOPPING WOES

After spending three consecutive days finalising my Christmas shopping, I can safely say I’ve had my fair share.  Here are some of the things I hate about shopping:

·    The endless process of looking for parking.

·   Too many people...like I’m not one of them.

·   Queues at pay points.

·   Queues at restaurants.

·   Queues at gift wrapping stations.

·  .Queues in the ladies rooms.

·   Ok...queues.

·   People who jump queues. That’s just ghetto.

·   Noisy unruly kids.

·   Worse still, kids who scream while rolling on the floor.

·    Kids.

·    Thin Santa Clause in a worn-out costume. Not cool.

·    Mistaking a shopper for a shop assistant. Oops, my mistake.

·    Shop assistants who follow you around, giving a commentary for every item you touch.

·   People who blatantly bump your ankles with trolleys and think that a lousy “sorry” will take away the crippling pain.

·         People who snatch parking that you've patiently been waiting for while the other car takes it’s time pulling out of the parking bay.

·         People who fill up the elevators when they don’t have a pram, trolley or heavy parcels. Take the escalators or stairs!

·         People who find you waiting for the elevator and press the already illuminated button. Your special touch won’t make the elevator come faster, stupid!

·         Worse still, people who find you waiting for the elevators and be the first ones to push inside, not even allowing other people to get off.

·         People who wait in the queue to pay for parking and only scratch for coins when they've inserted their parking ticket in the machine. How about sorting out your coins while you wait!

·         Too many tempting specials.

·         Security guards who insist on checking your bags and purchased goods when the shop has a detection system. Do I look like a thieve?!

·         Couples who walk around holding hands, blocking the way.

·         Couples who fondle and kiss. Public indecency, get a room!

·         Bad service. It’s not my problem that you’ve been working long strenuous hours. 

·         Too much Boney M.

·         People who drop clothing items on the floor and leave them there. Do the decent thing and pick up after yourself.

·         People who snatch the last item on the shelf that you've also been eyeing.

·         Trolley attendants who insist on pushing your trolley no matter how much you explain that you don’t need help. 

·         When shopping is finally done, spending time looking for your car and reporting it stolen only to discover you were looking for it at the wrong place. 

HOLIDAYS ARE AROUND THE CORNER!

ECHOES OF MY MOLESTED CHILDHOOD

In commemoration of 16 Days of activism against women and children, I share this essay...

I hear the sound of his car pulling into the driveway. There’s a loud bang as it comes to a stop. It must have hit the bucket and mop that stood against the wall. He is drunk.

A cloud of fear suddenly envelops the house, intoxicating the warm atmosphere. I feel my limbs weakening. My younger sister goes mute. My mother shudders across the room, getting the tray ready to serve dinner. Fear is silently shared among us.

He staggers through the kitchen door with bloodshot eyes, without acknowledging my mother standing by the table; he walks through to the living room and collapses on the couch next to the TV. He mumbles senseless things in slurred speech. I can’t tell what he’s saying and I don’t care. I look at him with loathing, wishing he was dead. I hate him, I hate the fact that he is my father and I hate his blood that runs in my veins.

I stare at the TV and all I see are moving images. I just stare, trying not to look at him, trying to make him fade away.

He changes the channel without even considering that my sister and I are watching and immediately drifts to sleep. I sit and wonder what he thinks of us, if he has any care in the world for his kids.

My mother walks in with a tray of food and places it in front of him. She gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. He opens his big red eyes and lowers them to the tray. He hardly looks at her. She tells him that his supper is ready in a soft voice like she’s begging for approval. She leaves to collect our plates. He stares at his food, digs one scoop into it, chews slowly and sinks back into his couch.

I struggle to eat. I tell my mother I’m full and she instructs me to finish my plate. I pretend to eat and my sister does the same. I tell my mother I’m off to bath and sleep. She asks my father to switch back to the channel we were watching but he ignores her. My sister and I leave the room.

I later notice that all he ate was that one scoop of food. My mother takes his plate back to the kitchen and places it in the microwave, saying that maybe he’ll want to eat it the next day.

I lie in bed angry, hating my life and hating the fact that my mother won’t stop loving this man. I eventually drift to sleep.

I’m later woken up by sounds of my mother screaming for help. I hear bangs against the wall. Is he hitting her head against it? What has she done wrong? He repeatedly shouts that he will kill her. She begs for mercy. I run to their door and shout for him to open it but he won’t. I know that neighbours can hear this commotion but they won’t intervene. They never do. We’re on our own. I keep banging the door. She won’t stop screaming and the claps and bangs from inside their bedroom won’t stop.

I go back to my bed and coil myself up into a ball. I hear his gun cocking. She apologizes and begs him not to shoot her. I try to close my ears, hoping against the sound of a gunshot that will take my mother away. Maybe this is the night that he will finally kill her.  

Then I remember my grandmother’s words that prayer can help in any situation and begin to pray. I pray for God to come and rescue us from this hell. I pray that He keeps my mother safe.

It’s 4am now and I’m still praying. My mother sounds like she doesn’t have enough breath left to scream. At least she’s still alive. I pray until I drift to sleep.

It’s 8am. I wake up to the smell of bacon, eggs and fries. I walk to the kitchen to find my mother making breakfast. Her face is swollen and her eyes are puffy from crying. She wears a pretence smile as she places the eggs perfectly on my father’s plate.

I fail to understand her position and wish I can shake her into reasoning. Anger builds up inside me. I walk to my parent’s bedroom. The door is slightly open and my father’s tall thin figure is thrown on the bed. He almost looks unconscious. I push the door open, slide in and push it back the way it was. The smell of alcohol and stale cigarettes fills the room. I wonder how my mother sleeps in here. He is topless. I wonder if he forced himself on her. I stare at him with complete utter hatred. His side drawer is slightly open. That’s where he keeps his gun, his weapon of power. I pull the drawer open and see the gun lying there.

I pick it up. It’s heavier than I thought. I aim it in his face. I want to fire countless shots to make sure he doesn’t survive. I imagine peace that would come thereafter. This man would be gone and we would not fear anymore. My mother would be safe and our pain would slowly begin to heal. My hands begin to shake and my arms get weak. At that moment I hear my mother calling from the kitchen, my father takes a deep breath and moves his shoulder like he is getting ready to wake. I quickly put the gun back in the drawer and leave the room.

My mother tells me breakfast is almost ready. I nod and walk out to the veranda. It’s a beautiful sunny Sunday morning. I watch people walk to church with bibles under their arms. Neighbours wave as they go about their day, like they don’t know the truth. Birds chirp, dogs bark and children play. All is back to normal until the sun sets, until my father’s next drink...

REMEMBERING MADIBA

Today marks a year after the passing of our beloved Madiba.  I still remember the day like it was yesterday.  I was in surfing the internet around 23h00 when I came across a friend’s Facebook post announcing his passing.  At first I thought it was just another false report as there had been many in the past. I then turned on the TV to seek confirmation and there it was, President Zuma was breaking the dreaded news to the nation.  The day had come, our Madiba had departed.

I sat and watched the whole world receive and react to this news until 03h00.  Tears were streaming down my face as I felt a deep sense of loss. 

As a parliamentary official I was soon engaged in activities that would form part of the country’s 10 days of mourning.  A Joint Sitting of Parliament was immediately called for Monday 09 December 2013. As Parliament had just gone on recess and parliamentarians were at their constituencies across the country, the weekend was spent getting all 454 of them back to Cape Town for the Sitting.  

After the Sitting I started to withdraw from the buzz to join the nation in mourning. I still remember how the country came to a standstill during that period. All media content was stalled, it was all about Madiba and I don’t remember hearing a single person complain. People gathered at public places to share their loss and messages of condolences flooded in from across the globe.

I remember the official memorial service at FNB Stadium that attracted at least 80 foreign heads of state, a record in history.  I remember thinking “Wow, who would have thought that this country of mine in this dark continent would someday be so significant?” Truth is, Madiba and many of our struggle heroes did believe that it would be someday.

I cannot forget the rain that poured down endlessly, symbolising a blessing.

Madiba lie in state at the Union Buildings in Pretoria where he was inaugurated as the first democratic president. Lying in state was a concept new to me but also welcomed as it afforded many South Africans an opportunity to bid farewell and find closure.  I was one of the thousands of people that viewed his mortal remains before they were taken to his ancestral village of Qunu for the burial.

Although I could have found an easier and quicker way to view his remains, I decided to humble myself and join other fellow compatriots in the endless queues. The day will remain memorable for as long as I live. I got to one of the parks at 06h00 and stood in the longest queue I’ve ever seen and only got to view him 10 hours later. The experience was mind-blowing. The people were representative of the rainbow nation; all ages, races and backgrounds. People kept remarking about how the day replayed the first democratic elections. I found it incredible that Madiba’s parting gathered people the same way it did at the beginning of democracy that he had sacrificed his life for.

After seeing Madiba for the last time, I found a sense of peace within myself and hoped for the same peace for the country.

Sadly as we remember him today, there a several reports of racist attacks and many societal challenges.  However, Rome wasn’t built in one day. Countries which were liberated long before us still struggle with similar issues. So long as we don’t forget the ideals taught by Madiba and commit to personally bringing about change, one day we will overcome. 

SOMETIMES IT'S OKAY TO WEAR SEXY CLOTHES AND DANCE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR LIKE YOU WERE BEYONCE

KEEP WALKING FOR FREEDOM

As part of International Anti-Slavery Day, thousands of people around the world joined forces and WALKED FOR FREEDOM on 18 October 2014.

The team and I

I joined these amazing advocates for change in Sea Point, Cape Town. As we took on the 5km walk down the Promenade, I prayed for women and girls who are captured for sexual exploitation and domestic servitude; boys and men who are forced into unpaid labour; the disbandment of organised groups that facilitate trafficking as well as for healing of rescued victims across the globe. My wish is that every citizen of the world may make this problem their own and that this movement may continue to grow and influence change that is bigger than we can imagine.

How to identify a victim of human trafficking?

Victims of trafficking usually work in sex related businesses such as brothels and strip clubs. Servitude victims are disguised as farm workers, domestic workers and even contractors. This just goes to show that slavery is happening right before our eyes. Here are some of the ways you can identify victims:

• They are not allowed to be alone; they always have a companion. Keep an eye on this particularly when travelling.
• They usually live at their work site.
• Their identity and travel documents are kept by their employers.
• They may have poor physical appearance e.g. malnutrition, appear to be under the influence of drugs or have bruises.
• They appear to be nervous, avoid eye contact and are afraid to speak freely.

How can you help?

When suspicious of a trafficking case, you can contact the following:

·         The South African Police – 10111

·         Childline/Lifeline – 08000 55555

·         Molo Songololo – 021 448 5421

·         Safeline – 08000 35553

·         Child Welfare – 021 638 3127

·         The Trauma Centre – 021 465 7373

·         The Salvation Army – 021 761 8530/1/2/3/4/5

WALK FOR FREEDOM

Human trafficking is still happening in our own backyard. As part of International Anti-Slavery Day, I’ll be joining thousands of people on a WALK FOR FREEDOM on 18 October 2014 in Sea Point Promenade, Cape Town.

This walk is part of the A21 Campaign, a worldwide revolution against human trafficking, and aims to create awareness of this social injustice. Many cities in the world will join in this walk that advocates change.

At this day and age no human being should be a commodity, yet over 27 million people around the world are enslaved today. This is happening amongst communities and environments that should offer protection and in governments where it is criminalized.   

Every responsible citizen of this world needs to be educated and made aware of this ill. Everyone needs to keep an eye and act.

I invite everyone to be part of this movement and to keep walking for freedom.

If you would like to learn more, please visit www.theA21Campaign.org

UMKHOSI WOMHLANGA – ZULU ROYAL REED DANCE

Today thousands of Zulu maidens head to Enyokeni Royal Palace, kwaNongoma in KwaZulu Natal to participate in Umkhosi Womhlanga, the royal reed dance. 

This annual event takes place in the month of September, South African Heritage Month. This year is set to attract 50 000 maidens from across the country.

In order to qualify as participants, girls have to undergo virginity testing. On the day of the ceremony girls have to go down to the river to pick their perfect reed. Clothed only in isigege (a front covering in a shape of a skirt) and accessorised with neck, arms and ankle beads, they then carry the reed as they match uphill to the royal palace in a procession led by the head Zulu princess. Upon reaching the king, their safely place their reed. There is a belief that if the girl’s reed breaks on the way, this signifies impurity. This however remains just a speculation and superstition.

This ceremony has survived mockery and backlash from many who view it as an outdated practice, violation of girls and an encouragement of male chauvinism. Surprisingly it continues to grow every year and even attracts participants from other cultures and races. 

I may be an urban, modern Zulu woman but this is one of the cultural practises I honour and wish could be preserved for generations to come. I see this as a colourful celebration of beauty which encourages girls to preserve their virginity and take pride in it.

As this country is struggling with the AIDS pandemic and an alarmingly high rate of teenage pregnancies, this is one of the practises that assist in curbing these challenges.

So long as virginity testing and participation in the reed dance remain voluntary and freedom of choice remains at the hands of the girls who partakes in it, I will continue to support this ceremony.

Growing participation and support is a clear indication that culture still reigns supreme.

GOOD MORNING, MR MANDELA: THE PRE-REVIEW

 

I’m currently reading “Good Morning, Mr Mandela” by Zelda la Grange. I was attracted to this book, not by the uproar it brought about, but by curiosity to know what happened behind the scenes in Mandela’s life. Who better to spill the beans than his private secretary who was by his side at all times.

Zelda started working in the presidential office at the beginning of Mandela’s term as president. This is the time when the stringent wheels of change were vigorously spinning. She represented every trait of an enemy and yet somehow she won his heart and trust. Her role later extended to that of a source of comfort and an assurer, so much that he asked her to continue working for him when he retired. They maintained a strong bond until the end of Mandela’s life.

I therefore wanted to know what influenced this strong bond between one of the most admired men in history and this real boeremeisie (as Mandela often teased her).  I’m only in the second quarter of the book but I’ve already zoomed into some juicy inside information, from unpleasant exchanges between heads of state to paddling under the water that seemed like calm waters in the public eye. When countless books have been written about Mandela’s life, this is no doubt a fresh angle.

Zelda has been widely criticized for taking advantage of her position to make money or to paint certain members of the Mandela family black (no pun intended).

Maybe South Africans and interested people of the world deserve to know the stories she tells in this book.  Maybe as a former official of a high level office she owed to keep some things to herself.  I guess people will have their views.

Let me keep reading. I promise to give a full review once I finish this enticing book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A GLORIOUS SUNDAY IN THE MOTHER CITY

The Mother City has been showcasing some spring previews lately. I appreciate the warm sunny days in between the cold, wet and windy weather.

After having made over 200 sandwiches for the needy with a team of awesome women and having paid my dues in church, I treated myself to an indulgent brunch of egg benedict and peppermint tea. Yum!

Now enjoying a glorious afternoon in the garden. The sun is shining bright, bugs are buzzing and jazz is playing in the background. It feels good to just let my afro down. Every queen deserves a lazy Sunday with no obligation or stress. Pure bliss.

MONDAY INSPIRATION

STRENGHT AND RESILIENCE RUN IN MY FAMILY

I spent Women’s Day with all the mothers in my bloodline - my grandmother who moulded my faith and beliefs, my mother who has always been a fountain of love and a safe nest and my aunts who are an extension of my mother through their love and care.

Although we had gathered for a funeral of our beloved Mkhulu, it was very significant to spend such a day with women who have contributed in my upbringing.  

In my life these women represent inkatha – the woven grass coil used by Zulu women to carry heavy loads on their heads. This coil is placed at the centre of the head to provide stability and strength. It makes a load easier to carry and provides support through the journey.

 

 



I appreciate the sisterhood chain that holds these women together.  Each of them has had many mountains to climb and yet none of them conquered alone. They’ve always supported each other without judgement. They continue to face life’s challenges and yet this chain remains intact, bound by love.

I thought about how they’ve played an active role in raising each other’s children. They’ve even welcomed strangers into their homes and made them family. This came naturally to them. They didn’t consider how much money they had or worried about how their lifestyles would be changed by an extra person in their care. When the need presented itself, they simply provided without seeing this as a challenge.

Strength and resilience truly run in my family.

It’s my turn now to nurture, support and be an example to the ones that are looking up to me. I still have a lot to learn about selflessness, so help me God.



It's Friday!!!

THIS WOMAN’S JOURNEY

August is Women’s Month and the 09th day of this month is National Women’s Day in South Africa.  This is a tribute to thousands of women that marched to the Union Buildings on 09 August 1956 in protest against pass laws.

Since then, our Constitution has taken strides towards women empowerment and emancipation. Though there has been considerable improvement over the years, there are still many intertwined challenges that need to be tackled.

Women are still marginalised in their homes, communities and workplaces. The rate of sexual violence in this country remains one of the highest in the world, with an estimated 500, 000 cases of rape every year.  Domestic violence, poverty and HIV/AIDS also remain prevalent.

 

 

It’s not all doom and gloom though. Women have a lot to celebrate and a lot to be celebrated for.

My hope is that this Women’s Month will encourage discussions that bring about solutions and invoke social change. I look forward stories of women who have gone against all odds and done extraordinary things. May these stories break silences and inspire.

May every woman feel special and valued; from a woman in Camps Bay to a woman in Khayelitsha, from a married mother to a single mother and from an executive at a large corporation to a cashier at a supermarket. As much as so many factors divide us, there is an undeniable strong thread that weaves between us, making us the same.

May this month be a celebration of every woman’s journey.

 

 

 

HAPPY WOMEN’S MONTH, MY QUEENS!

WATHINTA ABAFAZI, WATHINTA IMBOKODO - YOU STRIKE A WOMAN, YOU STRIKE A ROCK!

 

MONDAY INSPIRATION

Show them, girls!

HAVE A MAN, HAVE IT ALL. REALLY?

One of our First Ladies, Thobeka Madiba-Zuma, put her foot where her mouth is this past week when she said that “having it all” means achieving a balance between motherhood, a successful career and the role of loving and supportive spouse.

She was quoted saying “I think for us to succeed in our struggles we cannot leave men out of the equation. We need to have men because they play an important role in our lives, and I think if we are to win the struggle we have to have them on board”.

As I have always thought of her as a progressive thinker, I hope that she was quoted out of context as this statement is very disappointing.

The role of women in society has evolved over the years. Current social and political dynamics encourage flexibility of roles and present freedom of choice.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m for traditional families and I do believe that men add value in the lives of women. I just don’t think that men should validate women or be the approval stamp of having it all.

Women have unique ambitions and goals.  There are those who aspire to be wives, there are those who choose to stay single to advance their careers and there are those who single-handedly raise their children, whether voluntary or otherwise. The position of these women in society should be equally respected, without judgement or condemnation.

My concern is that Madiba-Zuma was speaking to a group of young girls who may grow up and subject themselves to frustration, abuse, self-critic and unnecessary pressure in pursuit of the misconceived idea of completeness.

The measure of “having it all” should be at every woman’s individual discretion and no member of society should place prejudice against that.

MY LITERARY WINTER WARMERS

Here are some literary oldies that I’ve been cuddling up with:

·         The Promise by Lesley Pearse (2012): This is a sequel to “Belle”, the initial book which I haven’t read.

Belle Reilly has worked hard to reconstruct her life after unfortunate and shameful events of her past (unfolded in “Belle”).  She is living her dream of being a respected business woman with a loving husband. It’s in 1914 and World War One hits Blackheath in London, threatening to shatter her life and unveil her dark past.

The author masters the art of taking the reader back to Belle in order to understand what shaped this character. She also takes the reader into the First World War, from its battle scenes to its brutal impact on relationships and life in general. It also trails upon how the role of women was viewed by society in that era.

This book reveals that our weaknesses can sometimes be our strengths, depending on our point of view. It trades on the sweet promise of love and the deviant spirit of a determined woman.

This was an enticing read that I recommended for lazy hibernating weekends.

·         Letter to My Daughter by Maya Angelou (2009): I’ve written about my love and admiration for this writer. After her passing I revisited this book which I had initially read in 2010.

I remembered how I was drawn to it by the synopsis “I gave birth to one child, a son, but I have thousands of daughters. You are Black and White, Jewish and Muslim, Asian, Spanish speaking, Native Americans and Aleut. You are fat and thin and pretty and plain, gay and straight, educated and unlettered, and I am speaking to you all. Here is my offering to you.”

As I read it I felt like I was in conversation with her, drinking from her wisdom. She was talking to me like a mother would to her daughter, with conviction and counsel.

In this book Maya Angelou lays her pain and mistakes bear, but importantly, she teaches how she overcame her setbacks.

I would recommend you read and keep this book as a poetic guide to living a meaningful life, to help you rise from your falls and to serve as a reminder of your worth whenever you are placed in a space of compromise.

  

It's Hibernation Season

Wondering where I've been and what I've been up to? Well, this summarizes it:

Cape Town is bitterly cold, windy and wet and so I've resorted to hibernating. I spend my quality time coiled up like a cat next to the fireplace, with my nose in a book and a pot of tea or an occasional glass of red wine. Spare me all the picnics and parties. I’m happy here.

I’ll be telling you about some interesting reads I've stumbled upon soon. Therefore, please forget me not. 

Phenomenal Woman BY MAYA ANGELOU

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.   

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.