Of Love and Timetables

Love has no rules

I remember being fifteen or so and borrowing a copy of True Love magazine from a friend at school and taking it home for a thorough reading, as well as to add my own dogears to the pages that showcased clothes and makeup I liked. I hid it behind my bed and hoped my ever busy mother would give my room a reprieve from its weekly poke and prod. I recall starting on an advice column where one question concerned the relationship mourning period. I can’t tell you the response that the asker was given because shortly after I began reading the column, my mother walked in on me quietly huddled in the corner of my room and took possession of my contraband reading material. Many Black-Mother-Questions followed.

“Where did you get this?

“What do you know about true love?

“I don’t tolerate this filth in my house”

et cetera.

Mother took possession of the magazine and I automatically forfeited the following week’s pocket money to the owner of the magazine. Also, people stopped lending me things. So, there’s that. I don’t know that I thought about that column again until some time in my early twenties when love and the rules of affection became the primary subjects of all my girltalk. As people, we are raised to consume information and apply it, regardless of its accuracy. Our backgrounds determine how we see and interpret the world. We therefore, have a varying understanding of love and what a healthy relationship looks like. The toxicity of women being raised to be the primary lovers and carers of others has coloured the love lives of women across the spectrum, and far too many of us share scarily similar stories about emotional abuse, or what we have come to describe as simple misfortune when it comes to affairs of the heart. Too many of us probably share the belief that jumping from one relationship (whether exclusive or not) to another is unwise and that the Pause Button must be pressed and held down for *insert arbitrary period of time* before we can entertain another suitor, or other suitors.

So, when is it socially acceptable to move on to another love(r)?

If you had asked me this question when I was twenty two and staring at the bottom of some bottle or glass, nursing another broken heart, I would have told you that I don’t know, but certainly more than a month. And the arbitrary selection of 30+ days would have been born of having heard women from all walks of life preach about respectability and the best means of avoiding the oh so horrendous slut shaming. I would continue to rebuff any advances from boys I liked simply because the rules said I needed to wait. Until I walked into a local pub a few weeks after the heartbreaking took place to find the heart-breaker firmly attached at the lips to a pretty (I mean stunning) girl with whom I had shared a cab a few times after a quiet night had taken a sudden turn and liquor had taken the steering wheel. (Goodness, the betrayal.)

It hit me then that men are not conditioned to pause after the end of any dalliance and that it is their right to satisfy any and all cravings related to sex and attraction, regardless of the time that has lapsed between the ending of one thing, and the sudden appearance of a new option. I’ll skip past the embarrassing shot taking and awkward gyration in between Foosball and pool tables in a poor attempt to remind him what he was missing out on.

*cringes for the ages*

Fast forward to today, 27 years old and a healthy number of notches on my bedpost, I can categorically state that the mourning period preached by all the people is unmitigated bullshit. The idea that everyone in the world’s love life is governed by an identical set of rules which were thumbsucked by goodness knows who is comical to me (now). With the myriad (I’m gesticulating fiercely in my head right now) of relationship dynamics which exist, it cannot simply be true that we ALL are reading from the same rule book. It’s implausible that Simone in Geneva and Khanyisile in Delaware and every other girl whose name is Jennifer, all wait *arbitrary time period* before entertaining the next one. It’s equally ridiculous that even if they do not, that they SHOULD.

Love and attraction are not living breathing entities which operate on a scheduled time table. The simple fact that infidelity is common on earth is testament to the fact that one can be attracted to more than one individual simultaneously. Affairs that exist parallel to marriages for lifetimes speak to the fact that one can love more than one person at the same time. Whether the above are socially acceptable or evidence of our morally bankrupt society is neither here nor there.  One can fall out of love with X today and meet his/her next soulmate by supper time, and it’s nobody’s business whether or not they pursue those feelings.

As an active member of the Twitterverse, I’m constantly crying a little inside at the “advice” doled out freely about how we need to heal ourselves before embracing love. How selfish it is to move onto a new love without closure and intense introspection and and and… Imagine how many of us would have missed out on the loves of their lives had we waited until we weren’t as broken or were a little less hurt by our immediate pasts. How many of us have been carried from the dark place by a little kindness and attention? How many of us have found healing in a new love?

Love as and when love presents itself.

Take it with both hands and ride the wave until it can no longer carry you.

The Empress.

 

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Forgotten Summers

Excited, she wrapped a dark brown sarong around her waist and paired it with a matching vest. 37 degrees outside meant it was impossible to wear much else. She yanked on her only thong – a pink lacey thing that cousin Nathi had smuggled her during the Christmas holidays. She had spent an hour wondering how she was supposed to wear it as it sat in between her but cheeks in the most rude manner. The thing rode up her buttcrack and annoyed her to no end, but the smut she and her dorm mates read under the duvets with the lights from the screens of their contraband cellphones after lights out told her that this is what men liked.

They had slowly progressed from stolen kisses behind houses after parties to similarly stolen caresses in corridors or outside each other’s gates. Family friends. Nobody would’ve suspected anything untoward was going on when the phone would ring and he would asked for her after politely thanking her father for the lift home earlier that day.   “Never more than this”, he would whisper, whilst lifting whatever t-shirt she was wearing that day.

She made short work of the one and a half kilometre walk to the dams and giggled as he sauntered up to her, gave her an aggressive kiss, circled her waist as he always did, and pressed her smaller body against his. She imagined one day she would enjoy the exchanges as much as she enjoyed the way his hands felt when they slid into her panties. She grimaced inwardly until the exchange was over. She’d gladly endure this to feel that pleasure. It was the height of summer in her second last year of secondary school  and sun rays were dancing in between the trees, dappling the undergrowth and the well-worn footpaths. Her pulse quickened as they approached ‘their bench’, forcing her to direct extra effort at answering his questions about her day.

The bench was a solitary one, placed there as if for sneaking lovers who had nowhere else to share their secrets. It was positioned in the most confusing manner, facing neither the water nor anything else worth staring at. The shrubs and trees that surrounded the space served as a private enclosure. He gently but emphatically pulled her onto his lap, straddling him, face to face. Her resolve to breathe easy failed. Dismally. If her dark skin could blush, she was sure she would be the colour of the slightly ripe tomatoes weighing down her mother’s plants in the garden. He tugged her head down and kissed her again. She counted in her head as she waited and like clockwork, 22 seconds later, his right hand snaked into the parting which opened over her left thigh and stroked that soft place. Gently at first, then with a strange urgency that he had never exhibited before. He didn’t even notice the pink underwear she had so deliberately donned to impress him. He tilted her back and reached into his tracksuit bottom’s waistband and pulled out his ‘friend’. She had never seen it before and almost fell off his lap at the reveal.

He must have sensed her fear and withdrawal and quickly rubbed her lower back and whispered the familiar “never more than this”.

When she felt the sharp pain she knew what had happened. The fog of confusion and pleasure immediately cleared and she jumped off his lap and battled with the tears and the knife of betrayal slowly twisting in her gut. Her heart. He mumbled what could have been words of remorse or comfort, but she heard nothing through the roaring in her ears. She pulled her underwear into place and as she raised her hand, saw the evidence of her trauma on her fingers. She wiped vigorously on the flimsy material which clothed her as he stood up and righted his trousers.

“You should go home.”

She did. He walked with her in silence until the entrance to the nature reserve and disappeared the way he came. The cars driving past were a blur. The barking dogs which yelped from behind high gates and walls did not register. Even the customary catcalls from the neighbourhood gardeners did not make her skin crawl the way they usually did. The tears had long stopped as she entered the house. The renovators were still busy so she could not shower for at least another hour. She changed panties and wrapped the soiled lace in newspaper and plastic, the way her mother had taught her to wrap her blood every month and deposited it in the outside bin.

As soon as the last visitor had left, she took a tepid shower and checked that she was clean a thousand times before shutting the water off. As she applied Vaseline to her skin, she looked into the mirror, perhaps expecting to see signs of what had happened to her. She saw nothing. Her forehead was still slightly round, made interesting only by her widow’s peak, the only thing her mother had passed on to her. Her black eyes, deeply set, still twinkled with the youth she had felt slip away on that bench. Her teeth were still evenly lined in her mouth and when she smiled, she was still the prettiest girl her father had ever seen.

She stepped into the kitchen and started helping usisi with supper. She played the old radio which sat in the corner next to the bread bin loudly, the way she always did and laughed when usisi cracked some joke about her grandmother’s antics. Like she always did. And the next day, she woke to make breakfast for her siblings, like she always did. She continued with her life that way the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that.

May My Love Stain You

I’ve gotten so caught up in contributing to this manuscript that I’ve abandoned the blog again. And the vow I made to post more often. A friend asked me why I had stopped posting yesterday. Well, maybe not a friend yet, but someone I would like to call friend one day. After a moment of “should I post something from the work in progress or something fresh?”, I decided I should do the latter.

I had a thought last night about the way I suddenly found the warmest of love in a place I wasn’t looking for it. Suddenly. And so soon after letting go of another. One day we’ll talk about all the feelings that came with that.

This thing has no rules and my heart doesn’t take orders.

I love hard. This is something which I have learnt is true for both my romantic and platonic relationships. If my heart opens for you, it will go the whole nine yards for you. It will also break a million times when our time is over. And, as someone who can count the number of actual (read official-he-asked-me-out-and-I-said-yes-I’m-your-girlfriend) romantic relationships I’ve have had on one hand, I don’t say this lightly. This thought isn’t fully developed but, I mean to say that I don’t often love this way, I guess. With security. Yes, I’m 27 going on 40 and I have limited experience at relationshipping, and discovering just how much I can love and give and labour emotionally is such a journey. Always discovering something about my heart and mouth that makes me pause and say, “dang, you’re something special”.

And I am. Lord. I am.

I have been mistreated.

Taken for granted.

Emotionally dragged from pillar to post.

Misled.

Lied to.

I have had my self esteem pounded into the ground the way I imagine one pounds yam. Properly.

I have had my friends wipe my tears in the dingiest of bathroom stalls in equally dingy bars in the wee hours of the morning.

I have been publicly embarrassed.

I have been ghosted.

Questioned my self worth.

Had my intelligence thrown at me as a reason for the abuse I was receiving.

A whole lot more I assume, because Poesville is a place we all have the co-ordinates for and it isn’t just a little town with a corner-store and the one ageing church. It’s a sprawling, ever evolving metropolis, with an efficient transport system and bustling Visitors’ Centre. Some of us have permanently reserved seating there in the VIP section.

But there is one thing about me, perhaps as a result of the many times I was in a place of uncertainty, or because it’s just the way I am. I never want a person who enters my life for the purpose of love and affection, to walk away questioning whether or not they were ever truly loved or cared for. I drown my lovers in it. I make sure that my affection is pouring out of them even though I am the vessel.

Sounds overwhelming doesn’t it.

But imagine never worrying that your heart is safe. Never wondering whether your human supports your breath. Having a permanent cheerleader. A place to take your life off safely. A resting place where it doesn’t matter that your flaws are under the spotlight and your nakedness is, you know, naked. I’ve spent the last few years of my life searching for this feeling and somewhere along the way, when I realised that we are too human to be able to offer this in its entirety, I resolved to be the best safe place for everyone who took a step in my direction. No matter how tentative. I refuse to be the reason someone walks away and intermittently asks “what if?” about me. Well, I don’t want that question asked because I was evasive. Or lukewarm. Or swung back and forth like a pendulum.

Sometimes it’s beautiful and rewarding. Other times it tears at my own heart to build the other person. But I’ll gladly empty my cup to spare my loves a loveless existence.

Bittersweetness and full hearts.

The Empress.

Puzzles

Her: How does he make you feel?

Me: Today? Today he made me feel like I was the only spot in the world where the sun shone.

On Tuesday, he made me feel like it was okay that I forgot my umbrella although the rain was pouring.

He knows I’m a hurricane. And he comes with a raincoat. One of those two piece ones that come with a cap. Kind of like a little yellow fireman.

Her: How does he make you feel?

Me: Inadequate. Like he’s missing a piece of his jigsaw and I’m trying desperately to be it but I won’t fit.

I won’t fit.

Letter to the One who Came after Me

Hi.

I’m writing you this letter to let you know all the things that nobody told me about the heart you’ve stumbled upon.

He likes his filter coffee milky but not sweet. Here’s the catch, he’s embarrassed to say so because he doesn’t want to be made fun of by the barrister at the shop at the corner of Ninth and Main because he lowkey has a man crush on him and wouldn’t want him to think any less of his manliness. So, order for him. And order half and half. No sugar. Giggle to your heart’s content when he orders for himself and curses as he sips until it’s over. It’s how he lives his life – revelling in the pain.

He must learn.

He’s not a morning person. No matter what he says. Let him sleep in some days so he can recharge his bones and reset his soul. He never lets himself slow down and he’ll pretend to be mad that you silenced the alarm when he finally emerges just after noon with clear eyes and a slow smile that can only be attributed to a comfortable bed, or thorough loving, but secretly, everything in him is tingling, and rejuvenated.

Hand him the coffee.

When he comes in after a long day and starts venting, he’s not looking for solutions or participation. Stand there and listen with your eyes on his beautiful face. Let him strip off the weight of the day and hand it to you, word after word, for you to scatter across the floor and shatter into little pieces of frustration he didn’t know he was carrying. Feel every sigh and catch the heaviness that the world stealthily loaded into his system whilst he was busy. Listen also, for the things he doesn’t say. Those have been the straws that broke many a camel’s back.

Touch him. Often.

He is afraid of the darkness and leaves the lights on in every room. You’ll always know he’s at home by the blinding florescent globes that glow from the kitschy lamps he spends his money on after hours spent poring over webpages that promise personalisation and understated elegance. You may have to hide his credit card. The lights chase away a darkness he ordered before my time. We have a sad boy. Had. I had a sad boy.

Tell him you love him, when you do. Often.

Hearts like his exist to be responsible for themselves and are left unsure that they deserve love. Pour it out over him. Drench him with it. Never let a spot dry, even as you chase the sun. Take the love he wants to give but is hesitant to let slip from his closed fist. Pry it open and breathe it in. But. Defend yourself with everything you have, because this love will engulf you and suffocate you. It will hand you flowers and euphoria daily on silver plates and with warm bread on the side. It will let you fly without a parachute and you will be only too happy to spread your arms and follow where it takes you. Be vigilant, or you will wake up like me, a little disoriented and alone, but with the best aftertaste in your mouth – of fresh air and crushed berries. With vague memories of brilliant supernovas and a warmth that you will search for but never again find. It will be the best love you will ever fall into. Never stop swimming in it. Trust its motion, even when the waters feel troubled. Hang onto the rails when the storms come because the calm after that?

The stuff of poetry.

The Empress.

Of Trust Issues and Whirlwinds

Let me talk to you about trust issues. (Yes it’s okay that Drake is the soundtrack to this, in your mind).

A few (or a lot, who knows really) months ago I had a post-bar heart to heart with my best male friend. Listen, this man is my ride or die and has been there through ALL of it with me, and no, he isn’t one of those “he’s waiting to hit” fellas, “just biding his time ’till I’m ready to see him” fellas.

So stow your judgment. Put it far away.

I don’t enjoy crying. Wait, let me start afresh.

---

Some women are in touch with their tears. They do not fight their heartbreak and the dark and heavy emotions that sweep over their souls when life makes them weary. They embrace them and make it awkward for their emotionally detached friends (read, me) at 2AM mid unnecessarily deep conversations in public (everywhere there are people who are drinking things). I remember the last time I was that woman and I swore to never be her again. *Laughs in men are trash and wasted make-up blotted away with cheap tissue used in unisex stalls in clubs that have no understanding of the concept of privacy*.

We  embarked on a journey of fearlessness and no tears, my heart and I.

Along the way, we met a girl who made it her mission to dig deep into my life with all her pesky light and sunshine, to uncover the things that I refused to talk about and feel about  and be about. She wanted my tears even more than I did not want them. This is also because I wholeheartedly believe that the only acceptable place to snot-cry is in your therapist’s office because she is paid to see you like that. Yannow?

We had become the one others came to when they needed sense talked into their heads and hearts because all of theirs had been used up by men and women whose business it is to cloud judgment and bang their fists against resistance. We became a towering monument to clear-headedness and strength. To sense and sensibility. To not giving any fucks about love/lust fuelled promises whispered between lovers in the comfort of beds and borrowed couches. To pulling mates out of quicksand-like relationships. To burning bridges whilst chanting warrior songs about being stronger. (These songs may or may not have been by Britney Spears and Kelly Clarkson). We could show you the notches on our sword and shield. We did it selflessly, and selfishly. Selfishly, because we did not want to be the only ones standing alone and fighting alone, no matter how determined we were to remain that way. Selflessly, because Saviour Complex. Heady.

Until I met him. I always described him as my CPR. Brought me back from the dead. He rode in on a whirlwind of patience and understanding. Of charm in a language I understood and did not know I craved. Simplicity. He was by no means soft. He was a giant well versed in demolishing monuments like me. And demolish he did. Not with wrecking balls but with withdrawal and unavailability. With little pieces of himself whilst I gave everything. With subtle mind games and manipulative touches.

The trouble with allowing humans to be your lifeline is that they stop being your  lifelines. And you die.

My girl got her tears.

A few days after I burnt that bridge to stay alive, well, after he withdrew the air and theeeen I burnt the bridge, I had a post-bar heart to heart with my best guy friend. Listen, this guy is my ride or die and has been there through ALL of it and no, he isn’t one of those “he’s waiting to hit” fellas, “just biding his time ’till I’m ready to see him” fellas.

And he told me all the things I told my charges. He rescued me the way I rescued them and added me to the notches of his sword and shield. He walked with me through the Heartbreak aisle in the Life Store and helped me pick out the brick and mortar to rebuild the bits of my monument that the Whirlwind had torn down. We reinforced the structure with wariness and hesitation. With bitten tongues and chains to stop Heart and I from jumping too soon. When we were done, he added a big red flashing sign just above the plaque that read:

“This Monument Stands in Honour of A Warrior Who Fights Love”.

The flashing red sign reads

“Beware of trust Issues”.

For My Light and for My Builder.

The Empress.

Chronicles of Romance Vol. 13

*I wrote most of this at 7.13am after a night out. I don’t recall the year. I found it last night and tried to conjure up as much of that morning as I could. I scribbled the ending whilst searching for sleep*

Whenever I talk to men about my singlehood life – often in varied states of  inebriation at the back of badly lit clubs, sitting on overused couches which smell of cigarette smoke – there is a common theme which dominates these conversations. I am asked by one – who has indirect intimate knowledge of how I choose to navigate the minefield of chemistry between two people- only because I am currently navigating said minefield with his ‘home-boy since we were ten’ – “why won’t you date him?”.

In my head a switch goes off and the sudden high pitched scream that pierces the slightly muddled calm in my mind slowly lowers to background noise level. In my head I yell “IT REALLY IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!!!!”.  To his face, I say, very serenely, after taking an unnecessarily long sip of my beverage (in retrospect, I probably should have stopped drinking 2 hours prior, but I digress), “I don’t want to”.  I can almost see his braincells misfiring in an attempt to comprehend this simple statement of fact. I sip some more (again, should really noooot be drinking any more). He then asks me (rather audaciously because as already stated, it’s really none of his business)  “why?”.

In my head: I’m tired. My heart is tired. My body is tired. My heart has been riding an emotional roller-coaster (shoutout to Vivian Green) since I was 16 and I haven’t really listened to the bullhorns telling me to get off after each messy cycle. I just stay on when everyone else hops off and pray that there’s nothing left in my stomach to hurl out at the next ridiculous upside-down turn thingie.

Guess what? There’s always more.

It’s almost as if I’m a bottomless pit of emotions. At this point, they aren’t even my emotions anymore because “my” implies that they belong to me and that I exercise some sort of agency over them. Control.

I do not.

They happen to me. Violently. Completely. They overwhelm me and I can never seem to find the door through which I entered when I suddenly become (for however brief a moment) aware of just how far gone I am. But somehow,  I managed to disentangle myself from the last time, unbuckle my belt and run screaming for the turnstiles. I haven’t looked back since.

So, I’m not dating right now. I’m flirting with all the men. I smile at strangers at train stations. I stare too long at beautiful humans during my long commutes. I take tequila shots with long haired vactioners in dingy bars I normally wouldn’t frequent. I dance for a little longer than is appropriate with people whose names I have no intention of remembering in the morning. I kiss boys on steps and laugh when they ask for my number. I take down bartenders’ numbers on serviettes knowing full well I won’t be back. I buy energy drinks for bouncers and laugh at their lewd jokes in exchange for club entry. And when I’m done, I call your home-boy and do a different sort of dancing in the wee hours of the morning. No words. Just music.

He doesn’t need the words. All he wants is the music. And when the ride stops, he’s more than willing to help me off and wave at me from his car. It takes nothing from me but well practised sing-alongs and danceathons. I can still breathe. And see. I’m not trying to claw my way back to the surface and I’m never left shaking my head in an attempt to clear it of the dark tendrils of unrequited affection. I’m not left empty and tired of pulling the reigns of tired horses.

I don’t want to date. I’m worth gazillions more than the boys who proposition me are in possession of. Even together. Do you really think you want to run with me? I saw it in the eyes of those I tried with. The fear. Of being loved too much. Being seen and letting themselves see me. I mean really seen.

I’m a hurricane (irony of timing is not lost on me). I’m not a mild thunder storm in the middle of summer that passes after a bit of pomp and fan-fair. I’ll ruin you. And in the process, I’ll open up and let you ruin me and the cycle begins again.

Out Loud: I laugh coyly and bite on my straw (note, I’ve stopped drinking) in that well practised movie – pin – up – girl way and say, “we’re too young to be chasing forever. Besides, even if he wanted to date me, which I gather is the case, he hasn’t told me. I don’t want to be with a coward. A man who can trace the contours of a woman’s body for years but not whisper his feelings is a man I don’t want”.

The individual in question peeks through the door leading to the hideout at the back and winks. I wink back and point to my watch. He nods and I get up.

It’s time to dance.

 

The Empress

Writers Block

The things I’m afraid to write are the things I want to write the most.

I want to pour out my soul and let strangers read every single word. Even those in brackets. Over and over. I want them to need to start the sentence from scratch a few times because they cannot believe that I feel exactly what they do. I want people to feel my emotions and talk about them over dinner because the things I put down resonated with them.

I don’t write distinctly profound things. If anything, what I write about is spectacularly normal. Almost mundane. Like brushing your teeth in the morning. Familiar.  We are all inundated with special. The need to be unique. Different. So much so, that we forget that there are more things that connect us than separate us. Like brushing our teeth in the morning. Familiar.

I have so  many stories I want to tell. Vividly. I don’t want to skip steps or omit facts. I don’t want to feel dishonest or incomplete in my writing. I want to describe the way the light hit the floor, the scent of the air, the texture of skin, every goose-bump. But here’s the thing… I am not an island. I exist because of and with other people. Their stories are intertwined with mine and every so often, the bits of me I want to share, involve someone else. I don’t mean involve in the sense that I could give them a different name and pretend they would be unrecognisable. I mean involve in the deepest sense. I connect with humans deeply. I don’t like to scratch the surface. Doing that makes me feel disingenuous. It also makes me seem invasive. Forward. Impatient. I’ve heard it all.

I’m learning to temper myself when necessary.

I struggle with passers by because I’m fascinated by the way people work. I want to know their stories. Where they come from. Why they are. When they will arrive. Do they like themselves? Regrets? I in turn, want to overshare. I want to leave a mark. A memory. Even a hazy one. The kind that requires you close your eyes for a second to focus. So you can remember that I speak too fast or laugh too loudly. That I told you too much about myself and the way  I didn’t care. That my accent is sometimes not uniform and that my hands are freckled. That my thoughts are sometimes all over the place. I want you to take a piece of me forward, so I will never be forgotten. But that also means, I don’t want to forget you. Or how you made me feel. That I loved your style and swagger. That your jersey made me wish I could knit. That your first name told a story.

I want to write all of it. But what if you don’t want people to know that you cry at night by yourself because the burdens you bear are too heavy for your back. What if you don’t want them to look too closely at the scars on your wrist, because they’ll know you tried to fly before your time. Perhaps you don’t want your future to know that I know what you look like in the mornings, just before the sun comes up. You most likely have no desire for the outside to see all the ugly you have inside.

These things elicited emotions from me. I was there when you cried. I cried too. I found you on the floor and helped stem the blood. I was affected too. I lay in that moment too, morning breath, head wrap  and all. I showed you my ugly.

I want to talk about myself but can I ever do that without talking about you too?

Do you talk about yourself without mentioning me?

I’m making my concentrating face right now. And reaching for a pen and my notebook. To write in full, things the world may never see. It is catharsis.

The Empress

 

 

For Valentine’s Day, I Quit Tinder.

The first and and last time I had a Valentine was in my last year of high school. And thank God for that. I say thanks because at my high school, up until the 4th form (grade 11 for you muggles), Valentine’s gifts were delivered to your homebase classroom by your class prefect during the second last period of the day. (These details are fuzzy but stick with me).

So, the bell would ring and overexcited young girls who had worked themselves up to hyperventilation all day, would scamper past their lockers, playing Oracle about who would get what from whom. (Or, who would get nothing from nobody.) What this meant was that if you were like me and weren’t popular with the boys (read not popular in general), the absence of flowers, oversized stuffed creatures and other love themed paraphernalia from your desktop was only witnessed by approximately 27 other females. (Yes, I’m an elite all girls school survivor).

This worked really well for me because I always got that one face- saving gift. From my young brother at an all boys high school at which he was much like I was, fighting for his life. In exchange for his familial duty, I would do the same. He was a dork, I was a nerd, it worked well. Of course everyone knew where the roses would come from because we would inspect each other’s takings once the handing out ceremony was done. I made it through this custom unscathed for 4 years straight. Then final year happened.

The difference with 6th form (the final two years of high school, again, for the muggles)  is that all the sixth formers were required to congregate in the school hall and travel from the seats on the floor, to the stage, in front of each other, to fetch whatever presents the vermin had deemed we were worthy of receiving. This was fine if you were in Lower 6. You were new to the senior game. Your importance was viewed the way one considers a wet piece of leftover bread-with just enough disdain to imply that whilst you are an eyesore, you aren’t enough of one to be paid much attention.

In Lower 6, you’d assemble with your crew, sit at the back and hope the final years wouldn’t notice you almost crawl to the stage to get your measly parcel. And they wouldn’t because they’d be concentrating on one of two things. The first was each other-she who received the largest/loudest/most of anything, ruled. Forever. The second was to make sure that said ruler was  not a Lower 6th former. (read wet piece of bread.) If that ever happened, ESPECIALLY if the gifts came from someone whose affection had been mentioned in the same line with the word “dibs” by a final year, then screwdom. (use your imagination here).

Right. In my final year, I began a fated dalliance with an attractive, popular young man who happened to attend the same school my brother did. When I say I was a nerd, I mean it-glasses and all. But I was a clever, smart mouthed, sporty, funny nerd. And one of my best friends was the most beautiful and popular people in our stream. So I wasn’t a complete social pariah – I just missed the cool factor. So when I look back,  I know 17 year old me could not believe that this popular individual picked me. I digress.

So when V-day (vomits in mouth) rolled around, panic levels were at Defcon One. “What if he’s just a fuck boy?”  (we didn’t have that term back then but the species was strong), “what if he sends nothing and my crew is embarrassed because I got only the customary present?”I was a wreck.

I need to emphasise that at this point, I’d come into my own pretty nicely. I was a school prefect, well liked and respected by my peers and staff and showing some promise in the boob department. Boys still however, baffled me.

Final period rolled around, we congregated in the hall and all eyes were on us. And guess what? My name was called TWICE that year. I went out with a bang. I had a boy friend (kind of, I think)  and clearly the boobs were working.

Fast forward 9 years. I’ve been in relationships and situationships but never have I ever had a Valentine -not  since that February afternoon. The first two years I looked back with sad fondness at my high school triumph and wondered if I was to die a bitter spinster (melodramatic phase). The last 6 years have been a breeze. I’d book myself a movie and kill myself with red wine (my favourite anything) and live. Because Valentine’s Day is a scam. I’ve been quite happy.

But this year, in the build-up to today, I’ve experienced  a sense of aloneness. Not loneliness. Just being alone and mildly concerned. And when I consider the sheer volume of dates I’ve been on in the last year, and for what-cheap thrills, bad kisses, mommy issues, short man syndrome, mediocre conversation and egos the size of The Donald’s head?(I Tindered A lot). 

I’m alone in the adult world for the first time and that feeling of camaraderie- constant cheering and support from a large group of girlfriends has slowly tapered to “are you alive?” texts in between coffee runs and pap smears. I’ve tried to fill the empty feelings with dates to keep busy. See, I wasn’t even looking for meaningful connections or even the traditional Tinder hook-up. I was looking for time pushers just so I wouldn’t be that girl who really likes to sit alone on her couch after work and read a book for three hours whilst listening to scratched New Edition CDs. All so that on Monday when people asked how my weekend was, I wouldn’t say “great, I watched 32 episodes of Arrested Development and finished a book”. I was looking to have something to do for one Valentine’s Day.

This morning I deleted Tinder and went shopping online for a book I last read in high school. I found it at a book store near my house. I’m on my way to pick it up now (along with a good bottle of wine because I can afford non-poison now). This Valentine’s almost reduced me to that insecure mess I was on the last V-day that meant anything. All to prove to perfect strangers that I’m loveable.

I’m alright. I’m alone and rather pleased that I’m not frantically calling restaurants for a last minute booking (because that’s the human I am). So to you who doesn’t have a date tonight and is currently swiping right on everything (with your “I’m going out” settings on), it’ll be okay. Today doesn’t define you. The huge chocolate cake on your counter you bought as backup? That defines you. (chuckles at own joke)

Happy Valentine’s Day (read Tuesday)

The Empress. x

 

Diaries of a day drinker

Happy New Year everybody! Yes, it’s early. The reason for this is that I spend every new year’s eve in church. I don’t know what I will do with myself the one year I don’t make it to Africa (read Zimbabwe) for the holidays. If this ever happens, please can someone strap a whistle and my address to my person? I can guarantee that I will be comatose by the time I am required to make my way home.

As I write this I am sipping on vodka and coke. I’m usually a wine drinker however, Africa makes it unreasonable for my pocket to sustain my preference of  the red stuff and they don’t have my nice bottles. So I buy vodka and lace everything with it.My Mazoe (I cannot explain this to you. You must experience it), my coke, my tea.. There isn’t much to do at my house over the holidays. Our helper is away so I am the helper. I use the strong stuff as both motivation and reward (I’m a good master). Also, I have a curfew here. You know, the usual African girl child curfew that stipulates that any youth that possesses a vagina must be within the gates of the homestead by 6pm or sunset (whichever occurs first). The vodka helps pass the time.

The vodka (bless the Russians) is also an amazing thought stimulant. This year has been a roller coaster for me and because I am such a lovely individual,  I shall share what few pearls of wisdom I have gathered. In truth, these are truths my mother should have shared with me but we’re black and we don’t believe we should share important things with our children until they are married. (except ‘stay in school, don’t have sex and booze is bad’)

A few months ago I fell for a boy whilst I was busy minding my own business. I swear I wasn’t looking. (ain’t that always the way) The boy expressed his desire to chill but was crystal clear about his commitment issues but I fell anyway (because I’m a girl and if you pay me enough attention I will plan our wedding). Chile, when a man says he doesn’t want a relationship or is a fuckboy or likes dressing up in his grandmother’s pantihose, BELIEVE HIM. DO NOT FOR A SECOND think that because he’s hitched himself to your particular brand of female that you can change any of that. And even if you do fall please #thuglife your way through the mess. Play the Backstreet Boys at home whilst you guzzle the wine but be Beyonce pretending to be single when you leave the house in your 5  inch heels.

The trouble with blurred lines and uncertainty in romantic situations is ambiguity. Are we a thing or not? Does he really not mind that I’m a raging alcoholic who hates the gym? Did he enjoy my cooking or was that a ploy to make sure I put out? Where in defined relationships there is security and you can ask these questions and trip when he gives the wrong answer (yes, there is always a right answer), in blurred lines situations, you don’t ever know where the boundary lies.

Know yourself enough to know whether this is a person with whom you can handle uncertainty or one that needs to know that you are high maintenance woman who likes holding hands in public. And then be honest with both yourself and him about what you want. If it doesn’t work out, you can always visit your mother and clean her house for two weeks whilst perpetually tipsy.

*pours more vodka and adjusts the fan*

Another thing women are never told enough is that we don’t come with ‘sell by’ dates. Be single. Be married. Be divorced. Be a mother. I am surrounded by women in each of these situations who haven’t hit thirty and FYI, they are currently QUEENING. SLAYING. Living the heck out of their lives. My plus one is almost always a woman I love. And I refuse to apologise for being 25 and slaving away to prepare my future (whether there is a fabulous man pouring my wine and letting me help him take his empire to dizzying heights or not). Love yourself so hard that the absence of a partner is not a vacuum, but more room for your wine.

Always carry condoms. Having been raised in a Christian home, sex and condoms are taboo subjects unless euphemisms are being used to describe how cousin Thandi’s belly got big. Thandi most likely got pregnant because her person didn’t have condom and was surprised when she accused him of hiding her period. Men don’t get pregnant and can walk away when you do. Buy the damn things and stay ready. Do not be sold dreams about team skin-to-skin or team pull-out. Do not allow your aunts to tell you that carrying condoms makes you a penis hungry slut. The world is already on team men-run-the-world, they don’t have to run your womb too.

Finally, dear black girl, scrub your knees. With a stone. Our mothers have always taken pride in our dirty knees because it means we can polish the life out of wooden tiles and future husband will appreciate this. Mandela did not die so you cant wear a mini-skirt and be proud of your knees. Shine that floor and exfoliate like you are being paid for it.

Much love and hopes for mini-skirt summers

The Empress