Sin-girl Pair-hunting: Because you’re a heathen. And need a man.

“If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.” 
― Albert Einstein

I am not Just a hoe.

I am just a hoe, with babies.

However, my babies seem to have gotten lost in my rants about my shenanigans as a not-so-chaste female.

My chastity belt slightly impaired in my teens, I have belted my lack of chastity for the sake of education, for the sake of venting… for the sake of clicks on my ‘trashy blog’.

But this is not the only reason.

The scenario is a staple in the minds of all single mothers.

I will bet my Sassa on it.

Those of us, who had a baby young, mainly due to discovering our vaginas in standard 6, will be able to admit to you [in a few more years] that we have all pictured ourselves at the edge of the kitchen table, staring at our adult children in awe.

Awe not.

In this fantasy, I am about ‘40 something’ years old.

And I am rich enough to have a really long motherfucking table.

I have purposefully held off on relationships for at least two decades… so I don’t look verniel by resentment and the perpetual checking of my partner’s Whatsapp.

[In my version… my hair has grown back… my vagina has refurbished its self to a prepubescent state… and I have lost approximately 20 kilos.]

Nothing smells like kak.

Nothing smells like mamok.

There is no porridge on my skirt.

And as I look at my kids, I have a tear in my eye as I realize that the years have passed and I have made it through.

And I say the words I have waited to say since I told my friends I couldn’t go with to gala because I had ‘responsibilities’….

 “I had you guys so young, but you were the best thing to ever happen to me…”

………………“Now foetcheck”.

Mama is out, bitch.

And so, we will recapture my youth and awkwardly jol at age inappropriate venues in Ottery industrial, while I rediscover the dangers of alcohol and dagga.

…and watever passes for MDMA’s in 2026.

And I will call up my home-girls and laugh as they tell me “Sorry babe, I can’t make it… the kids are going crazy”.

Bitch, fuck yo kids.

I was pregnant during the 2010 world cup.

I missed the drinking, the sex in Long Street. The exciting danger of human-trafficking on our doorstep.

Now, it is my time.

I feel it.

It is here.

 Wie Waka-Waka nou?


As I sat down to pee last week Thursday, I was still half asleep when Sidney jumped from his bed and ran to the bathroom and jumped on me… mid stream, pushing me back and my urethra forward.

At this glorious moment my relief ricocheted off the bowl and ally-hooped onto my underwear, my leg… and my bathroom mat.

Golden memories.

And thus the metaphor for what happens to your life after you carry a baby in your womb.

Urine trouble.

‘Mama why is this so dirty?”

I felt my face drop to the floor of the man who was fixing my modem.

[..”Lewe Jesus lat die klong sy bek hou”…]

As we sat in the admittedly dusty double garage turned office of my IT guy, I immediately understood why while I was growing up, my mother randomly hit me in my bek whenever I spoke. I am raising a vile, outspoken critical asshole.

Dead lord I am raising a mini-me.



“Yes, baby? Just play on mommy’s phone baby…” He wasn’t buying into the diversion.

“But mama, this is so dirty.”

Okay.. . Maybe I can play this down.

“…What is dirty my boy? The table? “

Sidney’s look of concern at my blatant disregard for the obvious made me know we were at the point of no return.

The home-owner and I could no longer pretend we were momentarily deaf.

We looked at Sidney.

“The whole house is dirty mama”…. He lifted his hands to bring his point home.

“The whole house. Everything”.

Now I sit here like a naai, sans ma se poes modem… nat gepiss.

But my kids [this week especially] have put a damper on many relationships for me.

I.T and otherwise.

When the sheriff of the court stopped here the other day to deliver a summons from some or other institution I am never going to pay, he looked me up and down, but in a lekker way.

A black man with a white accent and a work vehicle.

I felt like I was on Generations.

He handed me the 500-page document about my slow-payer ass.

“Hey there.”

“Hi “ I said… keeping me harre-gat like my top of the barrel competitors.

He gave me a half-smile… Half ‘I could eat you’ look.

“How do I contact you?”

Fuck it. After a few exchanges I gave him my celly.

Hit me up, nigger. [Last time I said that, it was taken too literally… ]

“When are you available?”

I could have said anything.

This was my opportunity to be smooth.

I mean ma.. I have options. One Nigerian broe from Tinder wanted to take me for coffee or something.

I was living the life.

I pretended to mentally scan my schedule.

But before I could employ one of my usually witty, sexy retorts, I blurted: “Well, I have two kids and a full time job. I am never free. So I will have to let you know.”

And he really did try hard to hold his smile.

Before he pulled out…

… from my drive way.

This broe was 100% willing to naai me even though I am blacklisted and Edgars might send him to arrest me next. 

But children and a full time job was just too much….

Till we meet again my friend.

It has been a long day without your phone call.

REMEMBER KIDS: Not chaste= Not chised.

In any event, I took to Tinder to see what exactly I was missing out on.

And oh boy, have I missed being asked if I’m horny.

“Sorry babe, all my naked pics are on my ex’s memory card. Don’t think he will be releasing those to me any time soon. “

Men truly are fabulous.

And then, a good friend who happens to have a vagina in-boxed me a drunken: “Where you?’

I responded… and amidst the misspelling attributed to what I can only assume was a mouth full of Captain Morgan, I deciphered a distinctive…

“I dare you to come to Stargayzer.. I’m in love with you…”



You know what happened last time you engaged in intercuntinental activities.

The other two parties voted you out, and you watched from survivor-island while they utilized the immunity idol… [Inside joke. (haha) for my tot-laat-toe readers. If you’re new here… you should read the other posts too. Don’t half ass this relationship]

I reluctantly declined, and decided to tackle the devil I know: Piel.

“Hey Shana. Thanks for the match. How you?”

[Who the poes says thanks for the match? But I was willing to accept]

“I am good, thanks. What do you do for a living?

[Nog lang dinge praatie. Do you have money?]

“I am a music producer”.

Now, this could go two ways.

Either you being paid by Sony, or you a naai that works for TFG and goes home and plays with fruity-loops.

“I make beats. But just for me. Not getting paid yet though but just getting my stuff out there.”


“Oh okay, cool. And what’s your day job?”

I may have just been ‘Bye Felicia’d’ by a bra that doesn’t know the definition of the word ‘job’.

But wait…

[27 hours later].

“Hey. How you Shana?”

“Fine thanks. How you doing?”

“Just busy man. Sorry for only responding now. You have whatsapp?”

“I do, yeah. 06128……..”

Sometime later: “Shana, did you get my whatsapp message?”

“Hey sorry, yes I did. My son had my phone”.


“Yeah the kids are going crazy here…



… Now Foetcheck.”

I don’t have a PHD


I am just Shana

I am just fertile

I am just a Hoe… With babies


2 thoughts on “Sin-girl Pair-hunting: Because you’re a heathen. And need a man.

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