_Its a jungle out there_
‘There is nothing rebellious about loving something that can’t love you. You’re a woman, you should have known that men in the city would split you in half searching for their fathers in between your legs’
_Warsan Shire
Beauty in the folds of Africa…
Inspirational strangers<3
“If I gave you my love/ I tell you what I’d do/ I’d expect a whole lotta love outta you/ You gotta be good to me/ I’m gonna be good to you/ There’s a whole lotta things you and I/ Could do.” This song was posted on Twitter and as I sat at my desk with a whole lot of Anthropology work, I was reminded of just how much warmth I find in Al Green’s voice; how Stay With Me (By The Sea) became anthemic for me at a time when I was stuck with my solitude and wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. (When you love someone and they leave, what’s left over is always a few sizes too big. To fit. Ever. Again.)
Nothing makes me feel more homeless than Winter. Day and night have a way of blurring into one, solid mass of grey and wet that weighs on your shoulders. The utter heavy of being that constantly reminds you that there is nothing larger than lonely; no real joy in June when even the sun chooses to stay indoors. Gloom marches the width and breadth of these streets, rushing us out the way and people refuse to stay out longer than 10 minutes. And there is no real place for me. I am an abandoned house in a fancy Midrand estate where the last owner packed himself up and left after the first Autumn breeze swept in. He didn’t even bother to close the windows or doors or to stay and check on how this house would serve him, keep him, love him and hold him against all weather and every storm. No. He left me open and hoping. See, women like me are just one-night check-in’s for affection. Thrilled by how you feel just like his mother’s house in the Spring time (you’re quiet and lovely and soothing), how he’s never before regarded a garden with this much interest (you’re quirky and refreshing and not the usual) so he stays for a few more days which melt into months but it’s always about a damn Autumn, isn’t it?
And there is no real place for me. Through the seasons you’d wander in and out just to ‘check in on me’ and found that I’d kept every room just as you had left it. No one messed with your side of the bed or your books or your art collection. I’ll tell you, I am barely standing with the pain of how much it hurts me to be this expectant. It is no way to live when you have to give your adoration to him in small doses. Scared that he’ll run off at the first feel of Please Don’t Ever Leave Me Again in your kiss or how after re-making love your orgasms coax out tears loaded with questions that drape the room in a heavy mist - how he has to play pretend at cool to avoid it. You’ve grown too used to his chest being the only place of rest, these days. So you start tip-toeing on eggshells made of landmines, manoeuvring the Angola of his pride until loving him leaves you with no leg to stand on. There is nothing sexy about self-sacrifice; the way you are always either calling, kissing, hugging, fucking or missing him – the way you contort yourself into an altar made for his worship. Nova, I can barely recognise you. It’s disgusting.
Last year certainly had its way with me but there’s a new way of being that I have built into myself. Sturdy and low-firing. I have finally stepped into myself and made a home inside her. Hello Le, welcome, I’ve missed you. The lights stay on because I am here: happy and whole with days that are packed from floor to ceiling with things that are mine to own. What space is there for sadness or saudade when the Missus of the residence is baking up heaven in the kitchen, dancing up monsoons in her best dress or alone with some Robert Glasper and a good book in her big, made-for-one bed? Alhamdulilah, I have survived everything that looks and smells and plays at the cool just like you. I am wading in so much peace, lately. I’m taking all of life in and sharing it with myself. I haven’t been alone with this Nova woman in so long, I had forgotten how amazing it is to have an entire weekend of just me and silence and the way the moon and sun take turns spilling across my shoulder from the window. Quiet. And I think my spirit got the memo because nowadays, she just can’t wait to be up, everyday, at 2 a.m just to look at Johannesburg’s sleeping face. Lele, look how wonderful the world is when there are no worries on your back. There are poems to write, books to read, selves to create, dreams to live and hearts to save. Grateful to life and for life and for the way that the stars held their breath long enough for morning to find me. I hope I wear it well. I am a full house standing on the brink of Autumn, smiling and asking Winter to come in for some tea.
I know just how you feel, love.
"We are sudden stars / You and I exploding in / Our blue black skins."
— Sonia Sanchez (via tobia)
(Source: dreamhampton1, via kingnovamiu)
My Black President, Mr Mandela, didnt fight for my freedom only to have me oppress my hair under a weave…
