Thank You

A broken love affair very seldom blossoms into a lifelong friendship: thank you.

I met you when I was broken in every part of my soul. I hung onto every word coming out your mouth as you prescribed unconditional trust in you as the cure to my ailing heart. I should have never listened to you and gave that part of myself to you because you were lying through your teeth. Thankfully, as it turns out, I couldn’t have asked for a nicer blessing in disguise.

I still dream of a man I hoped against hope you would be for me then: my protector, the provider, the gust of wind beneath my every flight. Looking back I see you have fulfilled that wish at different times in my life, sometimes in ways I couldn’t have ever imagined. We can be so silly sometimes, hellbent to confine love into a four-letter box, completely blind to its real superpower which is the power to be everything to all who believe in and need it. I needed love and it chose you as it’s next disguise.

Thank you for being open to the endless possibilities offered by love. Your sincere acts of love make me feel protected, provided for and fit to conquer the world. You listen when I am not watching out for it, never demanding that I be anything other than the best of who I am. In your quiet thoughtfulness, you impart your deep truths without imposing. Who could have imagined the two of us speaking to each other with no agenda, matters of the world around us our only concern?

What I want to say is that you mean the world to me and I will never let you down. I admire and love you in ways that cannot be explained, that exclude the superfluous notions of popular culture. What is love anyway, if not a free gift of the heart to another heart?

Well, thank you for teaching me that I love you better than I thought I would way back then. Your are the wish I blew the candle to receive.



I’m going through something of a heart-wreck. A heart-wreck happens when you’re trying so hard to do the right thing, stay in the right lane when some pug comes from out of nowhere and puts their filthy tyre marks on your heart. Then there is a pang of pain, some Olivia-Pope-style demolishing of red wines and a big, fat reality check to follow. After that you’re back walking again, yearning for the time when you had the courage to drive, to cruise in the big-girls’ lane.
The worst part of a heart-wreck is the constant instant replay of your humiliation and pain in your own head. It’s as if the cable upstairs was paid with great pains and must therefore be milked for all its mileage- ergo instant replays at the puppet master’s pleasure. The only way out of an instant replay is the short sprint down memory lane to a time when you were stronger, better off and in control.
Being alone is not a big deal. I love my independence and am grateful to be self-sufficient enough to avoid mediocrity and still have an exciting life, albeit on my own. But there’s something about conquering a world full of possibilities together that always gets me. I can’t resist caving into the fantasy of two riders on two horses, melting into the amber horizon.
But here is the catch- the minute I can’t see the man I want to get to know better as the dad I dream for my little girls, I take for the hills. That’s when I make traffic blunders so silly that there’s no other way past me than to wreck my heart. My girls being the best part of my adventure, of course, get the biggest vote in who I chose for myself. And to put the entire statement into perspective, no I do not condone heart-wrecking.
I do however want to be happy. And make someone happy. And raise deliriously happy children. That’s all.

The Lace Bra

It should take a lot of time to unfasten a lace bra. When you can longer turn back the clock and change your mind about plying open a can of worms, you should definitely try for a slow beginning to an end. I sound grim, I know. It’s all that love growing cold inside my liver, turning slightly green as it pushes past the gallbladder, bouncing right across onto the pancreas. It could also be the fear redefining the terms of my new found courage to date again. I date again only because I tell myself I am courageous now, I can take the heat.

But I know I have no business waving around lace bras as fodder for a mind riddled with conundrums about me, wondering whether I am worth the trouble or if trouble is all there is to me. Low self esteem is also a possible culprit if we must round up the usual suspects. This whole song and dance reeks of a lack of something as fundamental as esteem in the self, the only decider in matters as important as who and how to love.

I wish I were perfect or wiser at least; that way I’d be able to leave the lace bra in the “big girl box” where it belongs and promptly wait for the day it would be of great use, like on my wedding night. I’m not sure if I want to keep opening cans of worms with this bra. I’ve had my share of nasty surprises and really, really should stop feigning surprise already. At this rate what I wish could happen and what I manifest are never going to find themselves parallel one another, not even from two different astral planes.

No mind- I still believe in love. And in time all things heal by the hand of Love. My hope is that Love forgives me again for desiring so badly to wield this sexy, sexy lace bra at it again. I don’t know what I am doing but I want you to stay. I desire a deeper connection with you, a friendship that can’t be wished away because it is based on superficial things. But it’s been so long since Love asked for my friendship that I no longer know how to not bargain lace bras for its attention. And this lace bra? I have no qualms swapping it for a warm hand of friendship if offered, thank you.


Isle 14 Canned Worms

You don’t know it till you’re right in front of it. You’re walking around craving something different, in need of a refreshing kick to the palate. You’re so parched for something fulfilling that you don’t realize the labeling on what you’re hugging on reads “SCHMUCK: DO NOT SMOOCH”. Before you know it you are off to the check out counter to spend money on something you don’t even realize you have voluntarily picked for yourself. But you are paying for it before you get to regret buying it.

Canned Worms- do not smooch. Why is it that I keep misreading the labeling on the outside, the extra wording that warn that overdosage may cause irreparable tearing to the heart? Once upon a time I knew how to shop critically, slowly and with care. I had time, I had a choice, I had dreams that promised a better thrill than what a silly boy could threaten to be capable of doing for me. “Do Not Smooch”; they may as well have spelled that out in Russian to get through to me.

Seven steps forward, onward and forth, to the cashier I trot, straddling one elaborately labelled can of worms. I am sadly too certain I made a wise, intuitive choice this time around. Seven steps behind me, exhibited in plain sight among perfectly fine cans of other possibilities, is the truth I reject each time I pick worms over possible fulfillment. But I believe in this can of worms. I have faith that it’s content could morph into a multitude of butterflies, albeit a misguided faith. I must have it, I deserve to be a part of it, a part of something that becomes beautiful and mesmerizing just because I loved it so.

You don’t know it till you’re right in front of it. It’s placed across from you on the kitchen table at home, staring right back into your glum mugg. You could take it back to isle 14 and redeem yourself from being deemed unlearned, foolish and naive. But it has you bound in some spell and you can’t seem to break the stare. You begin to consider several ways out, one of which might include a lace bra.

How To Open a Can of Worms with a Lace Bra.

Question: how many bad boys does it take to turn a misguided, perhaps naive, yet well intended woman into a can opener? Huh? Yes, that was my question. I want to know what it takes to get a perfectly good woman to act in a completely irrational way? Love. Love is what it takes.

I am no stranger to irrational behavior so I am going to share with you how not to behave in a relationship where you love someone and they don’t understand what you are on about. This information comes disguised in other instruction, the two step, step-by-step guide on how to open a can of worms with a lace bra. Whatever you do, don’t follow these instructions. Just be aware that it is possible to open a can of worms with a lace and bra and stay far away from both lace bras and cans of worms.

Can of Worms

Any one person that promises the world but fails to return a call, make an impromptu, unsolicited visit to you, take you out on a date or call before 8pm on a weekday is a can of worms. Insisting on unveiling who they really are is a bad, bad idea. Don’t keep saying, “Maybe with time…” . Maybe with time nothing! Step out of the crimson light, take a cold shower and gulp down a jar of reality. That man, that woman is what we call a classic can of certified worms.

loveLace Bras

To immerse yourself in total and utter regret and perhaps even cause yourself to unnecessarily gain a few pounds on pity-party ice cream and junk food, go ahead and use sex to lure an uninterested man into being interested in you. The fastest way to more agony is to try open a can of worms with a perfectly good padded lace bra. The sexier the bra, the bigger the heartbreak too. So take care to remember to call yourself an ambulance, the next time you attempt to trap unrequited love into reciprocity.


Love yourself a little more than the thrill. Chemistry is fantastic but nothing beats love that chooses to stay, to talk, to come back the next day. That love is worth the wait.

We Three

We three are fixed together by a supernatural love. We are bound so irreversibly we may never be able to trace the start of the thread. We are the centre of the whirlpool, the value of something priceless. We three are made to last till the day after forever.

We three know pain; being neither infallible nor untouchable, we have known battles so brutal it’s a small wonder laughter is still a familiar sound to the ear.

image  Our souls have been in combat for so long that we can hardly believe life can be nothing but bliss. Seven years of famine have come and gone and made room for more sorrow and plaque yet we three stand brazen with light eternal. We believe in victory, yes sir we believe in our love.

We three are the tall glass of cold water in the bowels of a drought; they gawk at us perplexed for we are an Offaly sight to the eye that understands very little. And then they come tumbling face-down before us, tripped by the mirage of a seemingly good, sheltered life.

We know good, we know sheltered, we know everyone comes to their day of reckoning one way or another. And once the come to close view of that sight, of us- still in the presence of our demise, resolute in the promise of a grand destiny, they yield to the possibility imageof a humbling God. They begin to see the monument we three are, the tribute to pain and hope we have reluctantly and thankfully come to be.

We three are beaten; we three are unbeatable. We three on our knees; we three lifted in prayer. We three know the taste of blood in the mouth as blows come thundering onto the jaw. We three have knuckles made of gold, made to mince our enemy into oblivion. We are not spent- we’re taking prisoners. See us rise!

Something Borrowed


There were a few male leads that came after my first. We could say he was iconic, till I outgrew the mysticism of a first love, of course. In fact, until I meet my true love I will probably have a vacant throne lying in wait. But first I must acknowledge that there have been others since, good guys who taught me many new things about love and helped me discover myself anew each time. Some I never got to be in lasting relationships with and few, well, tried to stay.

All of the lessons learnt being a hopeless romantic are in vaults hidden deep within me, in places I only visit when there’s a chance love could be calling for me. Each time I fall from the comforts of my uncomplicated life and into the mad typhoon called love, I borrow from that vault, imprint the sentiment into the now and then toss back into the vaults for safekeeping.

Married hopefuls, hoping for forever after with their co-conspirators have vaults just like the one hidden in my innermost. They are not exempt from the let downs, the changes and the re-directions but most notably, they too borrow from the vaults within when they need to.

And when what is needed is not met by what is within and the love is so real it must be redeemed, help can be summoned from whence love comes.

This is my understanding of marriage, that it is something that is not of this ethereal world. That it matters and requires superpowers to outlive our misguided expectations and fairy tale ideas of love and bond.

As I see it, God made man when he had made all else, when he’d seemingly emptied Himself and was new again. Then with a heart full of love He made a mate for man and bound the two so irrevocably that it literally pains to undo the bind. And when we ache from the parting we rightly call it heartbreak, borrowing from the visual of a helpmate being sculptured from the rib of her betrothed so she could forever keep watch of his heart and his heart could bear her very being over and over.

Marriage thus is what is made new (despite and because of), what was old, so that when the newness is lost it can be invoked from the source of Love.

Something Old

elderly-black-couple-16x9It wasn’t long after I became intimate with my first love that the scales began to fall off my eyes and the magic dulled. There I was, a bare cape cod wriggling about, longing for the safe waters I’d just leapt out of for my man. Boy did that cocky confidence I had had in my indestructible feelings for my boyfriend come tumbling down.

Suddenly, things that had never been a factor began to matter. I began to mule over things that bore no circumstance to my life up till then, began to ask questions that were unwarranted because, let’s be honest, the bad had happened in my childhood but not in isolation of the good. I asked myself what if I couldn’t measure up and he left to fight for someone else instead? What if I’d one day wake up to find I was no longer new, to him or even myself? Those questions were steeped in experiences straight out the book of my own life but blown out of proportion because of my vulnerabilities of the time and their familiarity.

In the typical love story, the male lead wakes up ten years after his romantic wedding to find that the woman he was so keen to marry once is fat, stressed, wrought and probably hates or disrespects him. Or both. Then a flirty, single, independent woman who has trouble bagging her own future unhappy husband, suddenly drops into his life and ignites that ravishing inferno that was quenched on his wedding night. Yes, I suppose the symbolism and narrative is quite brutal but the reality is just that for many in long term committed relationships. Once the magician shares or shows all his tricks, he becomes a mere mortal once more and inspires no weird displays of affection.

When we become fragile and face situations that feel slightly familiar, the temptation to become what we once were or what once was, grows exponentially. What was new becomes old because of what is old in the new.

Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed.

(Before we get to it…)
I’m finding a whole lot of my past writing lately to my sincerest amusement and endearment. Much of it reminds me how I’ve really missed writing and that even with other keen interests, hobbies and talents, my love for writing is impassioned and deep-seated.

Marriage was not always a factor to me. For the largest part of my life as a young woman, I reveled in my own independence and imagined a life and future filled with many adventures, amongst which marriage was not included.

Kids were a different matter since my mother was raising her children as a single and accomplished woman (this was before her marriage to the love of her life, my dad Vusi) at the time. And then I met my first grown up love at age 21 and suddenly marriage looked a lot more attractive than ever before.

So, although I never dated this piece and can’t be sure when exactly I wrote it, I suspect it was only after 2003.

Hey…the writing style is not as fresh as some of what I’ve done recently so I let the “OCD” kick in and take over and attempted to tweak it here and there, without drifting too far from the original work. It’s long too (mea culpa) so please feel free to throw your tablet on your lap, hug a bag of chips and be comfortable ;-). I will publish it in three parts, starting with “Something New”.

As always…thank you for reading!

P.S. Disclaimer: No people with real OCD were harmed during the reproduction of this piece ❤

Something New

african wedding1I was a fairy tale novice when I met the first man to ever make my heart flutter senselessly. That year I spent the first New Year’s Eve ever with him and our friends instead of with my family. A late bloomer to everything relating to mature adult relations, l relied completely on this boy to map out the blueprint of our affair. I even let him determine the pace and gladly gave in to his ideas of what was to be done to elevate our relationship to another level. Starting the year in his arms and not embracing my mother and sisters was one such example.

It’s hard to describe the overwhelming euphoria this love created within me. Passion surged uncontrollably, even without cause to believe that something more, something permanent would come out of our growing little love affair.

To a great extent I equate marriage to these feelings I had for my first love. All two people have is an unreasonable confidence, unwarranted faith that the love they are cementing permanently with vows, a dress and tux, cake and a license is going to last forever. Something new, something like a first love or a walk down the isle, always inspires mad courage and faith in the impossible.

Sent from my iPad

I Hate It

Now, the following thoughts are not to be taken as an account of my life. Some of the feelings I express here are mine and real; a great deal of what I’ve written here was inspired by those feelings. That said, thank you for reading.


I Hate It.

I hate it when after a stormy night the sun wakes up brighter and more cheerful, adamant to annoy me with its brilliance and jauntiness. I hate it because I am still feeling blue, I couldn’t sleep a wink and my eyes are awfully puffed up from bursting into tears every hour of the night.

I hate it when I see you smiling very dearly and sincerely, eyes beaming with indifference as if you are mimicking that after-the-storm sun that I hate so much. You are smiling because you are genuinely happy, happy that you got me where you wanted me, glad to still have your life intact.

While mine falls apart with each passing moment, you beam on like the ray of Hope others have come to believe you to be. Man of the people, kissing on babies and helping old folk cross the road. Sharing your revolutionary message of hope with thousands who will hear it. I wonder how many know the words you use in your television interviews and on social media are mine. Verbatim.

I hate the grey suit you wore in the publicity picture you took for the press. You once told me your ex had liked to pick grey suits for you, even though she knew you hate grey. You said grey made you feel old, habitual and uninteresting and that you wanted everyone to know, just as I did, that you were anything but. You then kissed me with such emotion it took my breath away, told me no one knew or understood you the way I did. I hate that suit more than you ever did. Seeing you in it today makes me wonder who the heck is picking your suits now.

I hate that you haven’t had the decency to dump me. Mr On-Your-Honour has failed to honour a commitment he never meant to make. You avoid my calls and return my request for    courtesy with deafening silence. Tell me, what kind of man decides who exists and who is invisible? I cannot understand any of it and I hate it.