Just a hoe with babies

The mourning after was a hard pill to swallow. [This post is late: I call this post, mortem]

“U humiliated him!! Insulted him cursed him with ur kak posts  about him. Now u want sit back & tjunk? Lyle was neva who u made him out 2 be. &yes I’m sad bout his death but happy that u Shana must now xplain 2 his daughter who her father really was. R u going 2 tell her that he was a broke ass poes driving laaties to schl & back? Like u did in ur posts & on ur blogs”.

If you are reading this, and you are not a basic-bitch who ceased all formal education in grade 9, allow me to edit this affront at the English language.

Herewith, for your reading pleasure, the translation from the widely spoken language, “Domnesia”.

“You humiliated him, insulted him with your bullshit posts and now you feel that you have the right to cry about his death? Lyle was not who you portrayed him as. I may be saddened by his death, but I find solace in the fact that you will have to tell your daughter about who her dad really was. I read all your posts and I really wish I was more involved in your life……….

Breathe.

This is the message from Andrea Somethingpoes as I logged on to my work laptop.

Great. More hate mail.

I suppose it is poetic jusness… I really do hate males.

She continued with righteous indignation:

“U not a mothers poes…”

Her eloquence immediately convinced me that she must be one of his conquests.

I, Andrea, am a Mercedes.

And I am titanium.

I certainly hope that I am not a mother’s poes. I have aspired to so much lately, it would be a shame to be defeated just yet.

I assume the phrasing meant that this was a compliment? She was saying that In fact was not the poes of a mother. Have I so far misinterpreted her intention?

And then, she said something my brain rejected…

“if he raped u id say u fuckn deserved hoe”.

This is the thought pattern that I dreaded after my tribute post to Lyle.

And I feel the need to clarify that at no point should women who have been following my work feel that they should forgive their abuser, on the off chance that they die in a tragic homicide that gets covered by every news agency in the country.

Do not model your decisions based on my life.

I live in the matrix.

And this Andrea mait reeks of stupidity.

“Cry all u want it wont make it beta I hope u liv with guilt the rest of u r life…”

I added the ellipse; I felt that sentence needed something, besides general punctuation and spelling.

Guilt is a relative term

And besides all of Lyle’s relatives making me feel guilty, what I mean is that in life it is very easy to romanticize situations, and take things out of context.

And I would like to address the last week and a half for what it was.

A blur.

A realization.

The closing of a chapter.

 

First, back to our sponsor:

….”Hardest thing 2 do writing the story of his brutal murder????? Y not say the hardest thing 2 do is admitting just the other day  u asked why dont u vrek lyle?  Well now lyle is vrek u got ur wish naaier”…

“Puttin up pics of u lyle wont change how u bad mouthd him and treated him”

“U deserv 2 be stoned bitch

U deserv 2 be stoned bitch”

 

So nice, she said it twice.

Andrea Somethingpoes thinks that I deserved to be stoned.

But Andrea, I don’t smoke boem.

You should probably ask by Soraya, being stoned is more her forte.

I have mentioned my aversion to narcotics many times, so her suggestion somewhat baffles me. Odd.

What most people don’t seem to understand is that many levels of self can exist in one person, at the same time.

I can be happy, sad, angry and relieved by the same event.

I have never promoted indulgence. Alas, it is the human condition.

The pleasure-pain that comes with being in the middle of tragedy is the equivalent of an orgasm.

A grieving widow, mother or close friend can rest assured that for an indefinite amount of time, the community will gather around her and hug her; presumably, I have now learnt… that she has been a model woman, and kept her mouth shut.

And when I woke up on Monday morning with a severe throat infection that stopped me from opening my mouth, the irony wasn’t lost on me.

I couldn’t vertel the hordes of mourners exactly how I felt about their kak tributes on YouTube.

Fuck you Nicolene/Nunu/Neanderthal I know you naaid Lyle on Pavillion when we were dating.

It certainly wasn’t a long relationship without you my friend.

I know he used to sell you to his brasse and split the money with you.

The tribute song was to Paul Walker, not street walker.

I have endured so much fake I could mamok it without even contracting my chest muscles.

I have endured cruelty from people who used to laugh them in their poes at my one-liners, and even saw me get hidings.

I have endured rudeness from every false naai at St. Phillip’s Catholic Church in Strandfontein that vuil kyked me at the tribute mass.

Quote me, motherfuckers.

Allow me to extend a superbly manicured middle finger.

I bring you Frank, and sense…and merniette.

And also with you.

Even the priest who only socializes with the Strandfontein elite catholic families acknowledged the entire congregation, except me.

May you burn in self-righteous hell along with many other religious needers.

Leaders.

Whatever.

So, as most of you are dying to know, what was the aftermath of September 5th 2015? I like to call this movie:

“Fokol wedding and a double funeral”.

Soundtrack: The shady after-mass.

 

The day of his death I went to his home and greeted the family. His uncle found this to be the perfect opportunity to walk down memory lane.

“You gave my nephew a hard life” he said with a straight face.

Yes, I am sorry I told the police he abused me. I should’ve shut up.

I hugged his mistress who had joined him at the family home…Seeing as how he raised Lyle,  the apple doesn’t fall far from the OG.

I drifted through the masses of aunties and his cousins who always ignored him.

The St. Phillip’s rent-a-mourners’ ignored my attempt at small talk.

But we spoke about this…

I survived that first weekend…

Then, Monday.

Lyle loved when I sang. It was the one thing that didn’t end in violins.

Wait, what?

Regardless.. I inquired whether I could sing at the send off.

His family assumed I was trying to be disrespectful [I do put the FUN in  Funeral], and proceeded to decline every contribution I suggested.

When Thursday came around, I had gotten the picture.

I willfully announced to the powers that be that I would not be attending.

A selfish endeavour, somewhat.

I had no desire to see Lyle’s dead body.

I had no desire to see the rows and rows of side-chicks and Andrea Somethingpoes who felt entitled to vertel me kak.

Their Pews. [See what I did there?]

I had seen him stiff more times than I needed in my lifespan. They could have his cadaver. Fun for the whole family.

Lyle is no longer in his body.

Lyle is now a soul.

I dream about him every night.

This is my punishment.

I cried for Lyle for years…

I have very few tears left, and I will reserve them for when my children accomplish great things.

 

And right now, I cannot afford to break down.

 

When I break down, I become incapable of providing for my son and my daughter.. Lyle’s daughter..

The daughter I AM STILL providing for ALONE.

ALONE

ALONE

ALONE

 

I work two jobs.

16 hours a day.

Plus being a mother: those hours are 24/7

I liberated myself from an abusive relationship.

So when I ignore your abuse, I am not threatened, I am not offended…

I am being selective.

Your negativity is not beneficial..

It is not unique.

And I wonder why you have so much free time that you can dedicate such a large chunk of it to me.

People do not become Saints when they die.

No matter how much better it makes you feel to say that they do.

Can you imagine the Jews at Hitler’s funeral?

Haai, he was nogal oraait man, shamepies.. At least he gave out gold stars”.

So this is the last post about you.

And this is the last post about Lyle.

And if that means that you no longer read my work… Don’t let the unfollow button hit you on the ass.

But if you truly are a fan of my writing, and thoughts, I sincerely appreciate that you take the time to read my stuff each week [Every two weeks at least man, fok don’t go on]

And yes, the last time I made a sanctimonious speech, the universe knocked my ass so far back to Kansas I lost my fucking breathe for a minute.

But Lyle never wanted me on my knees.

[Well, not for anyone else.. Am I right? .. too soon?]

Our relationship was hard to understand.

But I realized that I treated him the way I did, because of the way he treated me.

I was reacting.

I thought I would have at least another 50 years.

But the universe had different plans.

And now, so do I.

I am turning the page…

Chapter Two.                                          

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A tribute to Lyle Joshua Eyden

“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times”- A tale of two shitty people.

Our last conversation replays in my head, unceremoniously.

I never thought he would die, regardless of the many times I enquired by him when he was actually going to kill himself.

Most of our conversations were dirty. Pickled with profanities that would make a sailor cringe.

But he loved me, and I loved him.

The irony that he was stabbed in the heart has not been lost on me.

Now, bear in mind… The screwdriver that took the life of Lyle Eyden went into his chest, and may as well have penetrated mine. I felt those repeated jabs as I read the message from his mother, even more unceremoniously on my Whatsapp.

 

“Shana, I just thought I should tell you, Lyle was killed this morning”.

 

My only response was…

 “No”.

Rose was giggling somewhere in the background, and when it dawned on me that at some point I would have to have another “Why don’t I have a daddy?” conversation again…. With my second child…..my brain shut down all functions…

I saw myself in the past.

I saw myself in the future.

“…Because, Rose… Your father loved you. He was just a damaged soul….”

Now, I know what you are thinking… Why is this bitch hurt? She always said the meanest things.

And this is accurate, though my words were not so much as mean as they were true.

Lyle hit me.

He hurt me.

He cheated on me and lied and humiliated me.

 

But, when it was good… It was magnificent.

And I never wanted him to die.

At least, not the way he did.

He died terrified.

He died alone.

And I know, as he laid there bleeding, in the bushes… he died thinking of Rosie.

And he died thinking of me.

….

“Hi Shana”

“Hi Lyle. I am at work at the moment I cannot really speak.”

“I just wanted to say Boney died”.

“Oh no, I am sorry”.

“Yeah it’s kak heavy… the mense in the village is just dying…”

I really couldn’t speak at work. And I didn’t want to.

“You had a lekker bra on when you came to my house ne?”

And I remember for the first time in a year, I blushed.

“Shut up Lyle. Your Girlfriend was there”.

“Ja I know, I am just saying man. But please rather don’t look so lekker again. Reminds me of the old times”.

I laughed.

To Lyle, I looked lekker in a swirlkous and pyjamas. He was always ready to jump me in the backseat.. Something I both loved and despised.

 

“But ya… just know that I wanna try and be friends again man. Let’s do supper.”

I declined.

 

I had no interest in reconciliation.

Not for the next few years.

I had it all planned out in my head.

We would be cordial, but he would watch me be okay without him. Then, when the kids were teens… he would have gotten his life in order and enough time would have passed for us to try again, without the awkwardness of the past looming over our heads.

He knew it wasn’t over.

I knew it wasn’t over.

I did not leave Lyle because I had stopped loving him.

I left Lyle because we were a bad, bad combination.

I am very strong, and made a decision with my head…

And have since been stabbed in the heart many, many times.

….

“I received your restraining order now… they just delivered it”

“Yup”.

“Yor. Okay.”

“Okay … bye”

“Bye”.

Our last conversation.

The last thing I said to him, was a sarcastic “bye”, so that he could go away.

 

There are actually 6 stages of grief…

They forgot to mention ‘regret’.

 

I scrolled through my Facebook today, to see the messages of condolences.

I could not get myself to answer any. Most were just “What happened”.. which is not so much a condolence, but more a pry.

And I battled with whether to put the story on my crime site.

I did, because we all want to know how deaths happened.

Who am I to stop anyone’s fix of trauma-porn?

I also did it because had anyone else died, I would have felt that the community needed to be educated and aware.

And I have never been a hypocrite.

So through my tears I typed out a very poorly written article.

Still, better on paper. Because the happenings of the morning of September 5th 2015 taste bitter in my mouth.

But the fake condolences are not the people in my inbox or on my wall…

The ones that bother me are the people posting his picture, saying how they miss him. . . When they never really liked him in the first place.

Now, before you speak… understand that how I felt about Lyle was never a secret. We had no lies, and he always knew where he stood with me, and vice versa.

But, I am talking about the ‘friends’ who avoided him… Never really wanted him to join in on the fun… saw him as a burden…. And now are reaping the social points for ‘knowing the deceased’.

You are the worst kind of person…

And he knew you were fake.

His memory deserves better than your bullshit.

 

Lyle Eyden died on the anniversary of the night we conceived Syria.

Lyle Eyden died on his dad’s birthday.

Lyle Eyden died at the age of 25.

These facts are irrelevant, because I want to tell you about how Lyle Eyden lived.

He lived fearlessly.

Lyle didn’t care what you thought of him.

He was the king of his own world.

Sometimes he took it too far. . . But he had to… He never felt good enough for the friends and family that refused to help him fix himself.

He asked them for jobs, they said no.

He asked for money, they rolled their eyes.

He asked to be included in camping trips and parties… they smiled politely, but made sure they avoided it.

 

Lyle Eyden loved his daughter.

He fought for her.

Physically.

Legally.

And this is the only version of the story she will be told.

It is the only version she needs to know.

At 3am on September 5th 2015, Syria-Rose woke up crying and vomiting.

She had never been so upset.

She said “Dada”.

I like to think that he came to say Goodbye.

I went to his home today, and felt the last four years of love and animosity.

I stood at the vigil with his daughter, staring at all the side-chicks who think I never knew.

I smoked cigarettes today for the first time in a long time.

And I just absorbed it all.

My mind accepted that Lyle was gone..

….and all the voice in my head said was “Why did you leave me Lyle? What the fuck am I supposed to do now? What am I going to tell Syria?…

 

Baby, are you at least okay?

Has your soul found the peace it deserves?

Do you forgive me?

 

I am hoping that tonight when I go to sleep, he will give me the answers I so desperately need.

He was the love of my life.

We were the worst of enemies.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

 

And today… I finally understand what pain is.

 

I was going to see him at court on Monday.

I will still be going in…

I have to tell them that he is dead.

 

He is dead.

He is dead.

He is dead.

 

No.

 

 

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody. Nobody ever again.

 

I am just Shana

I am just Fertile

I am just a Hoe… With Babies

Shot through the heart. And you’re to blame.

We gave love… A bad name.

May your soul rest in eternal peace, Mr Eyden.

Till we meet again.

Just a hoe with babies

Part two: The sick will. . . go to work. [Secondary name: I don’t care if you don’t like my blog.. I know you read it].

Our health always seems much more valuable after we lose it.“- Oswald

…The same is true about our virginity, and our minds…..

***

In continuation of the sordid facts of my existence. In the last week I was thrown down with “stress related ailments” that had my tenured physician squinting at his charts.

“When was your last period?”

The default question he is required by law to ask, before treating a Jintu.

My default answer, naturally is “Doctor, please don’t take me for a poes.”

My Wednesday and Thursday past were spent in my bed, wondering why I had no-one to administer vitamin P and make me all better. [I am lead to believe that this is the solution to all life’s problems? Or every online dating site I am registered to has been lying to me. . . Next, you are probably going to tell me that the promise that there are men in my area who are waiting to fuck me, so why masturbate?… is a marketing ploy. Ironically, I will have none of it.]

Regardless, I laid there, incapacitated… bek open for air while life went on all around me.

And I thought about how I would present this much anticipated ‘part two’…

But alas, dear reader… I approach you with no fire- works..

I have not the time.. Nor the budget.

A few weeks ago I had a supper planned with a [self-proclaimed] fan of my blog who I had only seen twice before, somewhat briefly.

My editor joined.

A logistical issue at the time, but my editor has since become one of my closest friends. My ‘fan’ didn’t know this though, and to her knowledge, she was meeting my boss…

She got into my car, and said to my superior…

“Awe, are you the poes that made us late?”

Now, my boss at the time [who has since resigned, in what I would like to believe was an unrelated incident] is of the variety of coloured woman who has acquired no physical injury to her mouth.

She certainly did not fall on it.

And the tension that followed and subsequently built up on the ride to Claremont’s Salushi’s was enough to be cut with a knife.

It is this particular knife that I was afraid of.

I drove with caution, gently humming Kumbaya.

“Oh my poes, your hair look so kak…Why do your hair look so kak? That is plastic kak”,

This was repeated numerous times about my new accessory weave. I felt the entire M5 cringe for me.

“You don’t have to like it you know…” I tried to seem okay with the attack on my appearance. Why wouldn’t I be okay with being told how kak I looked after enduring three gang fights and a possible third baby from Lukmaan-Badboy to get it. [Seriously, read part one].

Now, before I continue; women like this are the type of woman [and person] that I have tried to rid from my life since my awakening.

Anyone who is in the business of putting you down is taking up valuable space in your life. And they are wasting this space, and turning it toxic.

Since I left my abusive boyfriend, I will not tolerate anyone who thinks that the constant berating of who I am and the choices I make, no matter how ridiculous are subject to being insulted.

A real friend only builds.

 

I think it looks nice”, my boss lied.

But the hair conversation was not the straw that made me break the seal on my packet of Camel black.

She turned to my boss at the restaurant and started a series of questions so vile, that I cringe as type words I am not even responsible for.

“How old are you?

“23”

“Oh my poes you a lighty. Shana how can a lighty be your boss? That’s embarrassing. What does that say about you?”

“We all have different journeys, you know..”  My boss attempting to be cordial. But the psycho destroyed our southern comfort.

“Oh please. We all have an infinite amount of lives we could be living. She made the kak choices that put her where she is today. I will never take orders from a  lighty.”.

Breathe, Shana.

Now why do you have so a kwaai job? Shana don’t you feel like a poes?”

We were losing our patience for this kin, as a team. Unspoken at the time, but a obviously shared phenomenon.

 

“Yay, I am speaking to you…”, she hit my menu down, out of my hands.

Silence…

Waiter enters stage left…

We look at our menus as she turns to my boss….

 

Yay lighty what you eating?”

 

The rest is all a blur, but when my other friend ended work and joined us, the drive home was not PG.

I now have one less fan. Ironically, I feel cooler.

In any event, this was not the end of the shit-parade I call “August”.

When the phone call came I was at my desk, working for the salary that deems me too rich for Sassa, but too poor to afford anything besides my travelling money and the cheap entjies promo girls sell at Pizza Shack that comes with that kak lighter some naai super-glued into a casing.

Do I seem angry? I don’t mean to.

“Hi Shana”

“What do you want Lyle?”

“Did you get the letter?… Well it doesn’t matter… you will”.

“What letter, Lyle”.

“From the court. I am taking you to court”.

Silence.

Sigh.

“Why are you taking me to court?…”

“I can’t afford this maintenance kak. I work me in my poes to waste my money on you.”

I sniggered at the irony as I sat at my desk at 6am, with Tonsilitis.

His child was an ailment.

She was hurting his finances.

This naai had Tonsi-lighties.

 

“Lyle, you only give me R800. So far that has only been in theory. You have paid me short every month”.

“Ya but you know what I earn”.

“So maybe you should be better?”

“Yay, don’t take me for a poes. You mos don’t need my money if you can afford that kaffer hair”.

Silence.

I  had reached an impasse. Either I was going to get mad, or I was just going to take it in my stride. And for the first time in my ‘relationship’ with this cretin, I was able to adult.

“… I have not received the letter Lyle, but I will keep an eye out”.

“Okay. Kwaai. Say your burk must buy the kak”… He was poking me.

He won…

“I am sorry I let you cum in me”.

Silence.

I wasn’t finished… “Would you prefer I start paying you maintenance?”

I am not an adult… I had given us all false hope in that split second.

I should have split from this fock-up the second he put his piel in another kin for dessert.

A banana split, actually.

With a sprinkle of nuts.

Yes I mean he’s crazy.

Yes I also mean he sprinkled his nuts everywhere.

How do you not get how this works?

That day I had an internal breakdown.

After hacking off my weave with a knife, I pondered why I have allowed outside forces [get it? Cos he raped me and he isn’t in jail] to dictate [haha, dick tyd… I can’t stop] my emotions.

And I came to the realisation that I was always different.

I was loud and outspoken…

And at some point, I realised that this made mediocre motherfuckers dislike me. 

So, as a survival mechanism, I adapted so well that I avoided conflict by being so nice and adaptable, that instead of standing out and dominating, I became irrelevant and neutral…

And scared..

And shy..

It is why I no longer sing…

It is why I no longer act…

It is the reason I have endured such kak people in my life for years, in fear of isolation.

Naaiers that use me for emotional support, then  don’t invite me to their weddings because i’m too coloured.

“…My hubby can’t read your blog cos he doesn’t like harsh language. You understand why I can’t share it right? I am so proud of you though….”

Bitch Swerve. 

People who make excuses for me when before they introduce me to their other friends.

People who speak immediately after I do in public, to soften or interpret what I have said so that it is more palatable.

And if you are like me, you know exactly what I am talking about and how this feels…

Even my family treats me differently.

They roll their eyes when they see me speak to other adults, laughing to each other as I ‘keep me big’.

They come from overseas with a gift for everyone except me and my children… Throwing us the miscellaneous Jelly Babies  from the bottom of the bag… And I avert eye contact when my uncle asks.. “How can you give them my Jelly beans? “... because I am polite and am to avoid conflict.

When I go out in groups.. people say “Ag, that’s such a Shana thing to say…” as if to make my observations moot, or ridiculous.

And I have silenced myself, because in all honesty, I was taught that because I am smart, I shouldn’t make other people feel inferior..

So i lose all fights on purpose..

And this, is why for the first 23 years of my life, I did not excel.

But we aren’t in Kansas anymore, Motherfuckers. 

***

So, the day I sat at the doctors surgery, he looked at me confused.

“Why are you so stressed? you are only 26″…

I gave him the sanctimonious breakdown …

Then, had a sanctimonious breakdown…..

“And why did Victoria hospital not send me back the results from your appointment?… The growth in your stomach needs to be biopsied”….

[TBT]

I don’t have a PHD

… But I will…. I will.

I am just Shana

I am just Fertile

I am just a Hoe… With Babies.

Just a hoe with babies

My life is a Comedy; Is dit karma, die?

“My Karma ran over your Dogma”- Anonymous

——

“Oh my god Shana, the worst thing happened to me the other night”.

I didn’t feel threatened at all. We had only been colleagues for 5 months, and we weren’t even employed by the same company, just worked on the same floor.

I was 98% sure that solid boundaries had been set.

I ventured forth.

“What happened?”

I lit my Malboro switch, filling my lungs with grape.

“So I got totally hammered last night bro…”

After a few awkward seconds, I finally adjusted.

When speaking to a whitey, certain things sometimes ended up misunderstood.

Hammered. Oh thank God, she meant drunk.

Different to nailed, of course.

And only coloureds screw drivers.

I was all in.

“… Like blackout drunk bro. So I got to my car hey and drove home. I dunno how the fuck I even got home bro….”

Pause.

I assumed this behavior required some sort of verbal accolade.

 

“… Oh my word haha… alcohol”..

I faded into my entjie…

“So I wake up the next morning right… and I have no goddamn idea how I got there. I pull in my car and think okay, I need to shower. . . I undress only to see I shit myself”. 

I didn’t know Milnerton had crickets.

“….I fucking SHIT. MY. Self”…

I no longer wanted to be bro

 

I was her Mal-bro.

Her expectant facial expression left me more uncomfortable than that time I was g-rape.

She was obviously Menthol.

I have never known how to act around women.

…And this week my desperate lack of girlfriends finally had me looking introspectively, questioning what exactly it is that repels women from my mere presence.

I’m nice [Cordial at most]

I don’t smell weird… [Do I?]

I drive a 4×4 and shave my head, but in my defence… it’s 2015, and I identify as a naai. [Surely this is acceptable behavior in a world where Bruce Gender can chop and change his Jennertalia with reckless abandon? Pretty sure this is the real manslaughter she should be charged with.. ]

Relax, I am not Homophobic.

Im Syp-jou-sexual.

If he can take a piel, you can take a joke. 

I suppose I have been questioning my lack of companionship in every regard.

And more specifically, my innate desire to still be accepted, regardless of my great hatred for the entire human species.

Now, I do not dwell on the negative; as much as I use it for expression, but the past month has been a trying one. Leaving me feeling quite forsaken.

But I would never force a kin I don’t know to endure my faulty bowel stories.

No matter how hard I had been hammered.

But I will divulge my sordid minutiae, as I sure did go on quite the self-righteous tangent of late.

And I realized that I can tell my avid readers about how I super-glued my labia into a knot, and receive a heap of responses about how inspirational I am… and I can tell the same audience that people are dying of hunger… immediately rendering all of my readers illiterate.

So, I will give you what you want.

Every embarrassing thing that I have encountered in August.

You should probably fix yourself a hot beverage before continuing.

 

In summary, this month I gained 5 kilograms, got a weave at the Town Centre, then shaved my head in an attempt to find myself…

[Who am I? Why am I in the town Centre?]

… and in the midst of a personal restructuring, I was accused of sexual harassment.

I met a self-proclaimed fan of my blog who turned out to be a sociopath, I was deleted off Facebook by an old acquaintance because I can only assume my jokes about her engagement to a man she had only been dating for two months had surfaced her deep-seated emotional turmoil, I was served [the legal kind, not the lyrical fun stuff] and I walked out of Victoria Hospital because I wasn’t being treated like a queen…

*

When I shared the twerking video in a group chat with my journalists, I was sure it would start a lively debate. I had shared many videos, links, anecdotes and general concerns on this public platform… though I hardly mistook it for Tinder.

This day in particular my intern didn’t find my actions so innocent.

I now know what mortification feels like.

That evening, I received a Facebook invitation from him at 10pm. I ignored it, of course… as well as the inappropriate inbox that distinguished our difference in age.

“Thank you for the video. It was king funny”.

The use of the word ‘King’ as an adjective. I made a note to fire him, and went to bed.

By the time I arrived for my 6am shift, the last thing on my mind was my Facebook track record, and I went about my morning doing what I studied for many years; being a holborsel.

By 7.45, I admit I wondered where my precious Dobby was. I had already figured out his first assignment, and completely forgotten about his Faux pas.

He rang the doorbell at 8:15

His shift starts at 8.

“Good morning *Anonymous*, you are late”.

He saw me, but decided not to acknowledge my presence. He was on the phone. He took a left turn to the male toilets.

That familiar burning in my chest sizzled, affecting my throat, though spreading in a circumnavigational pattern right down to my now Kerrie-poes.

I sat down at my desk and continued my morning duties.

At 8:30 I saw His-Grace enter the workroom floor.

“Anonymous, I have sent you work, you are late… can ….”

He motioned to me, as if with hypnosis, hou-ing my bek for me…

“Listen, do you have a minute?”

I suppose I did. Because he sat down opposite me, taking charge.

And then he said the words that threw my usually genius-brain into what I can only describe as a ‘poepstorm’.

“Listen, I just want you to know that I love my girlfriend very much”.

He knocked me off my figurative chair. I couldn’t figure the tief.

And there I lay, bones in the light.

 

“Sorry?”, hoor vir genius-brain.

“Yes, you heard me..” [die naai]… “ I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but I would like it if our relationship remained 100% professional”.

Now, before we continue, bear in mind that the only sentences I have uttered to this king poes is “I have sent you work, please hand in one article per hour”, so I was taken aback when he insinuated that he was bear in my mind.

“What?… Look, I am not sure what you mean.. but I sent you work that I really need done. We can talk about this later.”

And I swear to Jesus, he looked at me and took another phone call.

When he was done, I politely suggested he start work, to which he replied “Ya, wait I am just finishing something on Facebook gou”.

And that, ladies and gentleman, is the story of how I lost my virginity.

[As I cannot divulge the proceedings that followed, I can say that no one was fired. I can also say that, to answer your question, he assumed that because he was the only male in my Skype group, the video was OBVIOUSLY directed at him, therefore meaning that my signature chising move is sharing links in public, in the hopes of catching a fish…

His exact words to the mediator?

“I know it was directed at me… It made me feel uncomfortable”.

I am basically the office’s weird uncle.

He didn’t even feel flattered at the thought of me chising him.

Even the improbable prospect of my romantic attention caused a young man insurmountable stress].

Well, they do call me Mrs. Personality… Just, I forget why.

Because I’m so lovely?

I think those are the lyrics, anyway.

 

But, before this obvious insult to who I am as a package and the type of predator I represent, my confidence had already reached an all time low.

So low, in fact, that one afternoon post-work, I made my way down to the notorious Town Centre, to a Somalian-staltjie, ironically abortion-clinic adjacent. Ironic because I too was covering up the truth, avoiding my roots and sewing everything closed….

I sat down, holding my plastic hair, and took numerous ‘before’ selfies.

I couldn’t help thinking that the girls at the clinic were probably so modernized that they were taking selfies too..

I suppose theirs could be called a ‘selfish’ though…

I digress…

I had a 30th birthday to attend, and I wasn’t going to go fat and hairless.

It was time to pick a struggle.

R500 and two excruciating hours later, I felt embarrassed as i meandered through the traffic, smelling like a new Barbie.. too afraid to light my cigarette and ignite my face.

The next day, I had a supper planned with a fan of my blog who I had only seen twice before, somewhat briefly.

My editor joined.

A logistical issue, but my editor has become one of my closest friends. My ‘fan’ didn’t know this though, and to her knowledge, she was meeting my boss…

She got into my car, and said to my superior…

“Awe, are you the poes that made us late?”

You are right, this didn’t end well….

Let me tell you what happened…

[TBT]

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody can possibly think I have the time to write 4000 words in one week? Jy sal wag, jou naai….

I am just Shana

I am just fertile

I am Just a Hoe, With Babies

 I want to ask you to click here and like my Facebook Page, but I know you just vark think of yourself. 

Special Edition: “A penny for your sports car?”

“This car is high enough for you not to be intimidated by the street people when you stop at the robots”- Top Billing [paraphrased]

Victor had been shot in the foot.

The academic would call it a self inflicted wound, in jest of course. But Victor’s lifestyle was a series of bad decisions, just with very little choice.

I saw him daily, outside my new office. A coloured man, holding the ‘Daily Voice’ in the crease of his elbow. He could have been my daddy. I called him uncle.

“Uncle, what happened to your foot. You shouldn’t be working”.  Like most of his generation, Victor’s choices were written on his face. Burnt into his skin with a ‘Zombie’. The irony wasn’t lost on him either.

“I can’t rest aunty, I must work”.

I was his junior by at least 20 years. But my money had given me authority.
“I’m Shana. How much do uncle make?”

My accent always humbles itself when I speak to an elder. To be submissive is respectful, a concept my community has mastered.

Hard for me to Ingest, of course.

His life had gone off course somewhere between the riots and the celebrations of the 90’s. His Methaqualone musk emanated from his half unbuttoned shirt.

I handed him a R50.


“Uncle must rest that foot. It’s vrek cold. Can I get you anything?”

“Just a jacket please. En n paar sweaters”.

I shouldn’t have been annoyed.

I walked through the revolving door at Milnerton mall and took the lift up to the office.  I thought about how cold June was. I thought about the Shoprite packet around his cast, to keep out the dirty rain that carried the dust and outside piss from Brooklyn, past KFC’s pavement where the chicken is cleaned, into the upper-middle class section where Victor sold the Daily Voice, quietly.

And I thought about his name.

Victor. Roman name meaning “victor, conqueror”.

The next morning had a similar chill.

My shift in the news room started at 6am, so on my drive in I always saw the night-people still packing up their boxes, pushing trolleys out of sight, for the working class to commute. My parking spot was kept only by my unconventional working hours.
Victor saw my headlights. He motioned towards me before I could pull out from my backseat the one jacket I was okay to part with. 

“Morning Uncle. I could only find this one. The Zip don’t work but I asked my friends to collect. I hope it’s…”
He interrupted me.


“Ja okay. Het jy niks daar vir n drinkie?”

*

The poor are quite the inconvenience.

In convenience stores; at the robot; playing outside in the rain when all you’re trying to do is enjoy a guilt free chai tea at “Food Lover’s Market”.

They aren’t food lovers though, not as much as they are food-needers.

The sheer audacity of parading their deficits.

The race to earn money is a tiring and invigorating one, and we parade our accolades as we are fully entitled to do. But when the churches fill up on Sundays, the ghosts of our charitable deeds are racked up in testimonies, embellished ever so slightly, because not so deep down, we know we haven’t done anything to alleviate the suffering of the people in arms reach of us.

And we use the default phrases to explain living on auto-pilot.

Auto-pilot: Because we are all flying high… solo.

So, so low.

“I work for my money… I don’t owe them anything”.

“Ag, they used to the cold man… Their children are built differently.”

One can only assume this refers to natural insulation, and because of our gross neglect of the street people in Cape Town’s unforgiving winter… the homeless have now evolved into amphibious hybrids.

Ironic, we have made the change to hybrid too.

In an attempt to save the planet, of course: but in a stylish way.

“Go green. So when the poor die, we can use them as compost”. 

My weekly distribution of clothes for the poor hardly excuses me from the social obligation I feel that most of us have when it comes to not allowing our earthly family to suffer. In a perfect world, we would all be equal, at least economically_ though I would settle for everyone feeling obligated to feed each other.

On one of these journeys, my friend and I ventured through Strandfontein Village, a middle class suburb at best. I happened upon an entire family, mother and children, sitting outside a well-known Pakistani outlet, waiting for the rain.

They were in no way bothered by the imminent darkness. I suppose a life in the shadows toughens the skin. Time was not a constraint.

I stopped the car, and trying hard not to offend the older woman, I asked her a question I already knew the answer to.

I didn’t want her to be mad that I assumed she was homeless.

A luxury I’m certain she didn’t even acknowledge.

Privileged 12 year old’s drop 50 cent coins in her hands, as her children watch.

People are careful not to touch her.

The question remains whether we think she doesn’t notice it, solely based in the fact that she is poor. Or do we not care what she notices, because she has no social standing?

A meme comes to mind, emphasizing the great willingness to perform fellatio on a stranger, but the sheer reluctance to touch a fellow human being’s hand, because they have no money. 

“Hi there aunty, I am looking for people to give clothes to. Do you know anywhere I can go?”

I saw her soul jump out at me. She restrained her excitement, failing.

“Ek sal dit waardeer mevrou. Die is my kinnes. Os bly maar net hier onder die car wash.”

Her respect made me feel dirty.

I was feeding my own Messiah complex. All I wanted to do was give her the clothes and run.

But I was already invested.

 

 “I can give you half of these bags, aunty. I don’t know if the stuff will fit all the children though”.

At that moment, one of her sons ran from the car wash shelter to my car.

“Antie is daar niks vir my nie.. Os kry baie koud antie”.

I was about to cry.

“How old are you my baby?”

Silence.

Ek wietie, antie”.

My mind made a train of assumptions until I accepted reality.

Some days I wish that my brain had the safety measures in place, like other people from my social circle… but alas, I am not able to rationalize… I can only think rationally.

 

Ladies and gentleman, an inner monologue:

He did not know when his birthday was.

He is stupid.

He isn’t stupid. He is underprivileged.

His mother could at least educate him, lazy bitch.

Maybe she can’t read either.. I wonder if she also grew up on the street?

But why wouldn’t she tell him his birthday? Surely it is important.

Unless… How would they celebrate?

Oh god, street children cannot have birthdays because birthdays are synonymous to expensive celebrations.

Cake.

She cannot give her child a birthday cake.

She must be so heartbroken.

*

I drove further down Denneguer Avenue. My humanity sickened me as I felt an accomplished pride. I wished I had taken selfies throughout the experience.

To er is human.

To er on Instagram is divine.

 Er….. 

 I didn’t see any worthy candidates for my generosity, and drove to the nearby suburb of Bayview.

Another mother and child, a younger version of the woman I had just met, walked into what seemed like a church building.

Derelict and forgotten.

The church building too.

I stopped the car. 

“Hi there”. I now had a script for these occasions, my mouth repeated my “talk to the poor’ lines, verbatim. I was nervous. “I am looking for someone to give clothes to. Do you know any one?”

She showed me a different light.

“Uhm, this is now actually a church for the less-privilege chorlren”.

I blinked; her nose had grown an inch.

Behind her, three other children emerged.

“Okay.. Is there a priest here that I could chat to?”

“No man, sorry they not here … but you can leave the clothes here and I will give it to them”.

The children looked like her.

And the aristocrat inside of me was furious.

For a second….

I gave her the clothes, and I drove away.

The tears were now on my lap… 

I was ashamed at myself.

Through my many self righteous rants at other people, I had forgotten to point a finger at myself.

And as humbled as I sat there, in my driver’s seat of my 4×4, high enough to look down on the street people who approached, I was completely intimidated by their strength to stand there day after day and humiliate themselves for some loose change… 

I pictured myself and my two children, falling into the stereotype I could easily have succumb to.

A single mother who had made bad decisions, and now had to be punished everyday; in front of my kids.

Homeless. Cold. Hungry.

….. And if a stranger in a high car stopped me and asked if I knew where she could drop creature comforts that I deserved, solely on the fact that I am a human being…

With all my morals in tact..

To keep my kids warm…

Would I lie?

Would I steal?

Would I knock on that window?

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody even donates when I say I am collecting clothes for the poor. Out of five thousand friends, I have only had 9 responses.

I am just Shana

I am just Fertile

I am just a Hoe… with Babies

Just a hoe with babies

A letter to the Afro-eclectic female [Slave name: Coloured Girl/’Goose’/Kin/That Ding/ Nicole/Kim/Trevlynne]

….. Also including, but not restricted to: Jintu’s, Taxi queens, Motchies, Business Women, Bread-Winners, Entrepreneurs and the generally unemployed. 


For you see, faceless oppressor, we are made up of many.


I call this: “Issie Madam nou klaar? Kan ek die tafel dek?

(….. A Working Title) Haha get it? Cos we clean your house.

“… I trekked across the Karroo (it’s true… just to come to you) Not with a valiant, but with SAA, and what a kak flight I’m telling you. The pretty hostess was from Athlone too. She had that lekker Athlone attitude. I asked for water, she said ‘Kryp in jou moer’….From the Cape Flats, with love- Marc Lottering. 

Alas, humour is not my vehicle this week. 

“Number 4……”

“….Number 4. Number 4!”

I stood up and made my way through the passages of Mitchell’s Plain clinic.

We had all been sitting in a circle in the waiting area since 7 am, making small talk, vuilkyking each other. Smiling politely. Asking if we are at the right place. Pretending that it wasn’t extra cold that day.

“That nurse is so rude hey……” We said in unison, but whispered tones. We needed her.

We were given a tablet, and a number.

And then cordoned off.

For a second, I wanted to speak up. I wanted to say that I was not cattle. But this, after further thought was deemed untrue. Looking at the group of coloured girls surrounding me, I realized that sheep was all we had ever been.

“You will get a number and please don’t take long when we call you. If I must say your number more than three times you miss your turn.”

She was disgusted by us Jezebels.

“Put this tablet under your tongue. There is no turning back after this, so just decide now. This will break everything up and open the cervix… Okay Mammies?”.’

She laughed.

Mammies. The walking dead. 

Number 4. Number 4!”

The tiles were slippery.

Number three walked past me from the room, holding a wad of Carlton towel against her crotch.

“It’s not so bad”…. 

Smile.

‘Hi. Lay down.”

Well hello to you too doctor. ( One of many exchanges that never happened).

“Open your legs”.

Okay. So no foreplay. Right up my alley. 

Needle. No apology.

“This is a syringe. Tell me if it gets too sore”.

I don’t think she meant emotionally.

It literally feels like a vacuum cleaner… But instead of just sucking out your baby, parts of your soul get caught in the pipe.

Sucking stops.

“Are we done, doctor?” I cry into to my right shoulder.

“Nope. Need a new syringe”.

*What an interesting ceiling design. The only whity I saw today is the doctor. What are people gonna say if they find out? I wonder if it was a boy…. *

I still don’t eat mince, or work with raw meat. I cannot stand the smell. 

Suck. Suck. Suck.

And it was over.

I was socially acceptable again.

Albeit, emptier. In a manner of speaking.

Ironically, the whole thing was very clinical.

Instead of leaving with my two gratis Panados, I waited for all the women to go in. a pact we made, that no one would have to sit there alone. 

A girl who was already 4 months along ran to the bathroom, with the silver bean bowl they give all the women who had a fully developed cadaver in their tombs. (Womb. Womb. Silly mistakes.)

All I heard was “clingk”. 

Number 14 screamed.

We all went through the abattoir and emerged, redeemed.

But one girl stood there, with a different look on her face.

I remember watching her breakdown, completely detached. I was even judging her for making such bad decisions.

And, because I am conditioned to be in a perpetual competition with every woman of colour I encounter, I remember smiling when the nurse jokingly asked a distressed woman/child/sister….

“Must we then put the baby back?”

…………

My soul died long before I started having sex.

I saw men as the enemy, the master, and the decision-maker by just looking at the relationships around me, growing up.

The first time I was forced by peer pressure to ride a penis at the back of a second hand vehicle, parked at pavilion through a gap at the back of my jeans…  I felt angry and obligated, and nothing.

I guess you can say I was dead on a rival.

Growing up as a coloured girl, I watched enviously how my mother executed an award-winning  tea-table. I saw the pride on my uncles’ faces when their wives almost rallied to do the dishes…

“Lat die mans-mense relax”.

God knows they were exhausted from shoveling cake into their mouths. The same shovel digging their extra-large graves.

“He died of sugar.” No, Samsoeniesa. Great attempt, but that’s not a real disease.   

And I stood there, in awe from my low vantage point.. Next to the other women, 30 years my senior.

I remember being irrationally angry, but as a 7 year old, I couldn’t pinpoint it.

I knew I didn’t want to swirl my hair with a million pins, or sleep with rollers because the next day was Christmas. I knew I didn’t want to wear lip gloss, because it made me no more attractive, and only aided in making me look like I was eating a hake parcel ‘agter die bak‘.

I knew my aunties were being smacked by men if they weren’t obedient. I knew my mother and many other women pretended that none of this was happening.

I knew my daddy’s brothers kept having kids with women who weren’t their wives, while their wives kept having miscarriages and stillbirths.

As a coloured woman, think back on what you knew before YOU were told that it is impolite to be perceptive. 

We are taught that there is pride in keeping a man no matter how he treats you, as long as it stays a secret.

That you better praise him for organising a separate entrance, because men are so temperamental (Cue adult female giggle to make us seem like we know about life).. 

And you better look good while doing it.

I remember that at my sister’s wedding my uncle got drunk and threw his wine glass at my aunt.

We all politely pretended not to see his son punch him, then take them both home as if nothing had happened.

Then, years later when Lyle hit me, we all spoke about it and told me how stupid I was.

Hy issie eers jou mannie”.

I learned two things from comparing these experiences:

It was my stupidity that made men hurt me. They had no control over their actions.

This is okay if you’re married.

SSSSSSHHHHHHHH! 

“Shana, a man beat his two year old to death. Please cover the story”

“Okay”

Reading……………….

“Zoey Petersen’s father, Christopher Williams beat baby Zoey with a broomstick for six hours. Her mother, Elwina Petersen was in the next room. When he was done, he carried a battered Zoey to her mother, and said that she cannot take Zoey to hospital. The three slept in bed through the night. There is speculation that he had sex with the mother in the bed where Zoey lay, dying.

He allowed Elwina twenty hours after the fact, to take Zoey to the hospital.

Zoey had been reported to have had multiple injuries before the last attack. Williams regularly used Zoey as a punching bag. 

Elwina kept taking him back. 

She loved him.

He said he wouldn’t.

I mean, she had his baby… Why wouldn’t she make it work?

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. And the comment below the story, that started thee biggest debate?

Typical of the coloured community, Never get involved. 

Okay.

So that’s how they know us.

Who piemped?

….

“It’s a boy”

I looked at Sidney-Jonah, freshly cut from my midsection.

I knew nothing. I wasn’t even sure how I fell pregnant. 

I felt dizzy. Half from anesthetic. Half from fear.

I closed my eyes. 

“Moetie nou ko slaapie. Vat jou kind. Jy het ge’lê”. 

He did no thrusting of course. The belief is that I laid down and immediately, through coloured intervention, I was merrie lyf.

There was nothing merry about my lyf from that point forward. 

My sex talk as a young girl consisted of 4 sentences.

“Moetie vir jou jas hou nie”

“OMG She’s old fashion..”

“Jy gat nooit n man kry as jy soe antrekkie”.


“He smaak you”

And that was it. The words of support I received from a fellow woman of colour.

No “It is okay my girl, we are strong”

“Is daddy coming?”

All daddy did was come. 

En al wat kom is daddy.

At three months pregnant, Sidney’s bio-illogical father, Huzaifah Laatoe (Feel free to Facebook him, Tell him he owes me damages) decided that having a baby with a Christian needed Astaghfirullah. 

Sex with me was his man-given-right, but any physical evidence was mine alone to bear.

Society pointed and laughed at my fall from Janaah, but luckily for him, he wasn’t co-pregnant.

I went through my pregnancy alone and when Sidney was six weeks old, in the July Winter I knocked on his door.

“That isn’t my lighty”.

“It is”.

“Please go”.

I can still feel him push me, and having to regain my balance outside the shut door, while making sure the rain didn’t wet us. 

I was a coloured girl, tainted by perception, in the rain.

Where could I turn to?

We have no support groups. We have no forums.

Os is te blerrie skaam vir die mense… 

We just have our friends who didn’t fall pregnant, smiling politely while they get dressed on a Friday night for Gala, asking “Are you sure I mustn’t stay with you?”

“Please don’t come to my 21’st.. My mom them think it will look ugly to the family.”

And We have no outlet.

So I chose to blog. To sit down and be real.

But you don’t wanna hear our stories, from our real voices. From our colourful accents or from our kroeskoppe.

And I dedicated this clean, stellar example of how multifaceted I am as a writer, and as a hot-not.

Ladies, Let them Understand….

I do not need to swear to execute a punchy blogpost. I do not need to make cheap jokes, to make my opinions and experiences more palatable.

I am your superior. 

I am an academic.

I am a coloured woman.

These things are not mutually exclusive. 

And there are many of us who come from scum. We come from people/women who did not know better. We come from communities where our first words are “poes, naai, moer”, and that is what we have heard before we have even ventured out of our homes.

But when we emerge and fight the battle of wanting to be part of the elite, or prove ourselves as coloured women who can compete with the best, we suddenly need to sound whiter, and crisper…. and not as rough…

You teach us in order to be great, we need to adjust/tweak/straighten.

Just us though.

Everyone else is okay.

And when we finally raise to a position of affluence, we are so diluted that we just emulate whatever is out there, sleep with the white boys and pioneer nothing.

And what do we end up with?

Mascots like Pam Andrews who played the token coloured girl on Backstage, Then publicly cheated on Paul Viv, and recorded a naked music video with no actual music. 

We have men who will listen to Eminem Explicit Tracks and have Lil Wayne explain why he refuses to treat his hoes like Ladies…

But will take the time to inbox a woman who executes the same language in her art.

We have coloured women messaging that female with the same hate… when the only thing offending them is how much they see themselves in the writing.

The only letters we publicly accept are about how much we enjoy viskoppe, and how we can’t find jobs.

We are mos the comic relief of the nation.

Sans front teeth.

Our accents are only good enough for ironic Robertson’s adverts… So Solly Philander can pretend we say things “Paark it net soe lekker oppie bordtjie..”

And we can ignore how we are no longer a united front.

It is just one big front that we are united.

Our Front has a real gap. 

Sans Passion.

So let me remind you, before I show you my true coloured…

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody even needs to read my blog if they expect it to be a bunch of pointless comedy and not actually matter.

I am just Shana

I am just Fertile

I am Just a Hoe… with babies. 

Just a hoe with babies

Pussy-Faux-Pa

“Louis 13 and it’s all on me, nigga you just bought a shot

Kamikaze if you think that you gon’ knock me off the top


You naai’d Nadine in the backseat of my brand new foreign car


Don’t act like you forgot, I call the shots, shots, shots

Like blah, brrap, brrap

Pay me what you owe me, don’t act like you forgot………………..

Bitch better have my money!”-Rihanna.. Though I made have free-styled, somewhat.

…………………………………

“Standard Bank is now following you on twitter”. #Fok.

2012 was virtually debt free.

My ex-BF was an opportunist, who needed to merge his love of sleeping late on weekdays, with his desire to make his own money.

I suppose the everyday reality of koppeling for a thirty bag could be deemed stressful for any entrepreneur.

The dagga market was saturated at the time.

And with his fellow competitors selling a higher grade to the standard grade demographic, unless he was going to graduate to heroine, he needed a new modus opeRandNaai. 

(Don’t laugh at that. That was pathetic wordplay. Pathetic. Respect yourself).

He fell quite comfortably into the bracket of “I can’t work for a boss”, to “Ag nee shame man, he’s good with his hands”.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with that statement, it is the epitome of coloured tact.

Directly translated, it means ‘haai, he’s dom hey… but see if he can fix the TV’.

When he first started coming to my house, I felt a sense of shame and pride at how handy he was. I had always pictured myself with an engineer of sorts, and I seem to have made myself believe that this was, somehow, in his trajectory.

I seeked approval from the men in my family, who themselves aren’t the crème of the academic crop. Regardless of them consisting of council workers, buttonkoppe and I’m pretty sure one of my daddy’s brothers is a merchant, they were in unison about his vuilgatery.

‘Hy werk half’.


‘Die ding kannie paintie’.

Coloured men say the darndest things. 

Anything is a parable..

“You know what they say about a man who doesn’t know how to ride a bakkie that is being towed….”

STFU Uncle Boere.

Regardless, I needed him to be seen as a man, so no alarm bells ding-donged when he asked me to take out a loan to burse his business.

As I didn’t want to burst his bubble, I obliged… like a good little girl.

He needed R25000, and I needed to be his saviour.. (I remember now how I fantasized, like many coloured girls have been conditioned to, about how he would walk up to the stage and accept his lifelong achievement award and lovingly point to me with his whole hand, open… saying …


“behind every great man………….”

So off we went to Standard bank.


His business plan was as follows:

Plan A: Dial a dop

Plan B: Dial a Car wash

Plan C: BMX customization

Either he would illegally deliver alcohol to all the residents of Strandfontein, wash the vehicles of my family and friends for money (because then they’d really respect us as a unit), or C, customize bicycles in the recession.

While he operated under the guise of being a small business owner, I am 98% certain that for three consecutive months he just lammed in his garage, spray-painting his own bike different colours, to take photos.


What is 98% of R25000?

According to Standard bank, it equals accumulative interest over a period of five years.

(a-cum-u-late-tief + period = a lekker joke hey… You must be so proud of yourself)

I digress…

His Facebook page has had 89 likes for the past 4 years.

I remember his eyes widening as we checked my balance.

Ignoring the irony of just how unbalanced I was.

And yes, in 2015, after my week-long struggle during hour-long conversations with Jaco from Debtsafe…

I have decided to reveal what hurts me the most about my dealings with “men”.

I am R40 000 indebted to various institutions.

Never attempt to turn a hoe into a househusband.

I suppose he did make one deposit, who recently turned 1.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my Ex-BF, the Entreprenaaier.

….

“Hello can I speak to Sharna Genevevvevevee please?”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“You aaaaaaaare speaking to Thandokazihle from MDD attorneys”

“ oh….Sorry, no English.”

“It’s okay ma’am…. me neither 

………..

‘……And this purple one is called Mr. Reliable.. all you need to do is stick the suction cup against the wall and you can have your way with it…”

Sorry? 

I seemed to be the only one in the control group to react to what had just been said. 

These women were just below the attractive line. The group at school between the mooi kinnes and the kinnes that play soccer.

You know the type. Always have sleep in their eyes, their dress is unfathomably long,  and they keep saying that they ‘close’ with some popular girl who’s mommy said she must be nice to them because they are at the same church. 

Whenever they take a group photo, one always thinks it’s a good idea to lift her leg across the group, while they hold it. And they all find it hilarious.

Every. Single. Time.

These were my companions on Saturday evening.

An impromptu, ‘Wanna come to a Pure Romance’ party?’ from a woman I had never met, didn’t seem strange at all.

Why wouldn’t I wanna examine dildo’s with a group of strangers?

Testament to my current social life.

The aptly coloured dildo jiggled in the dimly lit room.

This piel was far too real. A dildo with veins is a other nommer.

“So you can put it on a chair and just.. like…. ?”

I looked at the group of mostly married women, who had completely disregarded the fact that they were considering (AND Discussing with a room full of strangers) purchasing something that would allow them to, instead of sleeping with their husbands, rather naai themselves against the wall.

And the name wasn’t Mr. MakeYouCum, or Mr.OrgasmGiverWithoutYourKakBurkThatDontEvenHaveMatricStopMakingExcusesAndGo

It was Mr. Reliable.

That was the entire fantasy. 

This piel would just be there for you.

Supporting you.

Doing the dishes.

Sewing.

Doubling as a towel rack.

Sexy.


And very, very sad.

I bet Mr Reliable will never druk his suction cup on anyone else’s wall, the ma se poes.

Thus I pondered the implications of the need for women to host underground skommel parties

Why are we as women so scared of our vaginas?

We have been conditioned, too verskimmel to skommel. And with society telling us it’s wrong to explore our,… uhm… many avenues… most women haven’t realized that it  is in fact, ‘G’ that marks the spot.

Instead of embracing our slegtuality, we need some overweight Barbie in a beautician uniform throwing cringe-worthy one-liners at kinnes liberated just enough to throw a secret plastic-penis-party in a yard, at night. 

“Why mingle when this cream will make you tingle?”


“Hydrate. Vibrate. Don’t wait…AmIRight??”


“Dick, it’s the kick that help’s you stiek”… or whatever else her training at Agrimark in Durbanville consisted of…

I waited for my jokes to subside, listening over the murmurs about ‘Good golly gosh I love a glass of dry red”, “Thank the Lord the Kid’s are at their grans…”

“Hardy-hardy-har… Add adult-confirming statement here”.

“This weather is kak hey? why we outside? Ma se poes” was apparently ‘out of line’.

I swallowed the apple-sours just in time for “I call this work” to pick up the next item that would catapult me into hysterics.

“This one is called buzz”.

Buzz was a yellow apparatus, with two heads that seems to go where no man has gone before.

ha-ha…Buzz right-here.

And right there I learnt that the tiny bunny head, ladies and gentlemen… goes in the front. (Regardless of the animal they chose to represent it).

Many a consumer before me must have made the ghastly mistake of misusing ‘Butts Bunny’, ending up onnerste-boe in Groote schuur.. with a groote skeer. (What’s up,Doc?’)

I decided against an impomptu purchase.

I patiently waited for “Woody”, and Mr Rotato-Head to be demonstrated.

But Alas, this was going be a very different Toy Story....

I suppose deep down I enjoyed the experience, although, I just wished I had a friend in me.

……………….

“Lyle, when are you going to help me pay the skuld we made together?”

“When you take me back”. 


Seems Unlikely. 

His chipped teeth glistened through the crack in my window. 


Nothing says ‘I love you’ like back-male. 

I considered it for a second, I admit.


A throwback. 


A Hit me baby, one more time. 

But my loneliness isn’t killing me just yet.

I feel compelled to express to women that being alone has only been villianised by wille naaiers who do not want us to succeed. 

My stance on love has again been questioned, and challenged in recent weeks, though it remains as follows.

Young ladies, please take heed.

Marriage and procreation is not a duty, it is not a milestone… it is a life choice.

Compromising your mental, physical and yes, even financial health so that you may seem to be following a social ideology and is ‘normal’ is not the way to happiness.

Before any decision, ask yourself what your true motivation is for making the particular choice.

If the answer is not “because it makes me happy”... reconsider.. 

You are not a tree.

……..

Pride week and the realisation that I will be credit-queer for the next 28 years, has tempted my vagina to do a 180.

Not much different to a 69, just this time I can be at the bottom, without turning my rape into a homicide.

“There is one casualty sir…. Died from choking…”

“Strangulation, Lieutenant?”

“No sir, Penis”.

In my time, I have made many a Pussy-Faux-Pa 

That guy with Billabong sweater in Atmosphere.

That one bra with the red shoes

Another guy with no discernible attributes.


Yes no matter how many times I show my Pussy for pa, I cringe when I sit in a circle of women, discussing the need for a bath sponge that vibrates. 


The future looks dim. (But with 7 settings).


It remains…


I cannot settle for someone long-term, and still have to install a courtesy piel in the building plans of my separate entrance.


I cannot settle for someone long-term, if they won’t keep their end of the fucking loan repayments.


And I certainly cannot settle for someone long-term… because somebody else thinks it’s a good idea. 



Save-the-dated

You are cordially invited to see me take my place as Mrs. Shana Reliable.

Hy Kannie Paintie… but hy kan naai. 

(Don’t be rude.. I mentioned the sewing)

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody is ever going to invite me to anything ever again

I am just Shana.

I am just fertile.

I am Just a how… With babies