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

“Read my blog, Lyle.”

“Bet no-one told you life was gonna be this way.

Your job’s a joke, you’re broke..

Your love life’s DOA….

It’s like your’re always stuck in second gear…

When it hasn’t been your day, your week, your month or even your year….” extract of the theme song for the hit 90’s show… ‘Psychics’. 

*Names have been changed so that you have no idea who these naaiers are… Except for Lyle.. He lives in the village.*

I met Dickhardo* when I was 13 years old.

He was lekker nogals, and a few years my senior

(But not enough to make anything illegal.. just frowned upon)

Now, in the heights, we all used to lam at the house of whoever’s parents cared less about them.

So between orally inhaling turps and drinking papsak, there was ample room for Dickhardo to proposition me into the proper position to suck his piel.

I was feeling extra friendly that day.

We went to the room and vrayed, while I felt kwaai about being picked by the reggest bra at the jol.

(We as females are mos all taught that men pick us from a bunch.. We compete for the attention of the strongest in the ‘village’ (Ironically)and then sex happens to us…)

After three unpleasurable fingers in my dry vagina, I don’t quite remember who announced “Penis-sucking time”, but i was down there with a bekfull of ‘merniette this is salty” pretty quickly.

Yes we don’t like it when you put your index finger into our bladders. It feels like a medical exam.

We also don’t think it’s particularly impressive when you point out that you are now licking said finger.

Just because you lus for fish-paste, doesn’t mean I do….so don’t kiss me anymore please, Thanks.

Besides, your mar-mite smell, even though you might Nutella that you just had pee, not butt hahaha..

I’m an idiot.

But this is my jam.

I digress,

Whole face deep in pubes I remember hearing a what sounded like someone starting a slow clap. But just one.

I was tipsy, so I let it slide. (Right?)

We exited the room after very one-sided Whore-play and I went home. Only to find a offline Mxit message from my friend (let’s call her Schmozia) saying… ‘Shana, my husband says he just saw a video of you giving Dick-hardo a blow-job…. is it true?”

Turns out the ‘clap’ I heard was the sound of his Motorolla V360 closing after recording me inhale his groin.

Another proud moment.

After that, every time I went to the pool shop, the boys laughed at me.. Pretending that they didn’t wish their 16 year old wives sucked piel from beneath their burkas.

But I persevered, and luckily, before the dawn of social media.. The only thing viral was my urethtra and throat.

From a clap to a Klap, to Chlamydia… A love story.

….

In the passages of Wynberg court, I felt the gang-raped Gifted-Barbies look at me like I was rejecting Prime property.

My salutations had left me.

They obviously couldn’t see my flashback bubble next to my head, remembering this primate prop a Tee in my mouth, so no one could hear me scream in Casa Del Separate entrance.

Or as I fondly call it, On our Honey-moer.

“So, Mr.Domnaai, how much can you comfortably afford?”.

Now, I have a decent job. Though the prospect of financial support is always a welcome venture.

But alas, as his main career objective is driving a Venture and dropping lighties at school and fetching them again for minimum wage…

When the appointee of the court awarded me R2.50 a month, my maximum rage was apparent.

A-single-parent.

(Add something clever about in-cum)

Rather out than in I always say.

And from across the table, his new Nokia shimmered in the sunlight. 

“When you gonna help me pay our skuld jou naai….”

“When you take me back….”

“Don’t keep you juss. When are you gonna vrek?”‘

“Shana, why do you hate me so much?”…….

Blank stare. 

“Read my blog, Lyle.”

“I do ya (Laughs)… Your blog actually gets me laid…. The kinnes love it………”

Blank stare.

“Shana, is there any chance for us again?”

My blank stare obviously matched his thought process.

“Only if you promise to rape me in the hol this time.”

…Oh wait, i have the government for that…”

But ‘alwaystheless’ the hearing ended, and I had reluctantly agreed to him seeing his daughter every second weekend, on condition that he supports her pseudo-financially…. and doesn’t physically attack me whenever he sees me.

The fact that he needed these rules to be officially written down didn’t deter this court appointed Bic Pen from signing this off, while she gave his piel the side eye.

I see you, Gadieja…. Chise jy ma lekker .

“spooned in his arms and after almost eight minutes of silence, he whispers the words that she was needing to hear from him… “…you smaak to koppel feelings?”… he could tell by her kiss that she was bets”- A love story from the 021, Loyd Africa

….

“Shana, how could you have been raped if you were in a relationship?”

Good question, let’s discuss Kids. 

Let’s say you purchase a Kitten…

You now own this Kitten. This Kitten is yours as far as the laws of society are concerned.

Everyday you put milk in a bucket and the Kitten drinks the milk. This becomes a normal transaction between you and the Kitten.

Then one day the kitten doesn’t feel like drinking milk and this makes you unhappy. 

Why is this kitten not following routine?

And you don’t like change, so you try to push the milk closer to the kitten, forcing the kitten to drink the milk whenever you see her.

Eventually you take the milk, and throw it out and forcefully shove your penis into the kitten.

This is rape. 

And this is wrong.

I hope you understand

…..

There are many reasons that I tell the stories of my past, and one of them is hoping they will educate people who have found themselves in similar shituations. ‘

There are many types of people in society, and as teens We are even more divided.

There are the cool kids, whose parents never stopped partying, so their weekends were filled with their parents having braais and sending them to their room early… while they pretended they couldn’t hear the adults naaing past 2 in the morning.

These kids became adults quickly, and I always envied how lekker they could paaarty.

Then, there are the nerdy kids who believe in academics.

They were ridiculed by the cool kids for studying and investing in their future. These nerds were also always the less attractive children from Durban. They had buckteeth and weird accents.. or sometimes just stuttered at the immense pressure of socialising.

And between the two extremes, you got the kids like me..

I wasn’t really much of anything.

When I was with the cool kids, I smoked entjies using my thumb and forefinger. (It’s more gangster)

When I was with the nerds, I made jokes about platform 9 and three quarters.

This is my audience I write for now…

No matter how hard we try, we don’t get acknowledged. We aren’t a priority. We don’t get marketed.

Os Markettie

And people don’t like us, cos they think we’re odd.

…

In 2004 I was kak reg.

I was pre-bun in the oven. My muffin top hadn’t rised, and my friend who was at Strandfontein high thought it would be a good idea to invite me to a party at her house with her school friends.

I always had a lekker Rondebosch-East attitude.

(You know those coloured naaiers who won’t say they live in Crawford… They always somewhere-better-adjacent….. They call each other chap and wear board shorts to Longbeach mall. But the hair is as hard as that crocodile on their T-Shirt)

I didn’t particularly fit in with the residents of all those who grew up in Mitchell’s plain and surrounds..

In my head I was not from Strandfontein.. I was a Muizenberg North Manskap.

Nonetheless, I obliged and arrived Jahaan-Clad and ready to make kinnes naar with my lekkerte.

I felt the vuilkyke as I danced to ‘somebody answer the phone‘.

I watched as they spoke over me while we sat in the room, smoking Okka made from a chutney bottle.

I saw the one kin elbow her burk, like I would ever kiss anyone with a gold slit.

I took off my jacket and put it in the cupboard and went outside to people I didn’t intimidate as much, and the evening passed pleasantly enough.

Once the dop trekked, I noticed that the girls became friendlier, and even poured me dop to try and get to know me..

My friend must have spoken to them…………

When everyone went home, the close friends all slept over, and When I left that morning, I forgot my jacket in the cupboard… But thought it was a good excuse to stiek uit again next Friday.

Friday arrived, and we all gathered by my friends house once more…

I took out my jacket and wore it proudly..

Till I put my hand inside the pocket,…

Right into about 500grams of chewed Simba chips that was now covered in mould.

Someone even took the liberty to gull,. 

What bothers me most though, is that I was drinking their dop whole night… So It’s safe to say I was swallowing semen long before Dickhardo took my bek for a poes.

I saw these kinnes again many times, but I never brought up the incident.

But a few years later some of them died in a car accident on Old Strandfontein Road, so I guess things turned out okay.

I’m kidding, it’s very tragic…

Especially for their parents….

Because we all know those bitches are in Hell…

…

“Shana I can’t pay the whole amount this week please”

“Why not Lyle?”

“You know how much i get paid, It’s just this week yaw, I’m trying save…..”

“Fine.. Then please just give the proper amount next time….”

“I will, Yaw… God’s Truth… I just need to get my finances in order……”

“Okay cool…….”

“Okay….. Shit before you go… I almost forgot…. here… (hands me packet)... I bought her Pumas……”

Blank Stare.

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody is even there for you, when the rain starts to pour

I am just Shana

I am just fertile

I am Just a Hoe… With Babies

*Walks out of Identity*

“Wiet jy ek lus soe vir snoek”.

“Yes daddy, now buy a snoek then we braai’.

“Nee die snoek is te duur”

“I know yes…”

“Maar ek sal hom baie lekker gemaaket”

“Yes daddy…”

“Met apricot jam….

“Yes daddy..”

“Ja nee… …………………………………….Nou gat jy nou die snoek koep of wat?”

My father should have been a salesman.

But alas, the combination of ou rooker and vuilgat that my old man permeated through the 1960’s cemented his place in the CCC.

This entices me to discuss his recent baldspot, missing the perm-he-hated… but you’re right, that’s kak boring.

My daddy, Sidney Senior, worked for the council. 

However, in the 90’s, the council was not the plan B it is today, for many –a- naai who, ten years after Matric, is still dropping CV’s off at the civic centre, in the hopes that no-one asks why he has been dormant since 2005.

Apparently a gap year in Cape Town means that you are 35 and still have no money, “so no sir, you can’t buy you a gap here”. 

*Walks out of Identity* (get it? Okay…)

No.. in the 90’s the council didn’t give you medical aid or a company car…

The hot-notte received a piksteen and a kan moerwyn. And as one got promoted, the rations transformed.

I spent many a Christmas Eve vrieting Lemony creams.

Or Romantic Dreams.

And many other majat brands of biscuit.

……………

In my homeless time, I spent many a night sleeping over at my boyfriend’s home.

Before I found the comfort of being held hostage in a separate entrance.

The evenings were filled with secret blow-jobs, garage-sex and buying other people entjies.

I had never accepted anything for free and this was taken a advantage of Ad Nauseam. (Haha, Ad Nauseam…till I fell pregnant.. am I right? Why do you even read this shit?Change your life.)

Sharing a room with his mother, I had no choice but to administer from-behind-secret-sex at 1 am and so forth, especially if he had a fling with an old brown cherry in my old green chery, before coming to bed.

Do you know what sex-for-rent feels like when someone’s mommy is in the opposite bed?

It feels like regret.

This particular evening wasn’t better. when I pretended to be sleeping, which I thought would be a deterrent from my nether region.

Alas, neither of my regions were ever off limits.

After two minutes of pressurable interforce, I felt him stand up, climb over me and stand opposite his mother. Naked. 

He was asleep.

And he peed on her. 

The conversation that ensued was a more than a stone’s throw from the ordinary.

And I could not react, because I was still pretending to be asleep.

“Jurre man. You just like your uncle”.

That was it. That was the culmination of the past few hours.

And this behaviour was confirmed, hereditary.

Regardless of being a sleep rapist who pissed on his taani, the next evening was my 24th birthday.

We went to a fancy place next to West End in Athlone.

My dress was tiny. My wallet was fat. Things that have since swapped roles. 

And the equally dysfunctional married couple who had joined us were quite visibly relieved that for once,  they were NOT the centre of a tension. 

But like most of the dramatic coloured boys that grew up in ‘the village’, they were best friends, which meant that on any outing together,they felt compelled by convention to  moer each other. because that’s what men do.

“I’m gonna kick you in your poes Nathan”

“Yay you moer your kin, I’m not scared of you jou naai.”

“Nathan, stop hitting me.. I’m bigger than you.. i can hurt you Nathan”

I was driving 80.

And he jumped out of the moving car. 

Now, the rest of this story is irrelevant, but understand the perpetual Fantablik that he lived in made him think that, instead of taking a few blows to the head from what I can fairly describe as a homunculus, he would rather flee from a moving vehicle on Old Strandfontein road.

Understand his loosening grip on reality. 

Notice it.

Because I sure as fuck didn’t.

That evening I went home with him and got into the bed, ready to feign unspeakable tiredness.

His mother was awake, and sitting on the edge of her newly dried bedding.

When he entered the room, I merely said, “Are you okay?

That was enough for a bekskoort that sent me falling to the ground.

“It’s your fault the fight happened jou naai. You mos wys mense I moer you”.

Interject his mother.

“Lyle please don’t shout like that… Your ma them is here. Shana please just go lay on the couch you upsetting him”. 

And there I lay.

Sans Blanket.

Sans Family.

Sans a Sidney.

Happy Birthday.

…..

Let’s recap.

“Hi, I am your court appointed mediator. How are you guys doing?”

Social niceties had left me.

The way it works is that in the hallway, before you go in.. you sit next to your rapist, and I assume

have a bit of a catch-up, discuss the weather, compare curable STD’s.

I suppose a snippet of our own dialogue is in order: In court order, that is.

“Hello Shana”

Silence.

“Yor, I must have klapped you kak hard if you still don’t wanna talk to me”.

Silence.

“Stop acting like a laaitie.”

Silence.

I think you get it.

“Okay…. so, you are here about the custody of Syria Rose. The child is 12, correct? And he goes away to sea according to the file..”

My child’s entire future was in the hands of a woman who couldn’t even select the proper file for her 11 o’clock meeting.

**Giggles**

‘Okay, I think I have the correct file…..’

.

..

…

….

……

“Uhm, okay”….

“Is he a good father?”

“He is abusive and put me through hell. I don’t trust him with my….”

“I have to say, your previous relationship has nothing to do with his paternal rights.”

………………………………. What did this glorified ballpoint-pen just say to me?

Now, I apologise if logic doesn’t seem to be my strong suite, but had someone forcefully  penetrated her vagina while punching her, I assume she wouldn’t hire him as a baby sitter.

The problem with the people who work at magistrate courts and free clinics is that they have taken the identity of the client/patient/victim away, and classed themselves way above anyone they need to assist.

Samsoenisa, for example will vuilkyk you with reckless abandon in her cubicle, and forget how her father recklessly abandoned their family in ’92, forcing her to cue: big girl. 

“Do you understand that I spent four years being this man’s victim? You are wrong, it has everything to do with it.”

“Ms Genever, please bare in mind that though we are in an informal setting, I am court appointed and am allowed to make decisions on behalf of the law, hey?”

That condescending ‘hey‘ elevated the temperature in my poes to record heights. I could have powered the Western Cape with one cable, and given this bitch a blackout.

But I stood firm, on the brink of a short-circuit.

“Do you know that I have called the police 3 times since we started the interim order? And no one came? Now suddenly he can take me to court, and I must just hand over my child? You think one week of  a “Don’t moer her” campaign in December is enough to protect a nation?

I assume we have sociopaths on the way to play “punching bag- punching bag” with their significant other for the festive season when they realize “oh shit, it’s mos no abuse week……. Jurre………”

“Ms Genever.. I am sorry you feel that way.”

“I bet you are. . . And what about maintenance? I work two jobs to ensure that my kids have a good life and he gives me nothing.”

“I hear you Ms. Genever…..Well, Mr. domnaai..  what can you comfortably afford?”

The crystalizing moment where in a woman’s most dire straight, the law of SA says “okay, we hear you… so let’s see what’s convenient for the man…”

Now, let me point out that besides the generous offering of sperm in September 2013, I have received only hand-me-downs, and money for one tin of Isomil.

I then endured the cheek-reddening conversation one Friday of “Yay, you still owe me for that Isomil. 

And soema give me that change in your bag.. it’s mos tax hahahahahahahahahaha.. saloet.”

Are you angry yet?

………….

“Morning daddy.”

“Morning.. Morning”

“I’m so tired, I just need to pee then I must finish my work”.

“Ja tea is okay. Dankie”

…………………………………………………………………………………………….. “Nou waar is my sandwich? Hoe maak jy dan breakfast?”

My father was diagnosed with Acute Nephritis in early 2005.

This of course, meant that his Kidney’s were losing their ability to filter toxins, and he was put on permanent dialysis.

I personally saw this as a great opportunity to start calling him Uncle Kidney.

When he first retired, we would sit and reminisce about the days he used to fetch me at school in his council bakkie. I was so embarrassed I used to hide under the seat when we drove past the schools main gate,in case someone saw that my dad worked as a labourer,

My father responded by picking up all the boys that hitchhiked on beach road, and greeting them as they got off, asking.. “Ken jy vir Shana?”

My biggest regret though, when I look back to my former-tief years, is that I didn’t ride with pride in that council bakkie that supported me and put me through school and university, but years later, I would gladly ride passenger in my own car, with a man that wouldn’t even care enough to naai a kin on my bonnet rather, instead of where we attach the car-seat. .

In my defense though. The bakkie was Canary Yellow. En ek Canary Yellow gevat hettie..

Even those biscuits wouldn’t skit……..

(To be continued.. didn’t you see the fucking title? I have a point.. I swear…… I swear alot)

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody even knows the proper answer to “Whose your daddy?”… (I can’t imagine anything less attractive while being penetrated than looking to the back saying.. “my daddy is uncle Kidney, why?”

I am just Shana 

I am just fertile

I am just a hoe… with babies.

Bend, and snap…

“For that matter, any masturbatory emissions, where the sperm is clearly not seeking an egg, could be termed reckless abandonment.”- Elle, Legally Blonde. 

She emerged from the cupboard.

Not Just any cupboard.

The cupboard of the law.

“Genever vs Domnaai. Are you guys here? Genever vs Domnaai”

“Yes, we are’

“Follow me please”.

As we followed Tasneem through the forgotten halls of the Wynberg Magistrates court, to a different waiting area..

Because, in South Africa, the procedure is as follows:

Waiting room

Waiting room 

Cupboard

Waiting room

One hop this time

Charlie brown.

I couldn’t help but look at the abused women, vuilgat ex-husbands and ‘admin people with superiority complexes’ thinking, “I shouldn’t be here, you know, I went to private school”.

My life should never have led me here.

Yet, here we are… taking instructions from a naai who possesses no more than a fader, a Matric certificate and a clipboard.

In this hall I was just a number. 

(Not like Riedwaan  and Fuaart, who were ironically also standing in these halls.. They too were numbers, yes, but you know, differently… Except that at the end of both of our trials, someone ends up being naaid in the hol…

Me, by the law of South Africa, and them by ‘Papa’)

I digress, after numerous waiting periods, and years of me waiting for my period, I sat in an informal yet law-binding walk-in closet (You know, for the serious cases), opposite the man who put me through an unspeakable hell…

But I did not summon him, oh no.

In fact, it is he, my lady, who laid a case against me.

….

He was drunk and high, a combination I like to call, Tuesday.

I laid on the bed, with a swollen face, watching him take a kitchen scissor and cut up my shoes.

“I wanna take a naai”

“I don’t want to have sex with you, you hurt me…”

“If you don’t give it, I take it.”

“That’s rape….”

“Oh please… You can’t rape a Jintu…”

He approached, Scissor in hand.

I laid there, silently, trapped by societal convention.

I wasn’t gagged or bound, I just didn’t wanna make a scene. 

All I could think about was my son.

I abandoned him to be here.

I was laying here out of choice…right?

Like they say “Jy’t ge-le, soe hou jou bek”

He whispered in my ear.

“You not even tight, it’s not rape”.

Thrust.Thrust. Thrust.

“You tog like to naai.”

Thrust.Thrust. Thrust.

“Who you gonna wys, you jintu. even your taani know you sleg, thats why they keeping your lighty away from you. They hate you.”

Thrust.Thrust. Thrust.

Cum.

Breathe.

I know that most women reading this have experienced this, without even realising it.

Saying yes and meaning no. 

Silently letting the popular boy bevoel you in the bus. (I mean, Roxy and Erin let them do it.. you can’t show them you don’t like it. What if your mommy finds out?)
Too embarrassed to stand up for yourself, because you might spoil the party, kill the vibe.

“She’s permy a spoilsport”.

So, because our predeccesors have failed us by being weak women and training us to polease boys, and men…….
We get naaid for other people.
Don’t avoid it, naaier.

You know exactly what I’m talking about.

…

We lived in a separate entrance. I didn’t want to shout and wake the landlord, imagine how embarrassing that would be?

What would happen to him?

No, I could never do that.

Sex while being choked is a fetish.

When it’s consensual.

Was pretty awkward that I had my period.

Swallow. (Lord knows, I would’ve preferred to)

I fell asleep, just there.. covered in fluid.

The next day, we had visitors. My friend, and her boyfriend at the time, used to frequent our place.

It was a lovely, free holiday.

A place for us all to naai, without parents.

You know, the general vibe in our twenties, when one of the brasse gets a house. 

We sat around and drank whatever was cheapest, we paid, and the ‘men’ went to the shop, made the fire, beat their chests.

And regardless of our fathers being upstanding men who would work for us and clothe us and never leave us in need, we accepted this behaviour.

We called it ‘The Dagga analogy’.

Let me explain:

In a control group, there are certain roles that are unspoken, when each member is not by the same means, so that everyone can benefit, and bring their part.

The parties that earn money will pay for the dagga. People who cannot afford to contribute, will walk to the mert, as an offering of effort, towards the dagga’s procurement.

Those who could not join in on the walk, or pay for the dagga in question, must take out the pitjies, and roll it.

Everyone has now participated, we can all smoke an equal amount, feeling equally accomplished.

This is the law of the flats.

In retrospect the dynamics of our friendships worked because we knew that we should be with better men, but enabled each other, by saying that other women didn’t know what love is. We stood by our ‘men’. We paid for them. We were being new-age.

LOL

We hated them. 

We hated ourselves.

We hated each other.

That night, our guests had sex in our lounge, and we went to our room. I still had my period, and the pain was intense from being raped the night before.

But my abuser didn’t have a regular cycle.

There was no honeymoon phase.

“Stand in the corner, jou naai.”

And there I stood. Quiet, so that I didn’t disturb the guests.

I remember sitting down from exhaustion.

I remember him jumping from the bed, landing elbow first in my abdomen. I’m pretty sure that’s an WWE approved move.

I remember waking up, swollen, with an open lip.

*Enter friend couple*

I smile. “Good Morning everyone”.

……..

“Hi, I am your court appointed mediator. How are you guys doing?”

Social niceties had left me.

The way it works is that in the hallway, before you go in.. you sit next to your rapist, and I assume have a bit of a catch-up, discuss the weather, compare curable STD’s.

I suppose a snippet of our own dialogue is in order:

“Hello Shana”

Silence.

“Yor, I must have klapped you kak hard if you still don’t wanna talk to me”.

Silence.

“Stop acting like a laaitie.”

Silence.

I think you get it.

“Okay…. so, you are here about the custody of Syria Rose. The child is 12, correct? And he goes away to sea according to the file..”

My child’s entire future was in the hands of a woman who couldn’t even select the proper file for her 11 o’clock meeting.

**Giggles**

‘Okay, I think I have the correct file…..’

.

..

…

….

……

“Uhm, okay”….

“Is he a good father?”

To be continued…..

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody can make this kinda shit up.

I am just Shana

I am Just fertile.

I am just a hoe… With babies…

“You save yourself or you remain unsaved.” – Alice Sebold

“Now piercèd is her virgin zone;
She feels the foe within it.
She hears a broken amorous groan,
The panting lover’s fainting moan,
Just in the happy minute.” 

― John Wilmot, The Complete Poems

……

*Message Alert*

“E-wallet of R120 has been sent to you. Your one time pin is….”

And thus, ended my maintenance dispute for April 2015.

Perhaps my new found wealth should be added to my ‘Condom fund’.

With the incessant absence of my sperm donors, and their E-lusive wallets, I have made certain life-choices that some people do not understand, though I have made many privy to, regardless.

Yes.. I repeat:

1.   I am a single mother BY CHOICE.  (Or lack of “Choice”, hence the fund.) Also Chairperson to the ‘Hit it raw’ foundation,  of which you will see the irony, after further perusal of this post.

2. I am a feminist.

The announcement incites eye-rolls and though synonymous to ‘ugly fat kin who needs to rationalize why she is alone’, to me, this translates to other, ball-crushing realities.

Mainly : ‘I will never hou my bek for you, because I am the smart one’.

Also, popular tracks on my Album:

‘I earn my own money, and I don’t need you to buy me a Cloud 9 for my birthday, baby’.

‘Make your own Masepoes tea’.

‘I will dish first ft. I’m just as hungry as you are’.

‘No bitch, you don’t have to fetch me, I’ll sight you there’.

‘I won’t send you a picture every 5 minutes to prove where I am’ (Radio edit: My Whatsapp ‘Last seen is off’.)

‘No you cannot check my phone’ (Dance mix).

‘I dare you to hit me jou naai, dan sien jy wat maak ek met jou’

And my all time favourite: 

‘Why are you looking at my timeline photos from 2007 and tripping at 2.12am over a wall-post my cousin in who lives in Germany left for me, are you then a mal naai?’

*I fear that trauma may have made me go off on a tangent…

Digression: point 3

I have sincerely started to question myself sexually, and wonder if I ever felt attracted to men, or if I was merely simulating what was expected of me. Because the way my universe has been ironically hinting is that I may in fact be a lesbian…

As I am very, very… Attracted to poeste.

But this week is not a repeat of what I have said in many other posts that have touched on the many men who have touched on me.

While sitting in lines at maintenance court, and having to deal with my ex-abuser, I relived those 4 years in which I lost myself… and my son.

This week I want to tell a different story.

About a different Shana.

Differently.

…

I did not wake up for the Manny/Floyd.

I have had my fair share of waking up to a bek-skoort, and to be honest, this time of the year used to be “Pak-Weather”.

In 2012, after moving out of my parent’s house, I called my boyfriend, and met up outside the Kenilworth Café, hopped into a taxi, and watched as the apartment block that held my son, my mommy and my daddy grew smaller, unaware of how my life was about to change.

I felt fear, I felt nausea, and I felt relief.

That night we had nowhere to go. We sat in the gardens in town, watching squirrels and drinking beer, as I suppressed how much I hated my new freedom, to the back of my mind.

We walked to kloof and I drew R1000 to drink out.

Actually, I paid for everything.

We drank and drank. We took a very expensive cab to Pinelands. I stole from someone’s house. I swore loudly and vandalized innocent people’s cars and homes. He made everything feel acceptable.

I remember avoiding the thought that my son would have been so very disappointed in me.

I hated my son for existing. I will not embolden this statement, no matter how true it used to be.

Some partners bring out a side of you that didn’t exist before. I write this as vaguely as I can, between bursts of anger.

We sat on the pavement and fell asleep. And security woke me.

“You can’t sleep here.”

They were speaking to me like I was a druggy, or a loser that was accustomed to this life.

But at that moment everything changed.

I said “We need to go, come we just pack up please”.

To the response I still dream about sometimes:

“You don’t fucking tell me what we do you hear me? I am the man here.”

Punch. Punch. Punch.

From my vantage point on the floor I saw the security grab him.

I got up, the street was spinning. No one was cheering for our violence though. I still cannot watch people fight for sport.

I grabbed a brick and ran towards the security.

“Don’t hurt my boyfriend!!!’

…

There is nothing unique about my story.

I am telling you this for a few reasons.

1. I’m a sharer.

2. Everything I write is not meant to incite laughter

3. I started my blog to help women.

Not for the entertainment of men who read my posts ironically.

Not to seek fame or recognition as a writer, I have my career as a Journalist for that.

I need women to evolve from their tunnel-visioned upbringing, and not let the fear of being alone in their thirties force them to tolerate everything a man does.

Now this stance has had me come under fire more often than I would have liked to, with retorts such as “You are not married, so don’t talk about something you don’t understand”.

I feel it fitting to mention that I have also never injected myself with heroin, but I’m pretty sure it’s a bad idea.

Now, in all fairness, I grew up around coloured,black and white married couples of all ages, all in different degrees of marriage.

The Newly-weds. The ‘We’re pregnant’s. The “Yaw when is this naai gonna die’s?”.

And I have cringed as these women assimilate their abused mothers, and teach their daughters to tolerate oppression.

“Jy sal nooit n man kry nie.. jy wassie eers vir jou reggie”.

“ OMG Shunice you can’t wear that, you must represent your husband hey?

And still… this is not the point I am trying to fucking make.

…

We moved in together. I had failed at being a mother, I wasn’t going to fail at being a wifey.

Yes, the term is in it’s diminutive form..

Yes, even smaller than the actual definition.

(Wife: Woman Inferior For Eternity).

He was drunk and high, a combination I like to call, Tuesday.

I laid on the bed, with a swollen face, watching him take a kitchen scissor and cut up my shoes.

“I wanna take a naai”

“I don’t want to have sex with you, you hurt me…”

“If you don’t give it, I take it.”

“That’s rape….”

“Oh please… You can’t rape a Jintu…”

He approached, Scissor in hand.

I have to stop now. 

To be continued..

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody seems to understand why I share these intimate details of my life…

I am just Shana

I am just fertile

I am just a hoe… with babies. 

WIll you date again?

“Never love someone beneath your level of evolution. If you want a monkey, you can visit one at your local zoo.” Shannon L. Alder

Inbox message:

“Can you be discreet with me?”

Me: (Kak oblivious to what’s happening.. maak nog n joke) “What we stealing?”

“Actually it’s sexual… Can I muff you?”

Crickets.

For years I have been perplexed by:

a) What is the appropriate response to this type of inquiry? 

I suppose there was no harm in asking, and I should respond honestly and politely.. I mean, he did take time out of his day to offer me impromptu cunninglingus.

b) What answer is the asker of the question expecting?

I have to assume that he has attempted this approach before.. successfully? Maybe if my life were on a different trajectory, I too would’ve succumb to Sir. Cum?

I have no social gauge.

…

My history with the male species has never been top secret.

I have numerous posts, articles and one liners about my times with liars, cheaters, anonymous pussy eaters, ‘I no longer greeters’ and two of them who created a fetus… 

… but regardless of the countless encounters I encount… I am constantly amazed by the inner-workings of the male brain.

Well, the males I speak to, anyway..

Consider abovementioned, Moegamat Domnaai. 

Having been my Facebook friend since November 2011, being an avid reader of my rantings and being married with two kids, one morning he woke up, looked at my profile and said to himself..

“I’m going to ask this kin if I can suckle her vagina…yes..yes that’s a fantastic idea”. 

In the past two years, I have been propositioned by so many ‘aint shit nigga’s’; that I have honestly introspectively reviewed the implications of my vagina emitting rancid pharamoans.

Something animalistic must be enticing these construction workers, black foreigners and anyone at the back of a bakkie to feel equal enough to me to strike up a conversation with me… about my vagina.

In fact, I am 90 percent certain that people treat us the way we allow them to treat us, or more accurately, by the impression we give.. and the way my life is going, I obviously give the impression that I am a horny Chimpanzee.

*Status* 

‘Anonymous Vark’ is now engaged to ‘completely oblivious kin’.

*In my inbox*

“When can I meet you? You are beautiful.”

Now the truth is, a lekker 7 minutes in heaven with a goodlooking Houdini would be ideal in my situation, and I have regretted many-a-skommel when I could have accepted so many cyber propositions instead…

But the thought of playing second fiddle to some woman who still has the Self-proclaimed Facebook-nickname “Barbie-Bitch” in her mid-late twenties, is enough to make my self-esteem plummet, dragging my libido along for the ride.

Nothing dries up my vagina faster than “Don’t reply, my gf check my phone”. 

I wish you could hear the ‘slurp’ sound I just made.

But I digress, Nadine was a petite neanderthal with crooked teeth and a Kroeskop, the perfect mistress.

Ugly kinnes mos don’t talk back.

I had introduced them at my best friends place.

Seeing that she was 7 years my junior, and 7 points my inferior, I felt nothing about entrusting the ‘love of my strife’ to being alone with a child.

Oops.

In a very concise sequence of events, they basically played “Housey Housey” in every one of her orifices, in every seat of my car.

Which, to say the very very least... ‘upset’ me at the time.

They literally Na-dine in my car. Then Lyle’d to me about it.

But besides the particulars of being betrayed by two lesser beings, A few years have passed, and only the other day, after a long time did I sit and evaluate the past 4 years, when an avid reader of my blog asked me straight out..

“Will you ever date again?”

…

“Aweh Vetkop”

The general greeting when I approached, at Highschool.

Apparently,to my peers, my head was unfathomably big.

So big, in fact, that it was to be addressed separately from me when I entered- class, assembly, puberty. 

As a sensitive, hormonal teenage girl, I was 100percent convinced that I was the modern day ‘bride of Frankennstein’. 

This was not as offensive when the girls pointed it out, as I understood female changing room dynamics very early into my teens… It was when the boys from the higher grades made circles around me and sang a song entitled ‘Koppe’, when I avoided anything that would draw attention to my noggin.

I ceased the use of beanies, doekies, Hoop earrings, Visers, Caps, pompoms.. anything beacon like, really.

But as I cruised through the echoes of “Globe obe obe obe obe“ and other classic quips such as:

“Shana is gonna be the HEAD girl”

“Shana is HEADING in the right direction”

“Shana is HEAD strong”

(Yes, I was obviously surrounded by the creme of the academic crop)

… I met my first boyfriend, and latched on so tight that I still cringe at the Von Dutch bag he bought me for 2004 Valentine’s, that I hold dear, to this day.

Now, I was never the girl who fit in, and besides my peers noticing it, their parents did too.

The first time my Highschool Sweetheart (From here on, he will be known as HSS) visited me at my house, his mother sat outside in the car, driving around the block and hooting every ten minutes, as if I was about to devour her child with my poes.. 

Now, I was fine with her caution, and in retrospect, as the mother to a son, I would weed out any ratchet hoes that are trying to for lack of a better phrase, “Koppel with Sidney”, but when a 35 year old has beef with a 13 year old, there is obviously some trauma that has occured.

I digress, HSS and I were the real deal. 

We defied the school’s 5cm rule with reckless abandon.

We sat under the trees on hot days, eating chilli-puffs, and broekskoorted behind the scoreboard when we thought we were alone.

We vrayed lekker at the back of the coombi when aunty Mary drove us home.

And then, when we matriculated, I dumped him because AFDA had regger brasse, and his mommy was right, I am a fokken jintu.

But I am telling you this for one reason…

Context.

And Karma, my friend… is a vengeful bitch.

And this bitch decided to send me Joel next…

I insist that for generations, men have had the power to drive the most mentally stable woman to the brink of insanity.

Every woman has had a boyfriend that has cheated, lied and stolen her cell phone.

I am lucky enough to have had two.

My previous blog addressed this dilemma, with the exact lack of finesse needed. 

“Dirty girls know how to find a cheater. We know the signs, because honey, more often than not we are the other woman. 

Yes, we’ve made him answer ur calls while he was inside of us… Laughing as you said “I love you baby, when you 

coming?”.. 

We’ve waited for you to leave for work, then gotten ito your bed/bath/shower, and left quarter to five, just before you got off the Chukker Road bus. 

We’ve already discussed our alibi with him for when you phone and ask “hi, is something going on between you and Zain?”…

But, as dirty girls of note, If we assume that you are unfaithful, we will corner you. Our minds go into overdrive about every woman you know, why you know her, and why the fuck she wants to know you on Facebook, instagram, Twitter… I don’t give a fok whose cousin she is… 

We even stop making sense: 

“Why did you write on her wall? Oh, you both smoke? Do you think of her when you smoke? Do you smoke Rothmans because of  her? Oh God is her Middle name Rothmans and that’s why you smoke it? That’s it. Fuglybitch Rothmans Jonas. Oh god, you made love didn’t you?

Get the fuck out. I hope Rothmans makes you happy.”

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

Joel is what I like to call, “nervous-breakdown-boyfriend”.

Ah, the summer of 2007. 

We were young. I was 18. He told me he was 18. Then 17. Then 16. In retrospect, when I remember the blonde mowhawk I had styled myself by pulling chunks of my hair out,it might have indirectly contributed to him losing interest in me.

According to Dr. Vicki, that inner dialogue was sufficient to getting me a 7day stay at the exclusive “Crescent Clinic.” A mental resort of sorts. (Read: Lentegeur for the medically aided.) Apparently talking to myself was indicative that my proverbial trolley had indeed rolled out from under me.

(Women seem to play the whole relationship out in their heads at the first meeting, then spend the rest of the relationship being disappointed that said bf didn’t follow protocol.)

Yes, most of the patients were women. 

Ranging from my OCD room-mate (Remember Ilhaam, that wanted to do ill-harm to her baby…) that unpacked my bag and folded all my clothes while I was sleeping (I am almost fully convinced that she watched me every evening while I slept, calculating, planning to kill me, colour co-ordinating) to the woman down the passage that kept asking if I had stolen her green lighter and if she could use my “Veet”.

Everyday. 

For seven days. 

I assume her dermus has grown back by now.

Nonetheless, in the common room I’d hear the women swap stories about their respective spouses and how they’d each come to taking the forced sabbatical to Looney-Town. A common denomitor was a man that lied, or cheated. And said-motherfucker didn’t have to be a repeat offender either, it takes just one time for perfectly well-adjusted oppressed potential-wives to jump of the deep end.

And when Joel pushed me, i couldn’t swim.

His favourite sentence…

“I know I see her a lot, but I don’t want her. Yes, we used to date, but she’s my best friend now, I can’t delete her”.

And that is the sentence that kept me in a padded cubicle, with phone on perpetual mxit, plugged in permanently because off the anxiety of being offline as he logs on.. wondering why his status is a ‘chili’.

“Why you hot?”

But alas, Joel and I were not meant to be.

We ended in  April 2008 and never saw each other again, however after seeing the pics of Sidney right after I gave birth, he inboxed me on a particularly bitchy Thursday afternoon, with a simple “Is that my lighty?”.

Sidney was born in June 2010.

Unless I cryogenically froze Joel’s jizz, I am pretty sure I dodged a 13th chromosome with that one.

Joel is now on my blocked list.

…

And thereafter… Daniel.

Daniel, the Mafioso who’s brother worked for the government, hacking people’s profiles…

Daniel who won the lotto and donated it to charity ‘rather’.

Daniel who put me on “ou toilet”, but that’s a blogpost on its own.

…

And Lyle… But we all know Lyle, don’t we?

Don’t we?

Jintus…

..

So to answer your question, anonymous, unless science develops:

a) Boyfriendbots.

or b) Grows a biological male from only the torso, downwards, and manufactures them in bulk so that women can puchase them as seats, and legally marry them…

Then no, I don’t think it’s in my future.

Besides, even just the torso would be an adjustment for me, most of my exes aren’t even half the man I expected them to be.

Gonna miss the muffing though.

The only time they opened their mouths without lying.

Although, ironically, they were still talking poes.

..

I don’t have a PHD

No body… just a torso- please?

I am just Shana

I am just fertile

I am just a Hoe… With babies.

“The English imperialist, financier, and mining magnate Cecil John Rhodes (1853-1902) founded and controlled the British South Africa Company, which acquired Rhodesia and Zambia as British territorzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz- The Onomatopoetry of sleep.

“Paaaaaa, wat maak julle daar binne?”

“Ek praat gou net n rukkie met jou ma…”

“Ohr okay, nou maak net die gordyne toe……. wannie bure dink jullle naai”

“Wannie buure dink julle naai… Wannie buure dink… Wannie buure dink……………….”

– Possibly the best remix intro of the 2000’s.

Well that, and the incessant in-borne need to take a broom and display our ingrained janitorial prowess on a strangers yard.

I am tempted to say that this mentality is why we will incessantly, as a race..

Go down.

Go down.

Go down.

But I shan’t.

Instead, I will do the Apechi to the fact that myself and Freddy Mercury have the mutual desire to ride our bicycles.

Yes, I want to ride my bike. 

(We really are a kak mock demographic.)

Regardless, I too found myself scraping the bottom of the barrel, on an imminent blind Mxit rendezvous that I will possibly never live down.

Yes, I found my self in jail… caught between kinnes doing rocks… and a Hard-living. 

Like most mediocre stories, mine begins with the iconic sentence:

“Come we buy us fishbowls”. 

A grave pre-21-year-old mistake that has cost many a church girl her hol-virginity. 

But by the age of 19 when this travesty took place, I was a veteran fish-bowler.

With no more virginity in any orifice left to lose, I procured my third gallon of crystal blue liquor, when nature beckoned in reverse. 

“Melissa, I’m gonna mamok”… 

“Merniette, your bek is gonna stink when you meet that contact”,

We really were an eloquent bunch.

And thus was the precursor to the night that set the tone for my future dating experiences.

However, before I divulge the minutia of my sordid past, discussing my elusive anal-hymen has catapulted my brain into another scenario with both my then, current boyfriend and the Grassy Park Police Department…

Well that, and an email I have just received, unprovoked.

On many occasion, I have surrendered to loneliness and answered the delightful “Take me back you jintu”, with “Yes, of course.. Why would’nt I? I love being abused, marry me.. make me a woman”.

The last time however, I can only refer to what happened as “I was put so in the eyes…” that my suspicions of his methamphetamine addiction finally wielded some evidence.. And ironically, unlike for him….

This was the last straw. 

On a particularly sunny payday, after the birth of our precious daughter. (And by precious I mean, the morning after pill didn’t work), I asked said baby daddy to drive me to the shops, a measly contribution from his chronically unemployed status.

I obviously planned on paying for everything, including his roll-on, as the alternative required my gag reflex to be left at home while I pleasured a cashier. (Ironically, much similar to my next story).

The day was ordinary.

I swiped my card, he complained that he was hungry. 

I swiped my card. He needed new shoes… 

I swiped my card… And he is now reading this blogpost from the phone i bought for him… 

Regardless, I stocked up on necessities and as we neared Old Strandfontein Road, I remembered that I hadn’t purchased a few things for my mom..

And trying to employ him with responsibility (haha, employ), I gave him a R200, and sent him into hyper, while rose and I stayed in the car to enjoy “Daddy’s first failure” in unison.

1 hour passed. 

Nothing. No sign of my boo. 

After 2 hours my phone rang.

Now, understand that  standard bank and I don’t have a very amicable relationship. 

I make a bill, and they phone from Private number. (Get it? Amicable.. I make a bill…. ? Sigh. I’m actually a poes.)

I answered. By the Grace of Guard. 

I present this to you, verbatim.

“Yaaw baby they only let me phone now, this mense think I stole Bob Martins.”

I took some time to process the information.

Okay.

“What do you mean Lyle? Very few actions could provoke that allegation. Only one comes to mind though… Actually stealing Bob Martins.”

I strapped Rose to my chest, and walked head down, purse in hand to the security office, next to the PO Boxes.

I entered the 2×2 metre office, in full view of the staff and security.

And there we sat, live on candid camera, myself, Rose and he who shall eternally be known by Ottery Hyper as the ‘naai that stole dog tablets’.

My break up was induced when after sitting there for five hours, and traveling behind the police van that escorted him to the cells in Grassy Park, paying the bail for his release, and having to endure the many “Give a R2’s” that sleep, but very obviously do not shower at SAPS, upon his R300 return to society, instead of  “Thank You”, I got a resounding, “Did you naai my brasse in the car while I was in jail?”…

Apparently in 5 hours I rallied up all the Mongrels in the CBD and just let loose.

In my head they all made a circle, and I did a kaaltoet handstand, screaming “Why couldn’t the naai steal pampers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!? Naaai meeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”. 

The true definition of ‘revenge porn’. 

…………..

2008 was a good year.

It was pre-pregnancy, and my breast were still mostly north of my personal equator.

My indian/asian features and curly-sleek hair had done me proud.

My search for a husband seemed fruitful in Mxit’s Capetown 11. The boys with the sexiest characters in their screen names were impressed with my “GoRgEoUs GoDdeSs” contribution.

Maddog and I were in love. 

Well, as in love as one can be with someone you’ve never physically met and had only three suspiciously obscure pictures of.

The penis pic wasn’t obscure though. 

I am pretty sure that’s the only picture he meticulously angled, employing the rule of thirds, no filter.

Polished, reflecting the flash.

I am convinced that every heterosexual male has a folder on his phone, solely dedicated to the aesthetics of his penis. From the popular top-angle shot, with a foot on each side, to the side angle in the mirror, erect pic, titled “See my tattoo”. 

Or the most popular, ‘laying in bed with my hand on it’ pic, which most women have re-titled, “Sies look how dirty is his blankets…”. 

But…

To make a long story less humiliating, after drowning my common sense at OB, I called Piele to fetch myself and my friends, kak brekkerag that I could koppel a lift with my good looks.

Little did I know that I was about to become this bra’s “I met this taatie kin once” story that must have given his friends hours of comic relief. This was the evening that I found out first hand that Cavendish does actually have a holding cell in the basement.

I paid the bill, did my last toilet trip, and while I waited for my friend, my drunken brain turned OB into Grand West and I pressed random buttons on the till…. Under the camera…….

And I am wholeheartedly convinced that this singular action catapulted me from married to Maddog with two kids to.. Well.. Two kids..

“WE HAVE A SECURITY BREACH.”

After watching the surveillance tape with all of the staff, I was handcuffed and escorted by security through the Cavendish link, pass Maddog’s car, into the holding cell until Claremont SAPS collected me.

The cell’s three other occupants from manenberg, lavender hill and “Bontas” respectively, weren’t too impressed by my obviously lightweight charge.

“Please stop speaking, you are under arrest. We need you to change your top and take out your shoelaces”.

“What? Why”

“Just now they choke you”.

Oh. Okay.

“Naai, ek het haai kin gestiek toe se hulle ek gat mang” offered my fellow captive that I have affectionately nickname Badroenisa..

I listened in silent prayer as she continued about numbers and sitting-kring with the mongrels, as well as being an honourary graduate of the white table.

I didn’t catch it all through my internal screams. 

And I realised, through all the trauma I was digesting, I still sat there profiling everyone.

Regardless of the fact that I was in the same cell with these “Other coloureds”, my actions had stripped me of any titles or aires that I had about people of my stature, mixing with the ‘Children from the Afrikaans class’. 

That in essence, we all end up in the same place. With the same consequences. 

I never mentioned before that I made a friend in there, though I never saw her after my release.

A stereotypical character. You know the type..

A kin that’s so gham she’s soema a lesbian.

Now this isn’t an attack on the gays at all, be born that way or whatever your leaders Lady Gaga and Barbara Streisand say is ‘Fetch’, but there is a type of coloured kin that I am convinced is not homosexual in the slightest way, but is so unattractive that the boys actually made her one of the broese in primary school already, just to avoid any awkward confrontations that could hurt her feelings, and now she is 100% convinced that she should be chising kinnes.

I don’t know if she felt sorry for me, or if she was being a gentleman, but she eased me into routine of being in a cement cage, which humbled me, and was my first encounter with “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover”.

Or don’t get booked by a Kaffer.

I always get confused.

…

In the end, We are all equal.

If we allow prejudice and colour to dictate how we treat each other, and if we keep being offended by harmless punchlines, and focus on stone carvings of people who have been dead for years, we will stay stagnant as a country.

We will have jails filled with good-natured pseudo-lesbian kinnes and headlines about racist statues, instead of focusing on issues that are important now.

The only people keeping us in apartheid is us.

Whether the prejudice is classist, racist, homophobic… It’s all just promoting devolution, to the point of guerrilla attacking each other with popo.

I reiterate.

We are all human.

We are all equal.

Besides my Ex-Boyfriend though.

He’s a naai.

……….

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody even thought I would leave an extract from the email he sent me:

…”I told you everything about Nadine, only had sex once! In your car yes 🙂 but I lied about something and I only realized it now, it was also only one round, but it wasn’t kak…like I said, it was kak lekker, actually, she had the tightest pussy ever, and fat as fuck… Her boobs were perky and everything was in place, I did her not because I smaaked her, but I smaaked to have sex with something for firm… Call her a jintu I don’t give a fuck about her, but her pussy was tight from entering her till I came on your seat! Unlike you, I could leave you for a year without sex, your pussy is fat, but its broken! Clearly you must stop being judgemental and calling people jintu’s… Jintu’s don’t have tight pussy’s… She had funny teeth ya, but everything else was great! You got beautiful teeth, but everything else is a poor second hand quality… Yes you have money, you intelligent… But your morals are low! I mean, you dated me!lol… Your standards aswell… Pathetic…”

I am just Shana

I am just fertile

I am just a hoe… with babies.

(And a Facebook page…)

I do not deny that I planned sabotage.

 “I do not deny that I planned sabotage. I did not plan it in a spirit of recklessness nor because I have any love of violence. I planned it as a result of a calm and sober assessment of the political situation that had arisen after many years of tyranny, exploitation and oppression of my people by the whites.”

-Nelson Mandela

 “Awe mammi girl sit net SOE bietjie vorenttoe daars nog plek vir drie mense daar agter.”

I stare at the gaadjie, as three people proceed to sit on my lap, seemingly unaware of our impromptu version of hoopie-le. 

As the rest of the 43 seats were filled in the quantum… I heard lingo that I recognised from ‘Die Aantwoord’s’ video about brah Anees committing anal rape…

“Het jy nie a twinnagsentie?”

This cretin motions to me with his sunrise-tattoed loafing-hand, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of a Six-Bop asking me for a 2 Bop.

“Soe wiesie girl. Wanni anties wiet mos os gooi soema hier deur busy corner af vir dieprfft plkksvdbsjj nbhbjnl;nmmdsur8yuih Noba jnogyubjl vir die lighties te jiggyjella”

“Sorry? No.. No I don’t wanna get jiggy with anyone’s lighties. That’s illegal….. And weird.”

“I’m also not Jazzy Jeff… Get it? Coz… Okay”.

Silence. 

More awkward banter ensues.

“….I’m going to Strandfontein. Yes.. Robots yes.. By the heights.. No i don’t smoke. Okay cool. Yes. Yes I have two kids. No I’m not married. No I’m Not a lesbian. No.. we cant make sandwiches”.

Enter two men who i’m fairly certain just signed ‘admission of guilt’.

And from what I could hear, and I am paraphrasing their Sabela, Certain men were about to become wiser, regardless of being rhythmical junkies who occasionally eat four cheeses.

Also, they were elated that their number was about to reach capacity. 

Now, from my training in going to Marcus Garvie’s informal settlement and pretending to know what a Challies is, so that everyone in the Cape Flats and surrounds can think I’m cool, I’m pretty certain that if someone utters the words Gwala or Chaaila, I am to vacate the premises with immediate affect.

But this signifies the extent of my prison-slang, because unlike Jintu’s, taxi queens and every girl named Nuraan, my mother prohibited my involvement with ‘paradise for teens’, and anyone’s ‘Golden Banana’.

I was not young and free when I was only seventeen. Unfortunately I forget which type of queen that is…..

“Waarsie kussie, waarsie kussie, waarsie kussie?”

Your repetition doesn’t intimidate me, Fu-aart. I refuse to sit on a crate. My bucket list doesn’t include ‘fok through a windscreen’.

I gathered my already camouflaged belongings, and de-quantummed, eagerly waiting for the bus to Strandfontein village.

After what seemed like minutes, my brain registered the next bus’s familiar signage, and with reckless abandon, I walked into a Village 3 bus instead, offering my clip-card to a confused driver, who laughed at me in Zulu.

And at that moment, I too.. Clicked. 

I realized my mistake when I turned around to exit, catching a glimpse of the current passengers. Either that or my anxiety manifested into a giant Cadbury Bubbly.

Am I racist? 

No, I have friends of every race, and I thoroughly enjoyed telling them about narrowly escaping my first tire necklace.

They haven’t replied to my WhatsApp’s though, but I guess that’s difficult on a 3310.

…

While going about my week, two things stood out to me.

Number 1,  An Article by Kuli Roberts, circa 2011, that nearly cost her her career. 

The article emerged while I was doing my Journalism qualification. In February 2011, Kuli Roberts made key points about coloured people so accurate that she was fired.

Here is an extract of what she called: Jou ma se kinders…

“Coloureds are nuts because:

They drink Black Label beer and smoke like chimneys. They shout and throw plates. They have no front teeth and eat fish like they are trying to deplete the ocean.They love to fight in public and most are very violent. They’re always referring to your mother’s this or your mother’s that. They know exactly what tik is.”

And Just before righteous indignation hit, I lit a entjie, took a sip of my Carling and started typing a response to this ma se poes.

And I realised that these stereotypes are just offensive truths, but truths nonetheless. And we live in a society that enjoys being offended so much that we don’t let anything go.

We can’t make statements that might even borderline touch on a demographic we don’t relate to.

 So instead of a world where we can lightheartedly rib each other, we all just walk around kak tense, building up resentment, thinking “ Vark Whity” or “Stupid Kaffer” or “Gham naai”

Which lead me to, of course, Number 2, my fellow learned South Africans, (Essentially the future of our country) having a meeting about how to deface a monument and after much deliberation, i assume they took a vote and came to a concensus.

I can see Nosipho now, kak offended by her heritage, smoking a Malboro Switch.

“Okay guys, we have the following suggestions. Just raise your hand for what you feel will send the best message to these fuckers…

Okay, we stage a peaceful protest? No one? Okay. Cool, no worries…..

Uhm next… Destroy the statue with explosives? No? 

Okay, lemme see here.. Umm… Throw popo?”

And in unison, everyone agreed that that is exactly what they wanted to do. 

Upon registering the fact that South Africans have pioneered Vuvuzela’s, Penis transplanting (We just successfully transplanted a human penis for the first time in history. Really guys? That’s what you’ve been working on?) Losing at Soccer and Po-testing, I absentmindedly made the following status on Racebook.

“Can someone please tell me why as a nation, our weapon of choice is always popo?

Why can’t we just vandalise stuff with fucking spraypaint?’

Suddenly, I received numerous responses about the statue being an insult to the new South Africa and how people live in awful conditions and other very pertinent points that I didn’t care about.

But my issue with the action is being misinterpreted.

Allow me to clear the air.

My worry was at no time with whether the statue was good or bad or whether action of any kind was to be taken.

My concern was the willingness of masses of educated human beings to dig into buckets of popo and throw it around. Surely this is alarming?

Because, you know.. Evolve.

I don’t particularly enjoy handling my own bowel movement cleanups, which is why I don’t understand how before this, the executors of this plan weren’t asked the pertinent questions by the media.

“Whose popo was this? Where did you acquire such large amounts? Was the popo in question self-made or supplied? At any time during this operation, did you get naar?”

I fully understand the implications of the statue and our history, and our still present racial divide as a country. I do not deduct from the oppression black people (Broad black: As in Everyone non white) have endured. I do feel that we need to plan our revolts better.

I fear we may have misinterpreted the usage of “Revolting”.

Consider our choices on a global scale for a second.

When Americans are enraged, the teenagers put on trench coats and buy ammunition and go Grand Theft Auto in the cafeteria. The adults write letters to present to leaders of states, and furiously tweet at Jimmy Kimmel live. The President invests in nuclear weapons.

Our version?

We put on rubber boots and dance in the road, while we collect popo and throw it at statues.

Viva post 1994

Viva.

…

The majority of my past two weeks were spent in court.

Between custody hearings and domestic violence disputes, I ticked my coloured kin boxes expertly.

As I waited outside Wynberg Magistrates clerical office, baby daddy number two meandered around the corner, still winking at whatever victim he was prepping for eventual domination.

I don’t know why I didn’t just take a kak in my hand and swing it at him right then and there.

The next few minutes were filled with niceties I usually reserve for people I am only partially indifferent to,but none the less it escalated as predicted.

“Hi”

“Okay”

“Why can’t you speak to me Shana?”

“Because I hate you”.

‘You a Jintu”

“Mos, that’s why I naaid all your friends you pathetic ma se poes”

I should’ve severed his piel when we lived together. Too late now though, the naaiers can sew it back. 

The mumbled abuse carried on for several hours, till this glorified Clipboard that I am certain forces her friends to call her Roxy, emerged from one of the many supply closets.

“Shana and Mr X”, please come inside.”

“Do you’ss know why yous here?”

Fok. There I lose custody. 

Never give a coloured kin a position that includes a stamp.

Three times while explaining “He’s a naai”, I had to stop because “Can I concentrate please?”.

On what bitch? You are writing down my statement. If I hou my bek you will be retrenched for redundancy.

I cannot take anyone seriously that works in a cupboard partitioned by smaller cupboards. 

“Now do he work?’

“Yes. On my poes”…………………… “Okay….. so no jokes…….”

My Ex makes me want to end every sentence I say to him in “Jou naai”. 

“You owe me money… Jou naai”

“I’m gonna phone the boere,….. Jou naai”

“OMG please stop hitiing me… Jou naai”

It really is a versatile little non-sequitter.

My second Trip to court was for my protection order. Because you know, next time he punches me, i’ll block it with an A4.

Fuck you again, South Africa.

But this week was not my first encounter with the PoPo.. (Haha)

As a Young lady, I was arrested and kept in a holding cell for an alleged “Attempted Robbery” that would have justified even the likes of Kuli.

I was arrested for trying to rob Ocean Basket.

Now, let me explain that before my days as a mother, humanitarian and somewhat upstanding citizen,I have taken my fair share of Whole nut slabs from unknowing 7 Elevens.

But this evening in particular i had no intentions of smuggling perlemoen.

But let me explain what happened, baas. . .

To be continued…..

I Dont have a PHD.

Nobody even expected a sequel.. You’re just gonna have to JiggyJella next week. (What?)

I am just Shana

I am just fertile

I am just a hoe… With babies. 

“Welcome to our School”.

“Shana gat haalie towel, the vis olie from the chips did spite here reg oor die vloer.” My mother, Foundation phase educator since 1975.

“Hi, I would like to pick up a registration form for my son for Grade R next year please.”

This glorified stapler with her Degree in Administration raised her brow and gave me the once over.

I felt her soon-to-be-verbalised ma-se-poes rise up from my sternum.

But this was a catholic school, so I remained polite.

Let’s call this tief, Merle. (Mainly because her name actually is Merle. It’s always a Merle.)

“You look young… Okay, just fill in here.. here…here.. and bring your ID and the Dad’s ID and…”

“He does’nt have a father…”

(Awkward silence)

“Well, make a plan Sweety.”

(Make a plan Sweety. Make a plan sweety.. plan sweety… plan sweety… plan sweety…)

I heard her echo in my head, and exhaled with a giggle that I learnt from my time at Crescent Clinic.

My social obligation had ended.

“Okay. Okay cool. Il just climb into my time machine and un-fuck him.”

Blank stares.

More blank stares.

“I should go…“

As I walked out, I contemplated suggesting that she read my blog.

I was obviously mistaken about her credentials… she had a degree in Add-men.

You know how us Catholic girls can be.

I looked at the form in the car and took pleasure in liberating my red pen in the “father’s details” section and proudly writing in Sentence Case:

Not Applicable As Indicated.

Hereafter referred to as NAAI.

                ……

3 months before my 21^st birthday, I found out that I was pregnant.

I sat in my bathroom, contemplating the reveal of my elusive chastity being just that.. elusive.

Every imagined conversation with my parents seemed unbearable. Especially the one where I tell them the truth.

Dad: “why didn’t you use the pill or the injection?”

Me: “it makes me fat dad”

Dad: “and condoms?”

Me: “I prefer skin to skin, it feels better. I don’t orgasm with condoms”.

Yeah, I don’t think that was going to go down well.

But, what could I possibly have blamed my continuous lapses in judgment on?

Neglect or sexual abuse? Any abuse really. I had nothing. My childhood was disappointingly wonderful.

What I wouldn’t have given for a paedophilic uncle.

I didn’t even have the luxury of poverty.

I am a fortunate, upper middle class product of suburbia. I have a Degree in Film and Music and have gone through countless Life Orientation Lessons, so I was over qualified in the art of contraception (well, theoretically anyway.)

I remember sitting there, realising I was too conceited and well-adjusted to attempt suicide.

I was fucked.

And Sidney Jonah saved my life.

Five years later, I am in a car, with my daddy who now cares more for my son than for me, adamant to find a school suitable enough for our rapscallion.

And drove we did, for hours, determined to not have to settle for anything funded by the government.

Unless he was accepted at Nkandla Primary School, it just wasn’t an option.

Collecting applications all around the South Peninsula, I felt winded as I looked at the criterion, my favourite addendum being the one about the Credit check.

Now, bear in mind that I was an adventurous youth, and that these specific adventures required money. Money that I may have acquired dishonourably. Money that I now have to pay back. And the way my bank account is looking, money that I will have to return in excessive Fellatio.

(There’s another Nkandla joke prospect in here somewhere, I just don’t have the time.)

As any working single mother will tell you, the education of our children is the number one priority, and so even in our bankrupted emotional state, we will persevere.

Now this is all very well, principally, however as a News Journalist that reports on the country’s developments daily, my concerns for my son are a bit deeper than the average “Riding in cars with boys” feature film backstory”.

My son has an accent that he has either acquired from:

1. ) CeeBeeBees
2. ) Disney
3. ) A past life

Considering that we live somewhat Mitchell’s plain adjacent, and his crèche is only known as “Teacher Mariam’s House”, I fear that the lighties at Rockland’s Primary 1 aren’t going to understand why they are in class with Sherlock Holmes.

Now, the prospect of being able to afford a Model C school (Note: Yes, It isn’t Moral C. You have been saying it wrong all along. Basically, your entire life is a lie.) is comforting in essence, except that I went to a Model C school myself.

I have blogged about it many times.

I have too seen the video of a lighty being raped with a broom.

Bravo South Africa. Bravo.

So it really is a flip of a coin decision.

Coins I actually don’t have.

But as we entered the gates of Timour Hall Primary, I immediately felt like the secretary was judging my Mr Price dress.

We will also call her Merle.

A younger Merle, however.

You all know her. She always sat at the back of the school bus to smoke an entjie and get bevoeled… and now in her twenties, her most interesting personality trait is her Manicure.

Regardless…

My dad, a man that could never be described as tactful, accompanied me inside, to see the facilities and of course, prove to the teachers that my son is from awful, awful breeding.

“Lyk okay.. Nou waar speel die kinnes?”

“Probably at the back near the gates. It’s so nice and big.”

“At least it isn’t so small like teacher Mariam’s house ja. En os kannie teacher’s sien.”

“Pardah is a choice daddy…”

“Mmmmhm. Hulle is weird. Toegestiek soes n pop se poes.”

Silence.

More Silence.

Scratching my crotch in what I think was sincere awkwardness.

Dad: Hoeko moet jy heeltyd daar krap. Issie mooi vir n vrou nie.

Me: Yes, but if I scratched my elbow, my poes would still be itching.

My father hates my jokes.

I acquired it from him.

The secretary was with us.

Sidney will not be attending.

….

I have mentioned Sidney’s dad in previous posts…

His exotic tan… His disbelief in dinosaurs. His 5 years at technical school. His complete neglect of the fork.

Our last encounter was somewhat awkward.

In the pursuit of context, a short background seems fitting:

I fell pregnant after a 2 month relationship and an overnight visit to a Vredehoek (Yes, I see the irony) hotel.

After unwrapping ourselves from the no longer white linen, two weeks later I urinated to victory on the baton of truth, phoned him and the conversation went exactly like this:

“Hello?”

“I’m pregnant”

“Ok. No problem, uhm, I a bit busy but….we can chat later.”

“Ok.”

“You ok?”

“Yeah”

“Ok cool. No problem. Cool.”

And she never saw or heard from him again.

Clearly an Extract from “Romeo and Juliet”.

So you understand my trepidation in contacting that entity, and allowing him to penetrate anything else… especially not my son’s heart.

But looking at the prospective Stationary list: R1500

Plus school fees: R1450pm

Plus one month’s deposit…

I am about to penetrate his Bank account.

With Force.

The South African police force.

….

FB Viral Post: “Did you know that in a blackout, a child’s crayon will burn for a half an hour?”

Logic: Yes. But so will your house.

I certainly have a new found respect for parents in general really, skimming through just this stationery list shows me that my financial state will be quite stationary till both of my children matriculate.

And if Sid’s dad’s intellect is in fact, a genetic mutation like we have all feared, this ironically not premature-matriculation will be in about 19 years from now.

Mother’s Name: Shana

Mother’s Surname: Genever

Who does the child reside with?

Mother.

Who is responsible for the Child’s School fees?

Mother.

What is the mother’s occupation?

NEWS JOURNALIST FOR MAJOR PUBLICATIONS

Awkward silence.

More Awkward silence.

“Welcome to our School”.

I don’t have a PHD

Nobody even wants me to write an article about their school discriminating against single mommies for being Jintus. Basically, I am not bung for you, Merle.

I am just Shana

I am just fertile

I am just a hoe… with babies. 

#JAHWB So in the need for convention, I settled for anything that would have me.

“Reader beware. You’re in for a scare.” – Goosebumps

I am in anal distress.

Yes, you guessed it (No you didn’t).

I have food poisoning.

I find it fitting that my Friday 13^th celebrations would ultimately affect my Valentine’s Day bowel movements. I cannot help but emphasize that Love is the vomiting/diarrhea of all the emotions.

And yes, the scariest.

And by now, most of you are aware of my negative perception of romance, especially the annual idolizing of what is essentially a dead baby, carrying a lethal weapon- then shooting people in the arse. (Yes, I see the irony of my ailment.)

Though, I think that most of you aren’t exactly sure why I have acquired a taste in my mouth so bitter, that even these Ferrero Rocher’s I purchased for myself, cannot penetrate it… (I will avoid discussing the penetration of my mouth, I think I covered that extensively in previous discussions. Although, you’d think my lack of gag reflex would have secured me a Valentine’s date. Yet, here we are, applying Vaseline, and not in a fun way.)

I have decided that my Valentine’s Day blog will be a combination of both the 13^th and the 14^th… Somewhat of a “Tales from the crypt”, meets my breaking heart.

So, here is the testimony about why I choose to shave my head and furiously masturbate instead of co-exist with a Neanderthal.

And How I would repeatedly choose the impromptu activation of my bowels while snorting jalapenos, before I allow aforementioned early-humanoid to make all of my life’s decisions.

This is my relationship memoir.

I call it:

Tales of me, chysing a krip.

….

I haven’t had many boyfriends.

But I do remember that I always went through the “I need a bf” phase at different stages of my life, without really knowing why I had the incessant need to pair-bond.

I wanted to seem normal.

So in the need for convention, I settled for anything that would have me.

After Matric, the world seemed oysteric… And I was in love with the notion that someone would sweep me off my feet.

As one of the older generation of social introverts, I was enthralled by the anonymity this new Mxit phenomenon had gifted me.

“Delete me.”

“I can’t, you delete me, and it’s what you wanted.”

“You never chat to me anymore”

“I’m never online”

“Just delete me man, you used to it. You always take more than four minutes to reply, who you chatting to?”

“Fuck this, I’m deleting you. Goodbye forever”

“Ja, goodbye forever. And soema delete me off fb, what I can’t see won’t hurt me.”

(They even start referring to themselves as their nickname.)

“Ja, peace out. Rozay”

“Nobody calls you Rozay”

“Fuck you. Goodbye forever”

DELETED.

He lives down the road. So I guess it’s goodbye forever…

Or till I see you at B.P.

…………….

Daniel was my first encounter with sensationalism, way before I became a journalist.

Our relationship was a 2 month back and forth of me rationalising being with a Vierde Kamp Manskap (Plastic-Gangster).

The Wiz-Kalifa Albums. The hand-signals in photo’s. The faders from Boeta Aalie.

But it isn’t our relationship that started to erode my faith in anything with a penis. It was how he ended it.

Now, I have been deceived numerous times in my life.  Since I left my high school sweet heart, I have been reminded over and over again that relationship Karma is real.

What I am about to tell you, cannot be made up.

This is what he said to me.

Verbatim.

“My family is in the mafia. They smuggle drugs and there’s a big shipment coming in soon. I shouldn’t have told you but they found out you know and said I can never see you again. I’m sorry, but I can’t have that on my conscience, if anything happened to you…”

Also accompanied by:

“I own media 24”.

(And my favourite, that always gets my friends going at social events…)

“I won the Powerball, but donated it rather.”

And I cried.

I cried for our love. I cried that his family wouldn’t let him be with me and he loved me enough to protect me.

I cried with laughter when he phoned me two months later to tell me that his brother hacked my Facebook because he has access to all South African codes.

I still see him drive around in his Yaris through the village, rapping to YMCMB… In his airtight Fanta-blikkie, that is very obviously spiked with Guarana.

……

 “Mommy are you in love?”

“Met wie?”

My parents have been married for 40 years.

….

I cannot help note the similarities between myself and Reeva- and the way things are going I fear that I too will end my life in a toilet.

If you’ve read my contributions to SA Breaking News about the 16 Days of Activism recently, you’ll understand exactly why I chose to leave my Ex BF, before being one of the pictures on the screen on SABC 2, while the tribute version of “Bullet for my Valentine” plays in the background.

I have no desire to be commemorated by Vicki Sampson. That is not my African Dream.

But out of them all, my refusal to being silenced with a teddy bear in a coffee mug is 89% due to the man I dated for four years.

Before my release in 2014, I was the captive of my daughter’s father, a hazel-eyed cretin from the planet Sexy. I’m not gonna lie, he was lekker, and my vagina really wanted to be in a relationship with him.

With the release of “50 Shades of Grey” over the weekend, I couldn’t help but reminisce at my own experience with “Rape and Moer”. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with the inappropriate games on the Cape Flats, this is actually a real game played by poor people’s children- usually followed by hocks, and Aalie-Fondaalie).

Now I will not render information that I have already offended you with in previous posts. I will be honest, as always…. But in a new direction.

We were in love.

Disgusting kind of Love.

Rihanna and Chris Brown Kinda love.

Well, till I actually made it everyone’s business.          

Yes, we found love in a hopeless place.

Anyway…

The reason that love scares me is that it has the power to encapsulate your entire being, and tunnel your vision to the point of allowing physical pain to be inflicted on you, just to not face the alternative… being healthy and alone.

And I am pretty sure that 90% of the relationships that I see have an element of sickening unhealthy loyalty that has long surpassed any romance.

What scares me is not the love in itself, but the inevitable sad ending.

Whether it is ended by cheating. Whether one person falls out of love.

Or whether it is ended by death.

It will end, and that is too much for my anus to bear.

Or for my bare anus.

I forgot my point.

…………

“A lekker skommel is bieter as n kak naai”- Amy Hendrickse, my bestie (Yeah you should probably invite her on Facebook).

Besides gluing my labia into a knot, (I like to think that this is the only knot that I will ever tie), a definite dampener (or, in a matter of speaking… dryerer) of my quest to find romance is the representation of love that the older generation has portrayed.

These women walk with their noses in the air, at the supermarket, at church and even at the smokkie, when they look at me in my sinful glory, doing what they think is chore-fully being alone.

At some point they all make a pitiful and loaded comment, about how someone will love me and all my kids and I won’t need to struggle alone, one day.

“Haai shame man no you will find love hey… shame man. I will baby sit anytime hey. Then you can lekker relax. Find you some one. But don’t still say you have kids man… Just let it happen, you know? Ag Shampies.”– Yes, we all know this naai with her kak floral dress. Voorskoort wearing oppressed poes that she is. 

I’m not angry.

Now this is fine, and by all means, enjoy your pedestal Aunty Barbara, but if we consider that your husband is an electrician that only works for commission and last week you asked me for “something for the pot”, my single-mommy income has been a monthly contributor in your separate entrance since 2013…

But I digress, I cannot imagine a world where I have less sex, because I am married.

I do however know that I am not a fan of a repeat performance. 40 years of waking up next to the same Shling-shlong is a stress dream that I would like to avoid.

Like groundhogs day.

A typical conversation between my mother and Amy, is enough to reduce anyone to fears.

Amy, making my mommy’s bed:

“Aunty Serie, can I wash this sheet?”

“Nee vir wat? Is tog net Kastor Olie”….

Death.

Till menopause do us part.

…….

The state of the nation address is the most action I have had in a while though. An orgy with the rest of South Africa, while the ANC naaid us all, in perfect timing for the day of love.

Just like my sex life, Madame speaker is very thirsty.

I am yet to allow foreigners to free trade.

If they just left the state of the nation to a dress, self-preservation would promote enough wetness to solve my energy crisis.

But besides never being a Wifi, and not being EFF’d in months..

I am on the verge of asking my baby daddies to pay back the money.

And much like the past weekend, it’s a klomp kak.

…

I don’t have PHD

Nobody even realised that Violets aren’t blue.. (they’re Violet.)

I am just Shana

I am just fertile.

I am just a hoe… with babies.