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'.