Using stylised "lifestyle" stock images on my life blog feels weird.

June has been a ride. Not terrible, just filled with a lot of feelings. For seven years, June has been an incredibly tender time for me. Tender like pins and needles when your limb has dozed off. Tender like gushing. An outpouring. 

Someone who was a friend of my mother's told me I should speak to her. My mother. In the past seven years, I haven't done it frequently. I'm not great at communicating. Or even good, even worse when hurting. But that's what I did on the last Saturday of June. I spoke. Hopefully this will help me transcend this current phase and take my relationship with my mother to its next stage. 

I cite (read blame) being young, feeling abandoned, feeling inadequate and being in survival mode for it taking seven years for me beginning to feel a little like maybe that day in 2009 wasn't the the end. I mean, I knew that. If I know nothing else about my mother, I know that she wouldn't just disappear. But this is hard to believe when I'm going through the most. Even though it should be the opposite, right? I should cling to this knowledge that my mother is in another plein but she is still my mother, as comfort when I'm going through darkness. 

But I'm fatalistic. When things are bad, nothing but myself can convince me otherwise. I'm glad though that it's starting to shift for me. I'm starting to remember who the fuck my mother is. I am a dead mother's child but she is still my mother.

June also means reliving one of the most horrific single events in our history. It means t-shirts and social media posts and posters and party flyers bearing the image of a family's dying young child. I'm mortified when I think about how I haven't always known using the gruesome last moments of Hector Peterson's life carelessly is wrong. June also means the cult classic Sarafina! being on TV and us sitting through dance numbers about black pain.

I spent hours listening to parts of the Sarafina! (film) soundtrack while researching something for work and I couldn't get over how beautiful and harrowing "Nkonyane kaNdaba" is. It's a key moment in the film and I believe a key theme in black struggle. It starts playing as the kids -- Sarafina included -- are being driven to a police facility (John Voster perhaps?)  in the back of police vans after violent raids took place in their homes. Their friend Crocodile is dead, the students killed a man, the end isn't in sight. They are in for more trauma and they know it.

The hoarse and nippy voice begins: wathinta thina, wathinta abangasokufa.
In the face of all that trauma -- in the film, and again the collective black experience -- here is a beautiful voice singing adamantly that we never die. We never ever die. This is not a physical thing, this is a spiritual thing. A testament to black experience all through history. The systematic violence hurts, it's put in place to break us but it hasn't yet. The mere audacity of us thinking this in the midst of suffering is one hell of a push back.It is resistance. Magic doesn't mean immunity. I wish it did. None of this is simple kodwa ngeke basiqede. Also the background vocalists akikizayo are lit af. 


I have also been making videos and posting them to Youtube and trying to be, like, productive. Subscribe to my channel if you would like. Share and comment. Now that I'm making videos, after wanting to do so for years, I suddenly don't know what exactly it is that I want to do. Even though I have tens of ideas on my memopad.

Speaking of years... July marks five years of me writing this baby blog. WHAT. Other than my sister, frequent (money-related) hard times and thirst dreams about writing, money and boys, this blog and ~the internet~ has been the most consistent thing in my life for a while now. Even when I deleted all the things I had put online, all those versions of myself, it survived. 

I'm yet again trying to move to a bigger place.

That's our catch up, done and dusted for now. How are you doing? What are you up to? Where did the time go???