Resist | The Paradox of Love and Other Societal Disorders

Published June 2017

LOVE IN THREE PARTS

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Part I

I remember the first time I knew you loved me

We were at a party and we had been talking and dancing the whole night

We had left the party and you touched my left hand

You took it in yours and stroked the inside of my palm

This simple gesture made my clitoris flutter and I knew our souls were in sync

The first time we had an argument I started to raise my voice and you said:

“I don’t deal with shouting”

I stuttered in thought because this was the only way I knew how to deal with conflict

Raise your voice to show authority

Something I learnt from my mother who is a teacher

Mouth open, mind stuttering

I was forced to think of the way I had addressed the issue and realised how this was not going to solve the problem and although you had to remind me of this every time we fought you never tired of trying to communicate with me, breaking down walls of isolation I never knew I had built over the years

It started off as any other day

I had left my job and we moved to my parents’ house

I was over it

I asked you whether you wanted breakfast, I made it and we ate in silence the only sound came from our spoons clanging against the bowls

I didn’t know how I was going to do it because I had not stopped loving you

It happened and you cried and I cried and I wanted to hold you and I did and we laughed through the tears, through the flickering of memories and the abrupt end of a chapter you were not aware was to end on this day

We agreed that you would come in the week to collect your belongings

A few hours before you arrived I saw a pair of scissors on the table

I reached for it and started to cut my dreadlocks

When you knocked I first put on two layers of dark pink lipstick, looked deeply in the mirror and then turned to open the door

Part II

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You said: “you are not the gatekeeper!”

You said: “You cannot push me to places I have never heard of, to the place of success you so badly want to see me strive to”

I said: “I believe in you and I am eager to see you conquer this world, to conquer the world in the same way you conquered my independence and my soul”

You told me I had no right to take over

You told me I had to let go of the need to control

you would get there in your own time

I hit back because you had been in bed for ten days only waking when I came home from work

Never showering, only ever dressed in a t-shirt your passed father gave you fifteen years ago

I could not take this despondence, this lack of yearning for better days

oh, if only I had the depth of understanding to know what was to come

To have the strength to see you through

Instead I banished you in your hour of extreme need

But only after we got back into bed, slept in the nude for two full days only waking to eat and to make love

Then you were gone

Part III

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Because I swallowed

I wished you would taste my insides the same way you have latched onto this belief that we are no different from each other

Because I swallowed

I wished you would lick my skin the same way you have expressed the need to know me from the inside out for I have told you how I am an outsider from the inside out

You told me on that day that one day you would lovingly flesh me open to bring out the outsider from the inside

Because I swallowed

I wished you would hold my heart in the hollowness of your scrotum to the tip of your erect cock

In the shaft of your penis as your pelvis thrusts

Because I swallowed

I cried silent tears, gagged while you continuously hit the back of my throat hoping that happiness will be found when it finally came to an end

But you never tasted

You never licked

You never cut me open

You never held my heart

but I continued to swallow

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SELF-LOVE IN THREE PARTS

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Part I

​

Her body is not a temple

In a temple, she cannot run freely or laugh loudly

In a temple, she can only see what's on display

not discover the secret passageways

No, her body is an instrument

made for her to enjoy

made for her to use as she pleases

She can use her legs to take her places and her eyes to discover

She has fingers to hold things, to hold you

to please herself and please her and please him then please them

she has toes that allow balance when she’s running wild and vocal folds to throw her head back and laugh

really laugh

she has a spine that twists and turns as she stamps her feet to dance and move

really move

move her growing hips,

move her yearning hips

she has lips to speak, lips to kiss, lips to lick and lips she only reveals to you

she has a tongue to devour all the delicate flavours

and a stomach lined with the fats consumed with extreme pleasure

she has ears to hear your truth or to discard your lies

she has a clitoris that pulses for attention

she has a brain that gives birth to creativity

dreams and constant attempts to wrap its head around her misconstrued notions of this experience called life

she has a body and she is comfortable in the elasticity of her skin that twists when she bends

her right breast that sits slightly lower than her left gives her something to smile at when she’s naked and lovingly touching herself in front of the mirror

she has a navel so deep that it looks like the entrance to a dark tunnel

hair that grows wild from the follicles on her vulva and a body that loves itself so much that it produces hair to keep her warm and makes thighs meet to console each other when it feels alone

she has a heart that beats to connect her instrument

a heart that feels, a heart that loves

a heart that lives so her instrument can live

she has realised that the world will project its insecurities on her and if she was not careful she will adopt that way of thinking

projecting those insecurities onto herself even if it was not there before

she will accept herself

even when it is unbearable to

Part II

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she has been aching for the touch

since childhood it has been forbidden for people like her

since childhood it has been frowned upon

How can a sensual, loving touch from the hands that she shares with the rest of her beautiful body be a taboo?

the fluidity of the body is a mysterious thing

mouth to sound

sound to eardrum

eardrum to brain

brain to mind

mind to understanding….

Fluid is the movement between functions of the body

how they relate to each other

yet thrusting her ready to please fingers

into walls of wet wonder flesh is ridiculed

stroking her lustful lips, caressing her clitoris and wrapping her need for self-love in moans and wetness…

as she lay there moaning, fingers laced with a glistening jus

as all those who ridiculed her for touching herself as a child filled the room

they shouted slut-shamed laughed

judged

but their cries of fragility fuelled the fire for her body to be released to the goddesses who blessed her with the gift of sexuality and self-love and when she came to a soul crushing climax

their judgmental faces transformed to that of god’s

and she was no longer ridiculed

but alone in the room with her creator

who sat with her until her excited heartbeat

returned to normal

and she was wrapped in

clammy thighs

and

godly silence

Part III

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She walked into the kitchen, like all the women before her

She grabbed the apron hanging on the back of the door and tied it behind her back

her feet pleasurably bare on the cold tiles

She went over to the oven and opened the door to inhale the crispy aroma.

Here, she paused as though lost in thought.

Slowly she stood up straight and walked towards the light switch, untying, releasing and dropping the apron to the floor on her way.

She switched off the light and in the darkness colours started to illuminate on the walls, the ceiling and the floor of the kitchen.

Holding herself, caressing herself, she slowly started to move around in the colours of the night, dancing herself to contentment as she realised that she had been very unforgiving of herself, not giving credit for all it is that she has accomplished.

Her face coming to rest against the cold concrete wall, she rubbed her body against it and wept.

In the solace of silence a song soared to the surface and the only word that came out was a croaky: “Unforgiving.”

She sang this word in all the forms and melodies her mind could envision it as she danced lovingly and forgivingly with herself.

She found the backdoor key, unlocked it and came to a standstill on her balcony

In the distance, she saw the lights of the harbour dancing for her

They looked like fireworks lighting up the sky and she knew then that she was loved

by the Goddesses

She thought of her grandmother, her mother, her sister

all the women who came before her.

How her life was somehow theirs and how their lives manifested themselves in hers.

This connection seized up in her heart and she would never again think of her mother as being separate to the universe, as her creator is the universe

- her mother.

Thank you, thank you, thank you

​

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POWER-RELATIONS IN THREE PARTS

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Part I

​

They may be ratchet; smoke a joint like they know how to blow like nudity touch themselves, spread their legs and give orders for down below

They may walk like they carry Mother Earth in their pelvis Africa in their loins reclaimed pride in their sway

defiant strength at the soles of their feet

their words may even turn you on their body a dish you wish to feast on their mouth a luscious cocktail of truth

their existence becomes your weakness yet you fail to see that the beauty perceived was not discovered by you or for you.

The beauty you perceive is theirs the sex-appeal, theirs the body, theirs the mouth, theirs the breasts, theirs the ass, theirs the legs, theirs

And only they can decide who to let in Do not confuse its appeal with ownership or for the right to freely violate

they may like playing with vibrating toys

but they are not to be treated like objects

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Part II

five years of feeding on you

and other

drugs

hoping it will silence the need

inside of me

that gnaws at my heart my spirit my soul

begging to be

filled with false words of

hope and belief that another

day will show opportunity

praying for a day without

fear for a day without judgment

without the very essence

of me

five years of face stuffing

croissant cock, ciabatta cunts, creamy donuts, piercing pussy and crunchy peanut butter

five years of sniffing

mixing drinks with

crystalized Major Drama and salty tears

grinding teeth and moving bodies

five years of paralyzed living

feeding too much

feeling no more filled than before

five years of understanding life and

misunderstood intentions

of soulful sin and self-sabotage singing

in the room in the lounge

on the bed where he had his way with me

while I slept

five years of laughing at the trauma because

it was the whiskey and the party

it took me away and brought me back in waves

in and out of consciousness

in and out of pussy

in and out of drunken disbelief

*If they cannot say yes, then it’s rape

Part III

I desire a world where intimacy cannot be translated to the need for sex

a world where causal conversation cannot be translated to the ultimate giving of sex

I desire a world where walking outside with skin bare or covered cannot be translated to the yearning for sex

a world where one paying for dinner cannot translate to the right to sex

a world where someone paying for sex does not strip the worker from human rights

I desire a world where having sex once does not mean we are to have more sex

a world where choice does not mean ‘playing hard’ to get sex

a world where we are on the same page in regards to sex and we are not constantly trying to play gendered games

I desire a world where sex is sex rape is rape and the latter is punishable by death, castration and public humiliation

Too many of my sisters and brothers and persons humiliated for being raped

Too few rapists being shamed for violating our bodies for thinking sex is a right and that rape is not a crime

(Who the fuck do you think you are?)

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RACE-RELATIONS IN THREE PARTS

Part I

No, I’m not Brazilian I did not grow up on the coast of south america or play beach soccer in my teeny bikini with the little kids from the next village

No, I’m not Columbian True, my hips don't lie and my curls don't go straight but your Shakira comments are getting offensive

I’m not foreign, and even if I were who are you to grab me in the street and call me your "senorita"? I’m not Jay Z I don't speak Spanish too

I am Capetonian born and bred in the valleys of its majestic mountains the richness of its diversity before the freedom to express information could be punishable by law I am one of the born frees, supposedly born free from the oppression of my mothers and supposedly born free from the guilt of my fathers when they were the oppressors

supposedly, not positively

I am a coloured, in my country that is not a racist slur It is something to be proud of*

I carry the blood of the Sotho the courage of the slaves

the heart of Krotoa The audacity of the germans the education of a modern woman of colour

I am made up out of so many genocides and heartache triumphs and failures stereotypes

they do not shape me I shape me

I am Capetonian and your deep shock when I utter those words works on my poes.

Capetonian enough for you?

*This is a big debate post-apartheid, whether the term coloured is positive as it was a term forced on South Africans if they did not fit the mould of black or white. I do believe that the racial divide between black and coloured is slowing the ultimate overthrow of the white imperialist society that we live in. I too, struggle with my identity. I too mourn the loss of heritage, I, too try to navigate these internal struggles

Part II

Why after apartheid has ‘ended’ can all people not afford a house next to the vlei

a forest

an ocean

few dare to confront the legacy of the group areas act

of apartheid

of colonisation that caused Cape Town to carry the first transatlantic slave ship to its shores

bringing the slave trade to the mother city

for the amusement of white supremacy

for the building of these cities

for the comfort of the white human

they entertained us with trinkets

wrapping it in words draped with rubber pearls

hanging it around the necks of our original people

setting it alight and necklacing us to a tortured death with a yoke not written in law but still alive in practice

causing a racial divide and conquering the original people and the bantu tribes

calling the original people of this land coloureds years later

telling us ‘coloured’ means we are better

we fell for the ploy like back in Krotoa’s days when they could not force slavery on those they found in the cape

the Khoi were to be kept ‘happy’ while the dutch colonisers continued with the performing of genocides on the world’s most trusting first people by putting us into an eternal sleep and systemically taking our land away by claiming the livestock as their own in exchange for copper, alcohol and tobacco

displacing those who survived the genocide and the lives for generations to be birthed on this soil

Is it called the mother city because our mothers were brought here against their wills and forced to breed for the amusement of the white human who now shakes their heads in bemusement when we dare to demand the return of the land they stole when they settled here?

in this country that is

too newly post-apartheid to remember life of pre-apartheid

I carry all my people’s displacement caused by four hundred years of whipping, pillaging, terrorising, torture and violent killings

In the apartheid country

in this democratic country

twice been through the tortured tunnel

but never journeyed through the healing of our battle wounds

let us not fool our woolly heads that we are equal and able to compete with the old money yet

In the ideal world

the answer would be yes

in the real world, we still need to combat the enemy

that is white supremacy

Part III

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Sometimes I wonder if there is an alternative to the life we live A life where trolls aren't sent to chambers of so-called education then trained for battle in the concrete-social-media-jungle

Sometimes I wonder if life once was a walk

in the park; nature's park a naked body unafraid unashamed

Sometimes I wonder if human life itself was the one who started questioning its banal existence

wanted to be different from its apparent inferior fellow animals

and so eliminated itself from the circle of life making humans superior so we can just take and take without stop no end without punctuation becoming gluttons of the first degree becoming complete fuckups with no meaning becoming what the masses are today

Sometimes, I yearn for a life different to that of our ancestors

an informed life

a free life

because unlike them we do not have to fight for freedom we need to fight for freedom from our so-called freedom

A freedom we shouldn't have to afford and then buy with money worth less than the paper it's printed on

Sometimes I want to go back to what life once was a naked body unafraid unashamed

as at birth the way we all were at birth

Part IV (bonus)

The lady at the gate told me to count my English words

“One two three four”

She clicked her tongue and let me through

(conscientised) years later I remembered this scene

How I frowned at her English accent

and felt ashamed