8 May 2012

Why I Might Just Quit Facebook (You Should Too)

Facebook has done a wonderful job of creating an application that feeds into human’s need for personal recognition and a feeling of awareness about others around then, and not much more.

In the past week 14 people have asked me why I no longer post as much as I used to, and after thinking and thinking I realised that asides from my total disillusionment, it had become a right bore. Mind you, this has nothing to do with Facebook itself... although I call it 'facebook fatigue'

I think users on Facebook tend to try to make Facebook an extension of their internal Confidos, and other than that, just try to share boring life details or thoughts in an attention power grab.

I’m guilty of it and so are you. After you read this, you should be cured.

Watching your friends and acquaintances on Facebook is a bit like watching a long-form documentary about Farming. While you don’t know all of the specifics and details about either, you can kind of figure how it all goes down.

The details you learn about your friends’ ideas, lives and events are not surprising:
·         Clever people say clever things
·         Dumb people say dumb things
·         Hip people go to hip events
·         Boring people’s lives are boring
·         Good looking people take nice photos of themselves
·         Rich people do and own expensive things
·         Fat people eat a lot

On Facebook you’re only as good as your last status update and if you post at non-peak hours nobody might even see it, this I cannot abide. 

11 Mar 2012

Strawberry Daiquiris In South Africa

After a couple of strawberry daiquiris and a month without posting I feel I have enough material to start posting again.

You should know that I finally racked up enough courage to cross the border into South Africa... ahhh the land of milk and honey.

This is not true.

South Africa is a violent vicious place, where any indication that you are not a local marks you out for mugging and blatant xenophobic intolerance.

Why just the other day, when I had at last mustered enough courage to use public transport, i got into a bus and sat beside a wizened old fella I felt safe beside him. That is, until I opened my mouth. 

I asked him what the fare was and he replied in a series of clicks and grunts.

I gave him a blank stare.

And indicated by gesturing to my ears that I did not speak the language.

Dear reader, I cannot begin to describe to you the look of disdain that flashed across the toothless man’s face, only to be replaced by unbridled disgust.

Flashing out lip-gloss and calmly applying it did not seem to help my case with him, for he gave me the up and down and just as calmly turned to his travel buddy, clicking and gesturing in my direction animatedly whilst his partner proceeded to give me an oh so withering look over his shoulder.

I was unphased.

Even the beggars on the street do not take nonsense.
Why just the other day, one came up to me while I was waiting for the taxis and told me exactly how much he wanted from me.
She said, “Give me R5,” pointing at my bag.

I did not have that much change and was a bit put off so I shook my head, he would not leave, he encroached even more into my personal space and brought out a form with a list of signatures of other people who had given him R5 or more!
So that he would leave me alone, I counted out R3 in coins and gave him, he was not too happy and after waiting a few more seconds he moved on.

I am not sure how I am going to take to this place. A part of me feels like a rejected limb... bring in the medics!

13 Feb 2012

Why I Don't Want To Go To Church

My 21st birthday anniversary is in a couple of month’s time, to that end I have decided to start taking my fitness a little more seriously. Sit-ups, press-ups, lunges, and two hour walks.

For the first two days, I stuck to this regime, until I felt all the muscles in my body start to give.

 Day three, my stomach muscles felt like someone was pulling them end to end and hammering tunelessly at them.

So I dropped the sit-ups, I figured my stomach was flat and taut enough.

On day four, I had to ditch the lunges. The muscles in my thighs finally gave, all that tugging and pulling to get toned legs wasn’t worth it, besides who needs exercises when you do not have a car?

I do not.

So seven days later I am down to the walks alone.

Let’s see how long that’s going to last.

Having said that. Something has been bugging me for the past couple of weeks. I cannot seem able to bring myself to go to church. Hush now, do not start judging yet. Listen.

Every Sunday morning I wake up bright and early with the best of intentions. I clean the house and take up my post just outside the gate. Soaking in the sun... that is what I tell people, when really it is just an excuse to stand and stare at people.

The Gumbo’s from across the street leave for church before everyone else in the neighbourhood leaves the house. They are in the Salvation Army.

But they don’t leave all at once. First goes the son, he is nine and then the two daughters, thirty minutes later, mum leaves. Mr Gumbo does not go with them. Every Saturday afternoon he drinks himself into a stupor and does not wake up until the next Monday.
 Bless Mrs Gumbo for staying with him. You should know that their house is right at the end of the street, packed in between two bigger houses. How all five of them stay together in that house is beyond me. Bless Mrs. Gumbo for staying.

After the Gumbos comes Madzibaba Astriledge, he is an apostle/prophet/headman/guru and whatever other odd title you want to place on him. He will take them all. He seems to glide down the street, his long white robes billow behind him, and his almost two metre long wooden stick always manages to stay at least an inch above ground.

His baldhead waves and winks in the morning sun, and I find men with baldheads fascinating.

When he sees me, he starts smiling from at least three houses away.

 A toothless smile that has flies and other little critters flying in and out of his mouth (I believe I saw some doing that the other day). And his cheeks puff out, black and shiny from Vaseline like he is hiding little clouds in his mouth.

He does not say anything to me though.

Merely waves and tucks back his toothless gums in his mouth. I somehow think that perhaps the smile he gives me is contrived.

Next, comes the woman from my church. If you still yourself (that includes your heart), you can feel the little ripples in the earth with each step she takes. Her hips fight for each lunge, to the right, to the left, in a mountainous motion that has your mouth open a little and little drips of saliva dripping out.
Her skirt flits and stops, flits and stops. The moment I see her rounding the corner I know it is time to dash inside and get ready for church.

But I don’t.

I stand there mesmerised (well that's not entirely true), by her and the couple that follows, the little boy on his way home with a loaf of bread. The little girls getting ready to start playing in the street.

And the excuses swelling in my head, and then exploding into a million others in my head.

The biggest and possibly the most dangerous is that I say to myself in a voice so sage I could, in that moment, be a guru,

“You don’t have to go to church to be a Christian.”

I never admit that I am wrong because if I were, I would know but bottom line, LIES ALL LIES!!

Why do I have to go to church?

The answer to the question, “Why do I have to go to church?” is fourfold:

1.       It is in the fellowship of the church where we find Jesus Christ.
2.     It is in the fellowship of the church where we find protection from the demonic forces of evil and sin in this world.
3.       It is in the fellowship of the church where we find encouragement in life.
4.       It is in the fellowship of the church where we become Jesus Christ to the world.

For the reason that I believe Jesus Christ died for me, for that reason alone. I am ditching my crowd watching, people profiling nonsensical Sunday morning activities. Spending Sundays watching TBN is really not the same as the beauty of fellowshipping in Jesus Christ.

10 Feb 2012

The Misadventures of Bob and Morgan: Part Two

We follow our miscreants (read part 1) as they deal with the demands of sharing power, and office life.


On Thursday, it was reported that ‘mole people’ had allegedly killed the Bob (Bob) and the Morgan (Morgan) and Zimbabweans could not make up their minds about how they felt about that.

The story was a hoax. However, realising that any publicity is good publicity the two quickly launched into an I-am-braver-than-you fest, with the Bob claiming that his escape from the mole people showed that he was brave enough to lead the people for another four years. The Morgan not to be outdone launched a counter attack.

Asked to describe the Morgan’s bravery compared to his the Bob quickly raised his hands estimated that it was not very high and was the equivalent to the fist of a foetus.

Upon further questioning, the Bob admitted that he had in fact never seen the fist of a foetus.

Upon hearing this Morgan grew furious and demanded that Bob estimate again exactly how brave, he thought he was. Appalled that Morgan had called him a liar Bob quickly called a press conference showing the size of the mole people that had attacked Morgan adding that it did not require that much bravery when was attacked by people that tall.

Realising that it was only a matter of time before the people started thinking him a coward, Morgan quickly called a rally to show that how big the ‘mole people’ were .

 The crowd was quickly whipped up into a frenzy and demanded that the Morgan show Bob exactly how much bravery that required. To which Morgan quickly responded by moving his hands round and round in a circle saying that it required, “mountains and mountains of bravery.”

Bob called in the Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad, who said that the ‘mole people’ who had attacked Bob were very presidential, very tall. In addition, that they were not the same ones who had attacked Morgan. All the while Bob stood by his side trying to show the Iranian president how tall he should make them.

Asked to estimate exactly how many would be sent to attack such a Presidential fellow President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad could not seem to make up his mind, and awkwardly raised his hand to show.

This caused such confusion amongst the journalists as they were torn between three and four ‘mole people’ that could have attacked Bob that the police had to be called in.

Feeling pressure from the journalist over the number of ‘mole people’, Bob took to the podium and desperately began retelling the story by increasing the number to five.

On hearing this Morgan rushed to the conference and declared that, “I can prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Bob is a liar,”

Knowing this to be true.Grace hung her head in shame and hoped that nobody would see her. Embarassed because Bob was always making up stories about mole people

An unidentified member of the Bob family embarrassed for her uncle, wept.

All the while, Bob continued opening and shutting his mouth, hoping that some bout of inspiration would hit him and get him out of this mess.


To be continued

9 Feb 2012

Arm Wrestling With A Lesbian

I have a list of sports that i esteem so low i feel none of them
belong in the Olympics and rightly so.

Arm wrestling is not one of them.
I tried arm wrestling once and I am not sure whether it was the mix of
intimidation and humiliation that made me lose, or that for all the
nineteen years of my life I had lived in a state of heightened
self-delusion resulting in my humiliating loss.

It was not C's strength that I found intimidating; it was the starry,
retarded way her eyes focused on me, like Mike Tyson getting ready to
feed. I didn't even try to put up a fight the first few times, but the
celebratory high-fiving and hooting, combined with half a gummy ear's
torso still stuck to my eardrum, were reason to grow delirious.

"Fine, you fucker, let's go!" I yelled.

Getting into position on the floor while my friend T video-recorded
what would inevitably turn into a violent episode of The L Word. I
hoped I could turn my anger and humiliation into a sort of rabies
strength but was reminded time and again who was in charge.

Losing in conjunction with the stadium cheering was not the worst part; after
she beat each one of us, she would leapfrog onto the back of our
heads, crushing our faces into the tiling, and then spank us.
It was beyond embarrassing.

After that, i could never look C in the eye afraid that she would take
any opportunity to remind me how scrawny I was. I did everything in my
wheelhouse to avoid a one on one altercation. I averted eye contact
and generally made sure that we were never alone in a room.

I have not seen C since then. Everything about her scares me. I
suppose it has to do with the fact that she looks like a transgender
villain, and that at the time she was dating a man with shoulders the
size of a barge and a head like a steamroller.

I suppose my problem with her was that she was an unattractive
heterosexual who acted like a lesbian on steroids. That and the fact
that she dressed like a truck driver and cursed like one too. If
anyone had asked me if she were a woman, I would utter and reiterated
that no, I did not believe that she was female and that if we did any
further DNA investigation her constitution would prove me right.

Although her voice did all the proving one needed, it boomed from wall
to wall, end to end. Shaking the rafters of the house. I suspect she
is the reason why the earth would grow silent everytime she spoke.
Even a whisper from her sounded like a scratch to your eardrum.
I wonder about her sometimes, especially now.

Is she married? Living in a house with a white picket fence with her
children, little man girls with broad shoulders and buck teeth.

Or maybe she realised she was a lesbian after all *place-know-it-all emotican*

Vulnavia T. Gura

6 Feb 2012

I Gave Birth Last Night

Looking back, I realise that I had a smooth labour; my water broke
whilst I was on my way out of the house.

I didn't panic.

My aunt did. She freaked out. Her scream rang out for miles and miles.
I did not see what the fuss was about; it wasn't like I was not the
first one to give birth. But there she was rolling on the floor and
wailing like a banshee.

Odd, birth is such a beautiful thing.

When mama came running she was clutching her purse in one hand and her
holding her phone to her ear,

"Chiiko!" ("What's happening?") I remember shrugging nonchalantly and
turning to pack my nappy bag,
"Nothing hey, auntie is crying because my water just broke,"

"Oh God, are you alright?" she asked rushing to my side.

"I'm fine mama, it's just I can't find any baby clothes, I totally
forgot to buy, all I have is one of the old nappies you used to use
and a bib, I doubt the baby will be needing that anytime soon but let
me just pack it in case,"

Aunt Gladys was now writhing noiselessly on the floor, occasionally
letting out a ragged sigh.

Her theatrics were annoying.

"Mama, tell her to get out, go call a taxi or something to take me to
the hospital."

"Gladys get up come on, we need to get V to the hospital,"

Mama yanked her off the floor and held her up as she walked them both
out the door. I could feel the baby trying to make its way out now. It
did not hurt though, I just felt like I needed to use the toilet,
through the wrong hole.

"Hang in there," I mumbled running a hand over my belly.

I heard the far away rumble of traffic, drawing closer until I
realised that I was standing on a footpath in the city.

The baby was starting to crown and I wondered vaguely where mama had
gone off to. She should have only been a minute, but it seemed like
she had been gone for ages.

A chair appeared in front of me and I sat down waiting for her. But
the baby was coming and I couldn't hold it off any longer. So, lying
back I reached between my legs let out a little grunt and gripping the
baby by its head I pulled the it out of the safe confines of my womb.

It did not make a sound, neither did it move. Instead it remained
rigid in my palm, ramrod straight and cold as ice. I pulled at the
umbilical cord, and it came right off.

Disconnected I laid the baby on the bench and watched it for a while,
I felt nothing for it. No pulling of heartstrings, no sense of loss,
only a clinical detachment.

It opened its eye's then, mewled for a just a split second and let out
an ear bleeding shriek. Piercing the brittle walls around my heart.
For the first time in my life, I felt love. Total love for another
human being. I was humbled.
------------- ---------
In case you are wondering what sort of madness that is, I will tell
you. That was a dream I had last night. Scared me so much I spent the
whole day pressing my stomach just to make sure was not pregnant. I
circled a pharmacy twice, trying to decide whether or not to go in and
buy a pregnancy test kit. If you have an inkling as to what it may or
may NOT mean, do tell ;)

3 Feb 2012

Why I Should Not Stop Blogging

I suspect, because of the blatant disregard I have showed my blog over the past couple of weeks that some of you have upon realising that there was no new post on the blog tried to put in words your disappointment, at such total disregard.
 If so, you are not alone.
Every morning, I wake up and try to squeeze my head of a little bit of awesomeness. Now instead of my hourly catatonic flashes of inspiration, I seem now to only be getting them in fortnightly dribbles that seem to fade before I can get a firm hold of them.
And because of that the blog has suffered.
Here is what I imagine some guy I afford a comedic reprieve might have gone through because of my insensitivity.

Dear V,
During lunchtime, today, I tried to read your blog. And so, I waited for my boss to leave, when I was absolutely positive that she had left the building, I settled under my desk with my laptop in tow.

After taking a bite from the apple momsy had packed for me lunch, I logged on to your blog site.

I was puzzled when I found myself staring at yesterday’s post, and so I refreshed the page and patiently waited for the page to reload.


I waited awhile, and then tried again.

Still nothing.
Today was the first day in weeks that you were not there, I was confused. Please come back

Yours truly,

Dear V,

For three days now, you haven’t been on your site.

Why? WHYYY???


My body is too seems to be changing because of it. I began by feeling a bit constipated, then the feeling seemed to move up and settle in my tummy. Initially i didn’t know what it was until this morning day I watched a documentary on Hitler that had me giggling for a bit. The feeling lifted then, but it’s back now.

How does it make you feel knowing that you have me in a funk like this?

What was it I did to you, for you to treat me this way? Abandoning me with no prior notice of intent. Did i not praise you enough? If that is the case, allow me to praise you now;

You are so awesome!

You have such a way with words, so posh, so British. My writing could never hold a candle to yours. The way it flows from your hands, so flowingly.

And your avator, your teeth shine like the moon during a full moon. Upon seeing them I was not surprised that you wrote the way you did.

I realise I could be wrong, so i have come up with a list of other alternative tragedies that could have befallen you.
You said that you liked to sleep in the raw, so i suspect.. and this is just conjecture- upon seeing your marvellous body, the cat burglar who had broken into your house, forgot what they had come for and stole you instead.

If that is so, I shall soon write a letter to your kidnapper imploring him to at least allow you to blog about your adventures in captivity.

Maybe you got mauled to death by a pack of rabid dogs.

Or perhaps you really were Sleeping Beauty after all and have fallen into a deep coma.

If that is the case, I shall soon ask for leave from work and come and kiss you myself. I noticed from your avi, that your head is cocked in the most flirtatious manner, surely you are beckoning for me to come and  claim you. The very thought had me banging my head on the desk as i stood up fast when my boss came in. V you make me so nervous.

Perhaps an evil co-worker did something mean to sabotage your work? You know so much about fashion I am more than convinced that you work in the fashion industry and I know how mean some of those girls can be. For that i cannot help you. I am bullied incessantly at work, it is horrible. The other day one of my co-workers gave me a wedgy and hung me from the company flag.

Perhaps you turned into a cat and got run over by a bus.

Or maybe whilst you were out jogging you fell into a ditch and nobody can find you

Or maybe there was a windstorm in your hometown and a strong gust of wind blew you up a tree?

Or perhaps you are suffering from  severe constipation

I have to go now V, because I have run out of ideas, although I do so hope that none of this has happened to you. Whatever the problem, i do hope it’s resolved soon, because I want you back, I depend on you V.

Yours truly

30 Jan 2012

Wild Dogs

 owe the gardener’s wife three bucks and live in perpetual fear that she will ask me for the money. In three weeks, she has not but I have noticed the way she looks at me, as if she wants to come over and talk to me, and ask for her money or something.

The other day i was hooting the car trying to get N to get out of the house when I saw her coming.  The thoughts that raced through my head ranged from a panicked scramble to get out the car through other door when it dawned on me that the windows were not tinted. So instead, I grabbed my bag and fumbled through it, looking for... something. I figured that if she asked me about it she would think that i had thought to pay her back myself.

Instead, she stuck her head into the car through a tiny opening in the window.
“Are you hooting for me?”
“Ummm no,” I rattled my bag, held it to my ear put it on my lap and resumed my rifling.
When I looked up, she was gone. I suppose it was because of the rain pelting on her.

CNN reported last night, that after the Fukushima disaster a lot of animals were left behind. Almost a year later, these animals roam wild and free. Especially the dogs, which seem to have been reproducing like rabbits on Viagra. Incensed by the sight of these free animals, the reporter started with an emotional tirade.

“These animals, left behind have nobody to fend for them,” she sobbed into the camera. The camera then pulled out for a view of the dogs which seemed to me to be quite content frolicking around the now deserted neighbourhood.

 She finally managed to corner some man into agreeing with her that it was unnatural for animals to roam wild and free.

In other CNN story an Italian captain ran his ship aground and abandoned ship before the passengers. Asked how it happened he jumble through various explanations.

Even though the coast guard insisted the rocks he hit were on the map, the captain refuted this by saying they were not adding.

“ I realise now that hitting them was a mistake though at the time it felt like a good idea, even when the ship was capsizing.”

He also explained that he had moved closer to land in order to wave at his friend who was on the beach and in so doing fallen off the boat, and couldn’t get back aboard even when the coast guard had insisted he should. His reason for not getting back on board was that he was meeting a woman on shore for an on land tryst.

Ah the Italians, I say this with a glass of wine in one hand and the remote control in the other. Who would have thought the world was so full of loons and there I was thinking my countrymen were extreme.

29 Jan 2012

Snap Judgements

Last night, I met a guy who, in a space of two
sentences had labelled me
bitter, a further three sentences on after mentioning
that I blogged, he
said that I had a puffed out ego adding that I was an
attention whore who felt the need for people to agree with her.

His friend then added that it made me seem
insecure; as I seemed to need
validation form other people.

I agreed.

Understand that blogging is
vanity publishing, and the majority of people who do
it want to be heard.
Although, I hardly think they want to agreed with, at
least not all the time . What this fine gentleman- who after a couple of
more sentences I labelled a
neurotic pervert with borderline misogynistic
tendencies who felt the need
to put people down in order to hide his own
insecurities- failed to ask was why I blogged.

Sure, I like people to agree with me but at the core
of it all, I genuinely
love writing; lists, diary entries, doodles on paper and
more importantly
stuff on this blog. Granted I do not always have time
but I really enjoy writing. The interplay between fiction and non-fiction,
thought and
inspiration, seeing it all unfold. There is no bigger a
fan out there than
I. You would be correct in your assumption that I
blog more for me than anyone else.

I may not be as good as Dickens, but this is what I
like doing.

A hobby.

Here's an excerpt from our conversation.
"Don't you have anything you like doing?" I asked.

X turned his gaze on me, smirked took a drag from
the cigarette that was
dangling precariously from his fingers, smacked his
lips and retorted

"I love sex," he paused for effect, "and I love

Dear reader I should tell you that such brashness
makes me uncomfortable. I
also think it is inappropriate to discuss sex in such a
manner to one you
have just met. So I gulped looked away and then
turned my gaze slowly back on him, whilst he and his pal hi-fived each other and
smirked some more.

Which, for a split second made me think of small sized apes pounding
their chests to validate their maleness.

I regarded him for a while,

"Different strokes for different folk," I said sagely.

I wanted so badly to change the subject.

"What can I say, I am a thirsty guy,"

he was.

Moments later after noticing how I had interrupted N
as she went on about
her Shona heritage, I noticed him exchanging looks
with said pal,

"You have bi-sexual tendencies," he guffawed and
exchanged another hi-five
with his pal.

Thoroughly annoyed, I turned my back on him
and spent the rest of the
evening talking to a politician who had been sitting
quietly at our table.

I became oh so interested in why he had not yet built
a dam in his constituency, as had been promised almost a decade ago.

"What dam?"

"A couple of years ago you moved people out of that
area claiming that the
government planned on building a dam."

"What dam?"

"The dam that resulted in the displacement of
hundreds of families from the
catchment area."

He continued staring at me blankly.

X's friend who had been eyeing N for a while, took
this opportunity to grab
my arm and point to a video of two people having
sex on his phone. "That's what your friend should do," and then he let
out a loud bark and
pleased as punch he hi-fived X.
Disgusted, I left with N in tow. It dawned on me that a man that
constantly went on
about sex was just using
the talk to compensate for a lot of things, which
happen to be none of a my a
stranger's business.

Vulnavia T. Gura


26 Jan 2012

Things That Go Bump In The Night

Once, a local newspaper reported the bizarre story of an adulterous couple that got stuck together during sex. The husband had done that to them. I dint understand how but a nerd friend of mine informed me that if during sex a woman is stressed enough her vagina will close up.

That was a simple case of witchcraft. The husband confirmed it by going to a witchdoctor (n’anga) and getting them unstuck.

 It worked.
My nerd friend whispered that the perceived danger had been removed and she had no reason to fear so her vagina had loosened and let her ‘lover’ go.
I love that word, lover... it seems so lovey dovey, so yours truly innit?


I digress.

 Years later when I moved towns, I heard of a man who could let you see who had stolen from you. He would lead you into an ill lit room sit you in a chair and hand you a mirror. Then the rest was all you,

“Mirror mirror in my hand, show the fiend who stole my beast/bra/phone/money/shoes.”

Lo and behold, right before your very eyes, like in a badly scripted Disney movie, lights would shoot out of the mirror, and fireworks would go off. You would get sucked into the mirror and be pulled into the scene of the theft.  You can’t touch anything though, everything is 2D and lack lustre which  gives you the feeling that you are being ripped off. Nine time out of ten the thief would be your best friend.

Made me totally distrust my best friend. Until somebody told me that, he gave these people a drink before he made them sit.

So in essence, what you got was a hallucination.

The n’anga I went to the other day, tried to convince me that that was no hallucination, and that the picture was for real.

Made me think.

 A couple of years ago some thieving fiend made away with all my shoes, save for a royal blue pair that was peeling off at the sides  and a pair of silver heels  that was coming undone. I had many a sleepless night after that night. Imagining that the burglar had come back to finish me off, I still do. Most nights I lie awake imagining all sorts of horrors.


Why just the other night, I heard him. Jangling our French door trying to get into the lounge, (my love for TV is rivalled only by my love of shoes. As quick as a cat I slid out of bed. I, am no fool however, I went to wake up L.

I tiptoe quite dramatically to her bedside and stood there watching her for a minute, one hand on my hips and the other, poised to shake her.

I poked her instead, and arms held akimbo, I waited.

She did not stir, so I poked her again and resumed my stance, (in nothing but my knickers which had no doubt been skewed by my tossing and turning) she woke... slowly.

Peeling her eyes open slowly.

At this point, I should tell you dear reader that my family is endowed with quite large eyes, as big saucers, round as tiny moons in heads of all shapes and sizes. When we open them wide, they fill our faces.

L opened hers wide (she has the biggest you see), and I stood there in silence watching her, waiting for the shadow of sleep to drop from her eyes in phases. First came the confusion, then puzzlement, then fright, and for a second she looked quite petrified and finally the annoyance when she recognised. For such a smart girl I cannot believe it took her almost a minute to recognise me.
“Why on earth are you standing naked beside my bed?” she demanded sitting up straight

“Someone’s trying to get in,”
“Someone’s trying to get in?”
“Yes, now they’ve stopped, listen,”
“Shhhhh stop parroting me, listen they’ve stopped lets go switch on the lights in the lounge so they know we are up.’
“Yes now, come on.”

It took another minute to get her out of bed.

“You go first, go on I’ll cover you.”
“From what? Why can’t you go first? You are older.”
“Because what?”
“I’m naked.”
“No way, I’m the youngest you go first.”
“Listen L I can’t go first if he sees me like this he will be filled with lust, break in and rape me.”
“No, no, no way, I am not going first what if he attacks.”
“He won’t”
I picked up a shoe and held it in front of me, waving it about to show what I meant.

We bickered about why I got to have a weapon and she didn’t. The right answer in all these instances was that I was older.
“Why are we tiptoeing, wouldn’t it be better if we made noise and let him know we were up?’

Because I’m older
Why are pushing me ahead, I can walk by myself,”
Because I’m older
 “Shouldn’t I be the one switching on the light since I am in front?”
Because I’m older
 “Why should I look outside? What if he sees me and punches the glass where my face is?”
Because I’m older
“Wait, why do I have to walk behind you, you said I should be in front.”
“I told you I am not dressed.”
“That’s not even a reason; you know you really need to learn to wear a nightie when you are going to bed, why do you sleep in the nude anyway?”
Because I’m older
“One of these days a thief is gonna walk in and mistake you for a witch.”
Because I’...

I was very offended, but it was true. African witches go about their business in the nude.

24 Jan 2012

Talentless Freaks of Nature

I have often wondered how the majority of people that enter talent shows convince themselves that they are talented. Most of them are not.

Note, the only talent shows that I watch are American ones.

Your wailing gay men, who think their singing is absolutely fabulous only to have Simon Cowell tell them they sound like two hippies in a bar.

A shrieking child, clutching her head and wailing like Mariah Carey on crack.  her mother  watching proudly(from behind the stage)  with tears streaming  down her cheeks,  and I sitting in my lounge wondering when the farce is going to end, inevitably it does, ten seconds into the torrid performance Piers Morgan sounds his buzzer and nonchalantly announces that not only does she indeed sound like Mariah on crack. You would also think that she was dueting with a dying dog.

The said mother rushes on stage, gives our hapless judge a withering look, and quickly bundles her now hysterical daughter away.

Now between American Idol, X Factor-USA and America’s got talent I am more than convinced that there is something wrong with the way Westerners raise their kids.

In my house when I so much as open my mouth to sing along/solo/duet with anyone, one of my sisters simultaneously drops to the floor, clutches her tummy, points and laughs hysterically.
Mind you, my singing is not so bad, I can hold my own in any crowd, but even though I sound good in the shower, I am not deluded.

The people on these shows are however quite deluded.
I am realistic, the people at home made sure of this. I imagine that three quarters of the contestants on these talent shows had a charmed musical childhood.

Scene 1.
Contestant (at age eight):  Pounds piano off key
Mum: Oh my, that is absolutely delightful
Contestant (at age ten): pounds piano off key, they still do it like when they eight.
(The dog whines and walks off)
Dad: Hearing you play brings tears to my eyes, your talent is unsurpassed, Mozart himself is smiling in his grave.
Mum: Dad I think she is ready, when America’s Got Talent next rolls into town we will take her to the auditions and they are going to love her.
They don’t.
Piers Morgan:  (with the crowd hysterically yelling “Boooooo!”) that was simply atrocious; even if you practised for a lifetime, I would still say no. Guards take her away.

Scene 2.
Son (age 14): Humming softly, saying a word or two out loud occasionally
Dad: Peter, what are you humming?
Son: Our war cry dad, I made the football team and I am trying to remember the words.
Dad: well, sing a little louder let’s hear it then
Son: Daaaaad (he whines) I am not even sure of the words
Dad: Don’t be silly, I wanna hear, now sing
Son: initially you cannot hear what he is singing but then the look of encouragement on his dads face eggs him on.  He yells a little louder, a bit more off key this time. By now, his dad is positively brimming.
He finally finishes with a flourish.
Dad: that was absolutely marvellous.
Dad makes a sudden U-Turn
Son: I thought we were going home (looks about him confusedly)
Dad: Not with all that talent we aren’t, I am taking you to the X-Factor auditions. Your voice takes me back to a better time in my life, like an angel singing solo it caresses my soul. You so are music personified.
Son: (he believes it and wracks his brain for his performance song)
On their way, they buy an Elvis costume for the son, (dad has always been a fan of Elvis and seeing, as his son is the next bad thing, he decides his boy should look like Elvis).
Son goes on stage.
He belts out a startling cacophony of sound. His voice is breaking, he cannot remember his lines and asks for a second chance. Dad’s encouragement has him pumped.
He starts again.
In one line, he has gone through soprano, alto, turner, bass and back again.

The judges are silent.
He carries on. Until the sound technician unable to take, it anymore turns off his mic.
Simon Cowell: (looking bored) Are your parent’s siblings? Because you sounded like you have a malformed voice box.

Dad is furious, all this time he had been sitting silently in the audience, tears streaming down his cheek. His son in his Elvis outfit has made him so proud.  If he were African, his ancestors would be so proud.

On hearing Simon’s words he jumps up and charges like a maddened bull, *insert expletives here*
Security tazers him and he still tries to tear himself away to get to Simon. They knock him unconscious.
And that my friends is how no talent folk end up on talent shows.

20 Jan 2012

The Bone Thrower Saw Thigh and Got a Boner

Lately I have been neglecting my blog. This is entirely due to no fault of mine whatsoever. Nevertheless, I have reasons why and they are good ones.

First, I have been spending time looking for traditional healers. You would think that they would be easy to find, au contraire.

The first one I went to refused to see me because I was wearing a sleeveless dress with neon colours splashed across it. The explanation I got had something to do with the ancestors not being too pleased with my tempting of their medium by flaunting my skin.

The Headlines would have clearly read:

The Bone Thrower  Saw Thigh and Got a Boner
Man sees red after seeing flesh uncovered

The second n’anga I went to was a skinny light woman, who did not have te decency to at least dress up in her full regalia but instead carried on with her dusting and polishing whilst N and I began our consultation,

N: You have heard of those people going around the country eating peoples intestines?
[blank look from n’anga]

Here's a picture of a man with a blank look.

N: (moving her hands in wide circles) they give people lifts, stop at butcheries, go inside to buy inards and then eat them raw, by the time the drop off the person at their intended destination, their dead

V: (shaking fists in the air) on carrying out the post mortem the pathologist is surprised to learn that all the intestines are gone.
[blank look from n’anga]

Here's a picture of a blank look.

N: (takes a deep breath) I am doing a story on it would you like to be on t.v and tell us about it?
[n’anga starts moving her arms and shaking her fists violently]

Heres a picture of a Muslim flailing his arms

I am almost convinced that she is in a trance.
But then she speaks,

N’anga:  (still shaking her fists) no, no they will come after me and kill me. Just this morning i had to fight off one of them, they came just before dawn. We faught. She almost won but I managed to sit on her. No, no. You need to get out, they will know. You need to leave.

Here's a picture of Hansel shaking his fists.

Still gesturing violently she pushed us out, and banged the door in our faces.
(insert picture of violent gesture)

15 Jan 2012

Life Is Painted Noly Red Green

A shadow painted whereyes, a shadow must fall.
the cow's breath not forgotten...

  life is painted noly red, green, but also in grey and dard.

Let us welcome life with smiles whatever it is.

Green Dreams, gift of the gods, and in this achievement effort. both
inward and outward. must play a great part

Think me not unkind and rude, that I walk done in grove and glen; I go
to the god of the wood.

Best wishes for my Best friends and welcome To our little happy world.
When you have problem, Remember me.please.

Cool Dogs Welcome to Cool Dog's Happy little world BEST WISHES FOR YOU
I now dend you infinite blessing at every each other for youth and
joy! Drip such acrid fragrance.
Miffy 45th Anniversary in 2000 Skipper's Schedule Fishing the seas for
a fishy story for the fishmonger.

Child Wonder The only excercise I get is when I take the studs out of
one shirt and put them in another New Taste Many reason have been put
forward for napolean fame, apart from those put forward by napolean
Dear my friend, Bob. Hi! Bob, How are you? I'm in the pink of health
Do you know that plastic model car race is now very popular in our
school? My car is "BOB Special No. 2" which you gave me some time ago.
It's really the best one which has been never failed to keep first
place at all races.

Snoopy for PRESLDENT Weber for Lunch * Editor's note: The drawing on
this pencil box showed Snoopy and Woodstock. King of Line Wisdom is
better than Strength
This is me talking now... none of this was made up. The Chinese said it.