Words to live by

Concluding as God intends

There's something about a vulgar, engrossing pain that shatters and substitutes everything you’ve ever counted as hurt.

There’s that irresponsible, overflowing river of emotions that makes you feel like morning will bring no joy or retreat.

Something elusive about even an ounce of joy in the midst of a graduated level of disbelief and agony.

Something about mourning that confirms it a dreaded and condemning authority.

Something about the wisest of words that removes encouragement when you feel powerless.

Something about not having anyone wipe your tears away to rub in the fact that you are damaged.

Something about this kind of selfish pain that feels close to death even when a hug consoles you.

Yet, somehow, everything will conclude as God intends.

Deciphering the sweet and the floury stuff

Okay, I am not inspired by having biscuits for breakfast – be it the act or the idea. I dislike how the taste of sugar resonates in my throat after just three of those. Especially since I’m in the habit of having them with strong coffee, a drink to which I am a trustworthy slave. This toxic relationship is one which I find myself moderately ashamed of. I should be – after having given most of my friends and acquaintances a talking to for their smoking ‘addiction’. What hypocrisy I display! Of course I’ll never admit to this…

I highly doubt that even a scone would inspire anything out of me – jam or no jam. Cake may stand a chance, just as long as it has no carrot in as an ingredient or in its title. That I can’t stand unless it’s my mother who made it. Not necessarily because she makes the best but because I would want her to not feel like she wasted her time baking in the first place.

Aah, the biscuit! It may be nutritious, easy-to-store, long lasting, and blah-blah-blah, but I couldn’t care less. It’s sweet, fattening and all the things we’ve been warned against. I am not fooled. It resembles nothing good. It is almost evil. Perhaps that’s a heavy word, an unnecessary word in this context. I love how I rebuke myself. I’m almost a conservative parent’s idea of an obedient child.

Here’s the deal: Ginger biscuits only serve to reinforce the tale of the Gingerbread Man. What ill fate! That story talks about the biscuit’s escape…only for it to get caught by a fox, of all things. Chocolate biscuits give me an image of being wheeled to hospital on a stretcher. And I'm not even a health junkie, not even close.

Staying off biscuits will probably mean having more bread. I don’t mind bread, as long as it’s not low-GI, wholegrain, seeded this-and-that. To me, that just sounds pretentious, I can’t deal. Call me plain, but I am a white-bread type of girl.

I could simply have a rusk, but that would just remind me of my inevitable aging process. The day evidence of this shows I will know my beauty has been depleted. Which girl wants to leave with that!

Basically, I’m screwed. What a flop!

Bruising my talents

There’s nothing I do as well as to procrastinate. I suppose I could give myself more credit than that. I have just come to the realization that I am onto something – something I’m sufficient in. . . .

Even my talents have grown weary of scolding me, pleading with me to write that article, strike up that conversation or send that email – whatever. I annoy them more so when I’m completely aware of the progress I would unlock if I would juuuust make that move. At first my inactivity ticked my talents off and they remained hopeful, thinking I would someday change and lean towards actually doing. At this point they are busy washing their hands of me. I’m hurt mostly because the blame is mine to bear.

My talents! Their dominant body language is easily readable. ‘Nudge, nudge’ they constantly went in my head. They fell short of slapping me only because they lack the physical build. Their frustration exceeded everything else, so nudge they went again.

Falling victim to something you allowed to take advantage of you from day one is just appalling. But it’s easy. I was not led on, I gave my consent. Indeed, it was out of my own discord that I fell deeply for tempting short-lived pleasure. In my head it would ring that I was fighting progress. Yet watching something meaningless on TV became meaningful. Even repeats did nothing to deter me from watching the first time.

Observation was spared for activities that drew from me (in energy, money and TIME) and left me without. Steps taken were often facing in the direction most people take; backwards. I seldom made time for growth, satisfying the temporary want and choosing to be taken by it. Perhaps never doing meant never fearing not to succeed.

It was like a lover I was addicted to, knowing perfectly well that he was poison wrapped in attractive packaging I still went back for more…and more. Funny as it may seem, it may be that I was unknowingly addicted to disappointment. I had no will to fight this lover off, but it didn’t keep me resenting him. And this was a cycle which never failed to repeat itself, each time with equal success.

Only much change can heal the broken bond I once shared with my talents, before I weakened them. Rejection after rejection, their ego has been severely bruised. Breaking habits has never been something I found easy. Being flexible I can do if it does not concern the body. Falling has left me with physical scars, but I dare to try with my talents again, that I may fall having at least stood up and smelled the fresh air in the sky. If I fall yet again, I will rejoice at the smell of grass. I have to.

…Now that I have determined all this, will I go back to ‘my ways’?

After Tears parties: to have or not to have

The concept of an ‘After Tears’ party is one which makes some people cringe. Another lot do not see a problem with it. Their common justification is that as you should not put your life on hold. Probably another excuse just to down the liquor?

The party after the funeral provides attendants with an opportunity to catch up with old friends and family members who we see only at funerals and weddings. It’s also an excuse to drink, not that one really needs an excuse for anything they wish to do. Basically, it’s a social gathering with plenty of hugs accompanied with the cliché ‘long time, no chat’.

Mourning takes the backseat. If you miss your chance to mourn during the service and when the casket is released, you might have missed your chance to mourn on that day. The party must go on, right? Let’s just remember that mourning is generally defined as ‘a state of sorrow after the death of a loved one’. If sorrow and dancing go hand in hand together…

After Tears parties are normally characterized by the presence of cases of alcohol and a beat to get down to. At times, transport is even organized for the partygoers to be ‘shuffled’ home. It is probably not as extravagant as a wedding reception, however. Just like any other place which involves alcohol, it can get rather rowdy, causing attendants to forget the reason they gathered in the first instance.

A letter of the Kwazulu-Natal Christian Council dated October 2008 rightfully states that holding after tears parties is becoming customary after the burial. The Council goes on to say that not only is an after tears party an unnecessary expense but that it also disregards the family’s need to mourn. Fair enough, families themselves do sit down over a few bottles.
A term which refers to an after tears party which I find somewhat funny is ‘funeral bereavement function’. In any case, these parties are normally so informal that the word ‘function’ almost sounds as if it dignifies them.

Generally speaking, people no longer observe customs as far as funerals are concerned. Not that I am advocating customs, not that I am not. The older generations mostly wore black to funerals, had a no-pants policy for women who were also prohibited from entering the burial site, should their heads not be covered. And you best believe they took these strict laws seriously. They were not funeral dressing guidelines, they were the ‘funeral dressing laws’. Men have more room to breathe, though to this day, in some cultures they are required to wear jerseys (or something akin to that). Though, as those who frequent funerals may have observed, nothing is set in stone. Nowadays there are exceptions with just about anything. It’s this thing they call freedom, neh?

Just what does these after tears parties achieve? Are they meant to celebrate the lives and achievements of the deceased? Well, can’t you atleast wait for the anniversary of the death to celebrate! If it’s a question of ‘honour’, why not drink only at the parties of people who consume alcohol? Perhaps the deceased must even sign a letter of consent that allows an after party. After all, some say that an after tears party is not there to ridicule the memory of the person who has just been told to ‘rest in peace’ just before funeral attendants get ready change into more comfortable clothes (ladies) and to pump loud music we intoxicate themselves. These parties have ‘gatecrashers’ too, but nobody really sees them as outsiders. A party for one is a party for all. I wonder if people compete to see whose relative’s after tears party attract the most ‘happy mourners’. You could be forgiven for thinking that they do, the way they go on about them.

Disclaimer: As much as I don’t want an after tears party for myself, I bear no grudges against the celebrating of my life, should those in my circle deem it necessary. Though, I must stress that unless it is humanly impossible, I will turn very badly in my grave if people gather in memory for the sole purpose of an After Tears. With that in mind, should you deem it necessary to hold an After Tears for your loved ones I might consider honouring an ‘invitation’.

Matric pass rate increases, apparently

So, Matric results have been released, and it seems some people are not impressed (or convinced) by the rise of the pass rate. Basic Education Minister Angie Motshekga describes this year’s results as a ‘remarkable achievement’. The pass rate stands at 67.8%, slightly below the targeted 70%. My eyes popped when it dawned on me that they increased by 7.2% from last year.

What is remarkable; however is that the ‘increase’ emerges from an academic year characterized by disruptions – the teachers strike and extended school holiday during the World Cup in May/June. These events would imply to a regular thinker that there was less teaching time invested. The teachers did, afterall, spend plenty of time outside the classroom. I’m in fact joking when I say that 2010 was practically a school holiday. Yet somehow, the results increased. Now, that’s remarkable. Congratulations, Minister!

One wonders what happened from the time the results were handed to quality assurer Umalusi on 24 December until today. Oh yes, most people were on leave, so the question of rigging I shall not entertain. . . There’s really no use in speculating, for we may never know what really happened. Well, not unless there’s 1. anything to know and 2. a whistleblower waiting to prove a few funny theories. Perhaps WikiLeaks has something on this? Or perhaps the majority of these students really did study vigorously? Perhaps?

Fair enough, it is not all that tricky to pass the exams if a pupil needs just above 30% to walk through the doors of a tertiary institution, student card in hand. It gets less simple in varsity, but some of them won’t even make it that far, whether or not they passed or not.

It almost sounds like students are being ‘passed’ at an extraordinary rate. Whether or not this is acceptable is not for me to judge - if it is even the case.

I imagine that the consequences of this ‘remarkable’ pass rate include students having poor reading and writing skills as far as English (and other languages) is concerned. Apart from that, I don’t see them suddenly becoming inspired to study extensively when they go to tertiary. What's the point? The cycle repeats, poor matric results – poor pass rate in varsity, well for some institutions. The consequences are far more in number. Nevertheless, only 23.5% of last year’s students obtained university entrance, so why entertain this argument in depth?

As is, trade union Solidarity said earlier this week that the future of matriculants looks bleak in that the majority of them will not find jobs. There’s nothing new there. One wonders what some of these ‘educated’ people will do, what they will resort to for survival. I wonder if someone in the Education department has the impression that we are a country full of budding entrepreneurs who do not necessarily need a good education, whatever that is.

Passing matric, however, is seen as a major accomplishment and it should not be taken away from anyone. Whether or not it is an M-pass or an S-pass, as some still refer to it. It is probably a teenager’s largest feat; I remember it that way for me. Afterall, they are yet to be married or be parents – in some cases. . .

For me personally, it is rather annoying that the results have to be published in newspapers for all to see. That must mean double the anxiety for some students, especially those uncertain of their results. You know for a fact that everyone knows you either passed or failed, in some instances, long before you do. Yes, the newspaper publishing thing is a pain. There must be a violation of some rights somewhere in there, not?

Just plain addicted to busy

I hate having time on my hands and having little to do. I am rather terrible at just sitting around looking pretty. Never would I feel more useless! Mental stimulation is the order of the day, every day. Something must always be in motion – be it my hands, feet or any other body part. I am convinced that this is built in.

Growing up, each time my chores were complete, my mother would always tell me that one could never say that they have completed their chores. For example, no matter how clean the house looks to you, it’s actually still dirty. This applies even after you have spent hours on your knees, scrubbing the floor to the point where you can clearly see your reflection on it. So there’s always something to be done, always. There was always Maths equations to practice – not that I had any interest in the subject whatsoever.

It doesn’t feel legal for me to sit down and just relax on a weekday. Well, unless it’s late and I have to watch some TV.

What’s far worse is the feeling of not being busy enough at work. I always want to have something to do. I want to be productive, and as such, nothing puts me down as much as this. What’s worse is that my mind wanders off quite easily – even when I seem quiet – so I need to curb its ‘hyperactivity’. For me, slow days resemble something akin to claustrophobia.

If I twiddle my thumbs for no justifiable reason, I am not busy enough. If I yawn continuously during the day, I am not busy enough. If I suddenly remember when last I updated my Facebook status, something is really wrong. Seriously though, I think I am just addicted to busy.

The type of wife I will become

Several of my friends are getting married, and I admire their courage in deciding to take that step. As some have put it, “it is part of life”. I do suppose the twenties are generally that period in one’s life where marriage seems the logical thing to engage in. Perhaps it’s even the convenient thing to do for some people. But it’s just safer for me to say that different people marry for different reasons.

I also form part of the female group that one day wants to be referred to by a man she loves as his wife. I do experience a mild shiver when my mind dwells on exactly what kind of wife I will be. My main problem with myself is that I have too many sides to me. In that sense, I am balanced, yet I am really not. . .

Okay, let’s talk practically about this wife thing. A wife is stereotypically (though to a lesser degree) expected to clean and cook well - among other things. Though I can manage both of these things, I am perhaps not the neatest person in my street. Not to say I can’t or won’t clean, I just normally tend to need some sort of motivation. Visitors are a prime example of the kind of motivation I am talking about. Let's face it, people care about impressions. Imagine Sidney Sheldon with his writing ability but no motivation to write. He may have never published any book. That’s just the way it is. My mother, who can’t stand a dirty house, should have been my role model in this regard. It’s just a pity we had a ‘helper’ for most of my life.

As for my cooking, it ranges from excellent to reasonably poor. While some people can’t get enough of my pasta, others would rather have bread instead of my pap. It’s no natural talent of mine, but I can hook up a mean meal when I am in the mood. Sundays must be special, as that is the only day in the week when I really feel the need to don a kitchen apron.

I am not the most patient person either. My principal flaw is that I am a selective perfectionist. I use the word 'selective' only in the sense that I can be indifferent when it suits me. My friends describe me as ‘strict’ and comically express how sorry they feel for my future kids. Rest assured, I'm not laughing with them.

Most women are infamous for sometimes being moody, so that probably deserves no mention. I must stress that I am not large-scale moody. I can safely say I make up for it by being sweet, considerate and nurturing to those around me – so my kids are safe.

This post may have been an absolute waste. Maybe, just maybe, I should give my boyfriend a detailed questionnaire to complete about exactly what kind of girlfriend I am. That should give me an idea of the type wife I will one day become. . .

Indigestion and digestion in 2010

The last year went by without as much as a glitch. No, really, that’s what I call a blatant lie. It was hiccups all the way, actually. But they have all stopped and I can pause for five seconds and just smile as I reflect. The rain has dried up, and the sun is out to heat up my cheeks.

I was all things in 2010 – a temperamental freak, a great lover, a wonderful friend, a pain, and still – a success. I did not achieve many things I set out to make mine; however, I maintain that God played fair…

Laziness and procrastination must have had a productive meeting when they colluded and clung on my back. My tongue didn’t hold out enough to gather more saliva; it was always in a hurry to utter that which my mind entertained. Subsequently, pointless grudges were unfortunately formed against me. My honesty gained me life-long friends but pushed away new ones faster than I can spell holiday.

It was not a wasted year: I got a new job, I filled up one page of my passport, I increased the number of times I have flown, I took more walks, I temporarily took up running, and I never quit discovering myself.

All in all, survival is the main thing, and I did more than that. I pulled off a great leap into 2011.

My gripe with Anonymous

Anyone who can string together a few words has the power to make up the most insulting quote and attribute it to dear old Anonymous. He is everyone’s favourite person to quote, it seems.

My other problem with him is that he does not seem to age. I suppose this part extends to subtle jealousy. I need not be reminded that I am only in my early twenties. That is not seen as progressive by my emerging wrinkles.

Anonymous has a corner office in every imaginable medium: online, print, radio and television, Anonymous is sitting comfortably somewhere in there. Read your beloved daily newspaper, chances are he’s got a line somewhere in there. He has to be the most famous person on Earth. I bet you know him too!

I wouldn’t trust anything he says. I read the most intelligently written prose with notable attention but unwillingly start to withdraw as soon as he makes a dreaded appearance. He is just not credible! Is he? For starters, he cannot be traced and can therefore not answer for himself when the need arises. Why bother quoting him!

Well, it’s not always that simple, I have to very often remind myself of this fact. Of course when Anonymous does exist, there is sometimes a great need to protect him, or her. For instance, in the case of a high profile, sensitive investigation he must not be named. In that case, it is highly acceptable, even recommended that Anonymous feature as just that.

Without getting into Media Law and even outlining Section 205 of the Criminal Procedure Act I’ll ask you kindly for just one thing. Granted, you don’t owe me any favours. But please make Anonymous less famous (or infamous) where the possibility of such does exist.

Bad habits...

Let’s talk pet peeves. Grrr... Okay, I should know better than that. It’s no use complaining about anything, Phathu! You know what they say: nobody listens. Most of the time, that reigns quite true. Instead of experiencing desired change, you find yourself developing a nature of constantly complaining against your will. That sure defeats the purpose. Let’s count the steps you just take in reverse. Shall we?

Bottom line: complaining keeps you stagnant. Now, obviously this is something I know very well, yet my practical side of the brain cannot seem to grasp it as well as I’d like it to. It still picks out measly things such as some of the ‘overly unhygienic’ traits people portray. Sorry, I just exposed myself for being judgmental. I take that back.

Okay, I’ll give this another shot. I hate (ooh, but that’s a strong word) people who are inconsiderate. I won’t elaborate. It’s pretty straightforward… Something tells me I’m being subjective here. For that reason, I’ll accept all connotations of the word ‘inconsiderate’.

Any better?

Heck, nobody’s perfect. And I certainly can’t change anyone by complaining about it. Ever heard of the relationship between worrying and a rocking chair? Complaining is sometimes the same.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s conclude. They say when life throws you lemons, make lemonade. What do you then make when life throws traffic at you?

Wait, did I just take ten steps backwards?

Death? No thanks!

So, my man described me as ‘strange’ for asking him if he would die for me. As you can imagine, I did not quite get the pleasant response I was hoping for: yes. Well, let me rather contextualize the brief conversation for you. My exact question to him was whether or not he would willingly get run over by a runaway bus for me. Not only was I referred to as strange, the word crazy was also used.

My understanding is that his response was triggered by the proposed method of death – or is it suicide! I think that that is the case, since he shouted the words ‘runaway bus!’ I assume that he was pondering on the idea and could not, for the life of me, comprehend being hit by a runaway truck - deliberately. To be quite frank, I understand his reasoning, completely…

Nevertheless, how many people would consider giving their lives for someone else or a cause or their country? Do you think most of today’s politicians would die for South Africa? Not just politicians – you too. Think about this thoroughly, it is death we are talking about, after all. It would be interesting to see exactly how much this patriotism some people claim to have can actually stretch. Nevermind the manner of death, imagine something painless if you dare. I suppose the one I mentioned is rather drastic.

How many of us can echo the words of late American soldier Nathan Hale whose last words before he was hanged are reported to be: “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country”? Who even remembers late Indian political and spiritual leader Mahatma Gandhi, who was prepared to die for his religious beliefs? Rather than die for our country, some (if not most) of us would much rather be happy just dying in our country. But to die for it!

While dying for a cause (or country or person) might be daunting, killing for it sounds slightly less unbearable. Presented with a dilemma to “kill or be killed”, the average person would probably choose the former over the latter. That possibly includes me, possibly. That is partially why we strike back when provoked. Gandhi famously said the following words: "There are many causes that I am prepared to die for but no causes that I am prepared to kill for." I’m still thinking about this one.

Let me put it this way: we are not a world of selfless people, the majority of us that is. I’m speaking from personal observation here. Feel free to disagree, if you must.

Rediscovering poetry...a process

Years ago, I fell in love with poetry. It made so much sense... Now, years after opting for prose instead, I am giving it another chance. I am not following rules - I am simply writing. This is my first attempt in quite a while. The topic was not motivated by any particular experience.

When my soul died

I fell to my soiled knees and like a lost soul I just wept
My modest power was wobbly, no longer kept
In my heart, frustration had come and slept
When my soil died

All of life’s elements had turned their backs on me
Distressing feelings found a home in me
Life was an alias for burden, for goodness I could not see
When my soil died

My cries were muted long before I could even exhale
Tear after tear, a mind of victory could not prevail
The devil was at peace, for I uttered the word fail
When my soil died

Counting my flaws

For a perfectionist I sure am not perfect. I should have paid attention to those before my time who wisely said that nobody's perfect. Be it with regards to my physical form or otherwise, I lag. Yet I'd hate to, at any point, look at myself and not distinguish some goodness, and not see beauty. When I reflect, I want to consider my misgivings. Though I do not want to give them permission to chew away at any portion of my life, for it is far too precious for that.

Because of just how valuable it is, I cannot be wasting my time worrying about diminutive issues. It is somewhat disheartening that I cannot, after countless attempts, pronounce the letter 'R'. I cannot change that I was born with two left feet and any attempt to remedy that has been nothing short of comedy. I'm so over the fact that I have a small nose, which makes shopping for sunglasses a tiring mission. I need to constantly remind myself that not everyone appreciates my brutal honesty. My impatience is my biggest critic. My wanting every single detail to be perfect annoys even me.

As an ongoing process, I am learning to genuinely and completely embrace ALL that I have in my life. This means realising that regardless of whether or not I desire my traits, God wanted for them to feature in my life story. Holding any grudges against Him would just prove futile and effectively weaken me.

Truth be told, I actually would love to reach a satisfactory point where I can earnestly say to God: "let Your will be done". I refuse to hold back any longer as I add on more years to my young life. I also don't want to be left out in the hustle and bustle, among other things.

I am now finding comfort in the ability to be grateful for the good and the bad. I have crossed one to many intersections where all I could ask God was "why me?" instead of thanking Him. I want that to stop - immediately. Appreciating His perfect timing has proven a challenge thus far.
I'm working on it.

I want to be aware at all times that in life I am not superior to anybody. I have heard that comparing yourself to someone else qualifies as an insult to God - that does make sense. I have all that I do simply because God saw it fit to bless me this much. I yearn to be happy with what He has given to me. I want to show gratitude to Him - even when I feel as though it is not enough. At the same time, I don't want to sneer when I see someone else excel. Envy is not as harmless as people make it out to be. Jealousy on the other hand is nothing but an ugly parasite waiting to take away from me. I must therefore find it in myself to be pleased for others, no matter what.

Being too afraid has proved a mammoth failure in itself. It is a way of me voluntarily, yet inactively chilling my potential. I have to constantly assert to myself that there is absolutely nothing wrong with not succeeding, provided I do not recognise the phrase "giving up". I've tried to be perfect in the past. Yet somehow, in imperfecton, I specialise.

Rebirth by natural hair

When out of my sheer frustration and child-like curiosity decided to let go of my hair last year, I had no idea that the process would propel me towards a joyous and thoroughly sentimental trip.

Well it did, it was something of a catalyst in me gaining rigid confidence as a young woman – beyond the girl-mentality that I had just emerged from. I felt it was time to shed the hair partially because I was frustrated and had no idea what to do next. Nothing seemed to be exciting, or look better than the last – for the matter. I suppose, in fact I know, that I had lost interest in my hair. It had becoming boring. It felt like a tiresome, uninspiring chore I had to carry out every single day!

It may not make much sense to you, but being (very) near-bald awoke in me an urge to experiment – not just with my hair. I was a reassertion of the fact that I could be brave if I stopped limiting myself. I lived up to the ‘new beginning’ cliché. It was my new, treasured beginning. I may not have dumped my boyfriend, quit my job immediately, or shed a ton of friends – which I might, out of context, add I have very few of. However, I felt as though it was an opportunity for me to relive a part of my childhood. A part which entailed living out of the box and caring less about the consequences – among other things.

To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever looked more beautiful than I do right now as I rock this afro. I am beautiful, to the point that I could date myself actually. Besides the fact that it’s impossible, someone wonderful has beat me to it already. It may sound slightly pompous, but it’s the first time I have ever experienced this, and boy is it a joy. PS: I recommend it.

The best part about wearing this hair is knowing for certain that this beautiful, rich hair is completely mine. Ever heard the question “what do you know for sure”? Well this has now made the list of things I know for sure. It’s not an expensive weave I have to remove after several weeks. As much as I like weaves for their admirable transformational powers, I must admit to loving my hair even more.

This might make very little sense to someone else, but being the true-to-form Pisces that I am, I happen to be a dreamy character of note. I love this dream.

'I'm not beautiful, I'm a black beauty'

If what the vast majority of people say is anything to go by, that is. It seems I am seldom just told: “you're beautiful”. Often, the compliment comes my way with an attachment entitled ‘complexion'.

Granted, I am dark. But who ever calls a light-skinned person a ‘fair-beauty’? You would think that beauty is reserved only of those who are not dark. Is it strange to see a dark-skinned person who is beautiful? Excuse me, but I don’t think so. In fact, I know that that is not the case. So what’s with the attachment, people?

The first time someone said the phrase ‘exotic beauty’ while describing my looks, I welcomed the compliment with a frank smile and offered a gracious ‘thank you’. However, never one to take much at face value, I looked up the word exotic.

It came up with synonyms such as “unusual”, “alien” and “foreign”. I should have asked the person who said it to me which meaning they intended, my mistake. But I’ll choose to blissfully assume it is in the context “out of the ordinary” or “striking”. Thanks again. Forgive me if I come across a little brash.

To be honest, the ‘black beauty’ phrase is one I have ignorantly embraced for years. But it was only in my later years that an alarm started to sound in my head. I suppose that growing up, I never thought much of it. What were these people really saying to me?

Have a look at the type of black women typically considered beautiful by society. The majority of them are so-called yellow bones. What does one’s colour shade matter? Had I been light in complexion, would I be somewhat superior and beyond reproach? No. Who is to say that I would be more pleasing to the eyes of those who already regard me as beautiful?

I may not be the only one who has seen girls who bear serious grudges against being dark-skinned. They unfortunately abhor their dark looks and envy those who were born many shades lighter than they are. They somehow fail to connect the dots and see that regardless of the shade of their skin they can still be beautiful. They may be light in complexion and be damn ugly.

There is even a market for people who secretly walk into pharmacies to increase the profits of companies that produce skin-lightening products to ‘enhance their beauty’. This seems to say that being dark is not okay.

The word ‘black’ is commonly associated with awful things. Take note: blackmail, black magic, blackguard, blacklist and black dog – to name a few. Not to sound like a bitter pessimist I’ll include ‘black belt’ and ‘Black Forest’ – in terms of my favourite flavour cake. How about I add the super brand Blackberry too? There is, afterall, a saying that goes ‘the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice’. Hey, look, there’s ‘black beauty’ too. That’s where I, and other dark-skinned women, come in.

Yes. That’s where I come in. You see, I have deduced that for as long as I walk this Earth, I will be the only one spared from seeing the badge that loudly reads ‘black beauty’ fastened on my chest. Since it will be attached to me for life, I have no option but to wear it proudly and come to the realization that 'I am not beautiful, I’m a black beauty'.

Journalists, go back to class

Let’s talk media ethics. Journalists are taught that not only should they strive to deliver the story to their news editor within the specified deadline, but that they should also present it as accurately and as objectively as possible. Independence, independence, independence. That is unfortunately, mostly theoretical. Situations in real newsrooms do not tend to be so radiant.

On paper, this would obviously mean that as a journalist reporting on a story, I cannot place my allegiance with any political party, the government, or any business – among others. I cannot write a story on corruption to express favouritism and assign guilt to any party. Is that even what journalists are there for?

When former Cape Argus journalist Ashley Smith admitted to pocketing tens of thousands of rands in bribes in exchange for writing positively about former Western Cape premier Ebrahim Rasool, I thought of just how foiled things can get when we leave the classroom. Apart from that, Smith admitted to acting as a paid media strategist and advisor to Rasool.

Smith’s exercise was sponsored by public funds. Mind you, this is all occurring in a country riddled with service delivery protests, as ordinary people struggle to access the most basic of services.

That goes against everything journalists should be. Newly formed media organisation Projourn (Professional Journalists’ Association of SA) agrees, having released a statement befittingly titled “chequebook journalism’ abhorrent and unacceptable.

The organisation even compared the unethical acts to journalists who accepted bribes to candy coat apartheid, which we all know there is nothing sweet about.

Projourn also lauded Cape Argus on its approach of the issue. The newspaper carried a story on the allegations against Smith who worked as a senior political journalist and fellow former employee Joe Aranes. Aranes was former political editor.

“The admission by the Cape Argus, in a rare front page leader, that it failed its readers in this matter, as well as the editor’s reaffirmation of the paper’s core values is to be commended,” Projourn said.

Brown resigned from the newspaper during a disciplinary inquiry into the allegations. His actions, Projourn says, have brought journalism in South Africa into disrepute.

“Not only do we support those stalwart journalists who resist the demands that they be partisan in their reportage, but we abhor those who cross the line and succumb to the temptations of “chequebook journalism.”

Non-journalists, too, have opinions. On many occasions, I have been party to conversations in which normal people were bashing journalists. They seem to view them as nonobjective and full of lies in their reporting. While I do not completely support the statement, I will not just toss it away. Journalists are, before all else, human. They have issues, opinions, flaws, and sometimes ulterior motives. Many times, these do reflect in their work – be it for a good or bad purpose.

Now, as the Fourth Estate of society, journalists have a duty to society. They cannot sign up to fail, as that would mean failing society itself. Go back to the theories which were taught in class.

COPE - A new agenda to crash and burn?

Like politics – business is not known to be a pretty affair. A fair share of us must be familiar with the phrase ‘politics is a dirty business’. Do you think it exists merely because someone thought it would be great to string those words together?

Look at the impasse that Congress of the People (COPE) now finds itself in. There are numerous ‘leaders’, all to varying degrees seeking control over the party which has currently been sucked dry of any spark it may have had before. Could this be a phase before the death of the party or is this a mere stumbling block which will soon be overcome?

Those within COPE need to ask themselves, if the elections were a month from today, would they still perform as well as they did last year?

Party president Mosiuoa Lekota and deputy Mbhazima Shilowa are clearly not fans of one another. I wish I could document a blow by blow account of their rocky relationship, but I probably don’t even know the half of it.

In brief: Lekota accused Mbhazima of possibly fiddling with money. A debate over whether or not to hold an elective conference became news. Mbhazima and camp lodged a vote of no confidence against Lekota, which the court later nullified.

What a circus! I know of clowns at children’s parties, but I think COPE took this one too literally. This is politics – some may have to be dropped along the way – deal with it. A swift exit may not be all bad, Mr Lekota and camp. It seems you are no longer wanted.

Politics: you fight, and then those not aligned with you find reason to plot revenge – and sometimes your subsequent downfall. It is not always that you find the strength to rise again. One wonders if there is some kind of addiction to control here or if it is just the nature of politics (as we know it).

Parliamentary leader Mvume Dandala has recently added his name to the list of those who saw some kind of light and took a stance to resign. Reverend, you know that the church doors are always open. Perhaps politics is not your niche?

As for options available to COPE, it’s simple. Those who run things – whoever they may be – can continue on their path to destructing the party (as they seem to be doing) or they can redeem themselves and restore the ‘hope’ of their supporters.

In 1989, the aftermath of the recession left American property mogul Donald Trump battling to meet loan repayments. Times were tough. Money in its purest form was not common commodity. It was not a pretty time for business. Had he held a checklist, it would most likely read: business bankruptcy, check; personal bankruptcy, highly possible. It was at a point in his life where he could have closed shop and moved on to something else. He didn’t – look at him now.

Cope is the official opposition in five of South Africa’s nine provinces, which means it has a responsibility to those who voted for it. If COPE were a house it would be built by cement mixed with fizzy drinks sold at snacks stands at the circus. The party obviously benefited mostly from impulse voters, but that does not mean it is hopeless.

When it was launched on December 16 2008, COPE looked like it could be God’s answer to – among others – those who were not keen on being ruled by current South African president Jacob Zuma. Any current affairs follower knows he is a man no stranger to controversy – be it to do with allegations of rape or corruption. Sorry to say this, but right now Zuma must be grinning with satisfaction, saying “in your face!”

What happens from hereon? COPE, please assist.

The vuvuzela really must be annoying

The vuvuzela really must be annoying. Comedian Trevor Noah described it on Twitter as being "obnoxious" and "loud" - going as far as likening it to wayward ANC Youth League president Julius Malema.

There have been resounding calls to have it banned from World Cup matches. Popular goal-netters like Portugal's Cristiano Ronaldo and Argentina's Lionel Messi have expressed displeasure at the metre-long instrument South Africans love so much. FIFA president Sepp Blatter has (thankfuly) somewhat expressed support for the vuvuzela, also through Twitter.

Teams have blasted the 'plastic trumpet' - claiming that it hampers their communication on the field. Some audiologists have said that the vuvuzela has the potential to cause permanent hearing loss over time.

Self-appointed critics of the vuvuzela need to respect the fact that this is South Africa, and when soccer is concerned, the vuvuzela is culture. Blowing it is the country's signature celebration.

Let's face it, the vast majority of those too quick to criticise and judge the vuvuzela have never even blown one. Their lips, it seems, open to criticise them - not to examine them. They are so narrow minded that they deprive themselves of the infectious and joyous blowing locals are so fond of. Ai, deal with it.

Patriotism – is it really a wonderful thing?

Patriotism is loosely described as a love of and a devotion to one’s country.

It seems South African citizens who have been gripped by football fever ahead of what I hope will be remembered as 'the best Soccer World Cup ever' cannot say or ‘display’ patriotism enough.

Like many others, I admit that I love my country dearly. I would go as far as donning a gold and green badge with the words "proudly South African".

Ask me, however, if I would kill for it. Ask me if I would risk my life or die for it. As much as I say I love South Africa, I will without hesitation say no. Killing someone else's family in the name of patriotism? I'd much rather order take aways.

Academics and creatives, it seems, are not so keen on this devotion to one's country. Or is it just my observation?

Here are some interesting quotes on patriotism:

I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives. I like to see a man live so that his place will be proud of him. ~Abraham Lincoln.

Our country is not the only thing to which we owe our allegiance. It is also owed to justice and to humanity. Patriotism consists not in waving the flag, but in striving that our country shall be righteous as well as strong. ~James Bryce.

Heroism on command, senseless violence, and all the loathsome nonsense that goes by the name of patriotism - how passionately I hate them! ~Albert Einstein.

I have no country to fight for; my country is the earth, and I am a citizen of the world. ~ Eugene V. Debs.