First day of the rest of my life

The beautiful morning sun forced its way into our bedroom to console me. It's a consolation today because we enjoyed the warmth of the sun together, in each other's arms every morning. I'm still in deep shock that I will never wake up next to you. It's hard to accept that you will never walk through that door into my arms.
The reality is too painful to face and I have nowhere to escape because the memory of you is everywhere I go. Even in my hiding places.  Everywhere I go I'm reminded of your absence baby. All week when we made arrangements for the funeral, I thought it was the beginning of my healing. With the help of our good friends, I coordinated everything with so much strength. I just didn't expect to be overwhelmed by grief today. Our Happy place is now a very sad place. Yes, we made great memories. We loved each other to the end. But I have no idea how I will live without you. I want to continue loving you even though you are not here. We both never imagined life without one another.
I know this because even under difficult circumstances whether self-inflicted or not, we had each other and worked through all of them. We recognised each other's weaknesses but chose to embrace each other's strength and good character. I knew love because of you.
Lesley Sekoto. My beautiful husband. I am lost for words. Your friends and many other people who love you are still in disbelief. You brought so much light into our lives.
My last hours with you were filled with love and laughter. We made each other promises. But death came in between us. This is so painful. This whole thing makes me long for one more day to say I love you and kiss you. I miss you so much.
Come back.

My man's gone

My Dear Lesley,
I'm so happy that you and I lived our life together always reassuring each other of the love and commitment we have for another. It was something I learned from you. I didn't know how important it was until now. You adored me and you showed it every single day. Oh my love. My Cuddler-in-Chief. I remember days when I'd wake up from cramps from one side of my body because you would just cling on to me while asleep. On the days I complained you'd find time in your beautiful sleep to kiss me then turn and continue with your sleep. I acknowledged all of that because it was love I never knew.
Lesley Sekoto. The love of my life. We spoke about death. We argued about who should leave first. We laughed and never entertained it because we thought we still had some time. Your sudden death left me so hollow and empty. I am so devastated Les. The way we were so close, I feel like I'm going to see just appear to me. One last hug or just to take me to wherever you are. I don't want to be without you. Yes, I'm human and we love tangible things. I don't doubt that your spirit surrounds me because I feel it ever since you left this world. But I want to hear that piercing laugh, I want to see that beautiful smile. I also remember when we cried together. Oh my baby! My Les!
So many people are broken by your death. I don't want to sugar-coat death. We feel like this because you are not here to brighten our day with your compassion and love. People are talking about you. Great things about you. Everyone knows how happy you made me. I spoke about you to anyone who cared to listen. I looked forward to coming home to you every single day. But now look. What am I going to be without you. I'm nothing without you baby. I love you. I love you so much. You know I love you. So I don't know why you left me. Come back.

My 9-day Facebook detox

I spent almost ten days without Facebook. For me, that is a massive achievement. The withdrawal symptoms were devastating. It was so funny because there was nothing I could do. The app had been deleted from all my gadgets. It got better over a few days. I downloaded it on the ninth day. I scrolled down and read a few posts. It felt like I had just discovered a toxic waste dump site. Instant contamination. This is something I was part of for 10 years. I did not understand how I could feel that way in just a few days. The reason I downloaded it was to write about something that bothered me. I couldn't do it on Facebook anymore after going back. It didn't fit in with what everybody was talking about. It was not going to generate conversation or even get "Likes". That's how Facebook works. 

I have always been a writer, but shy about it. Never shared a lot of my writings until very late. And I never wrote to posture or to instantly react to anything before applying my mind. But Facebook got me onto a bandwagon of online activists that write not from the heart as I used to, but from a place that lacked depth and meaning. At least to me. On the day I got the app back on my phone, I could not share my thoughts on that platform the way I used to. I could have summed up my deep thoughts in a few lines and risk everyone misreading it, but on Facebook we tend to focus more on the response and not necessarily the content or level of maturity of the reaction. So I decided to retreat to blogging. Writing more thoughtfully even though sometimes I am anxious about what I am writing is any good. However, it's just joyful once I express myself without limits or fear that it might be too long for people to read. The writing is more about how I feel and giving any interested reader an experience. 

My almost ten days Facebook detox was great because there is some value in self-examination. Writing is a religion I neglected because that's where I found I engaged with relevant people. Sometimes it would be just one person and it would be enough. But Facebook got me into the habit of taking my thoughts to a place where I could not express myself honestly. Everyone suddenly becomes an expert on all kinds of issues. And I found that writing demanded a lot patience. Writing meaningfully does not come out of desire, but necessity. Ngugi wa Thiong'o once shared the secret to writing and said, "Write, write, write and write again and you will get it right". 

I have also learned not to take advice on how to be a good writer. I believe that will come with my personal experience and the books I have enjoyed over time. Thank you Facebook for the lesson of self discovery. 

Blessing in a storm

I used to tell people that I got inspiration to write from some of the worst times in my life. Beautiful words would come from the darkest places I was forced into. I believe things have changed with age. The things that used to break me, now go straight to my "Bull Shit" filter. Something I acquired in my thirties. Instead of getting angry, especially when unpleasant human beings try to destabilize me, I always remember that I am morally superior and would not be sucked into their world where they rule. 

My lesson comes from how I delayed my career by staying angry. Sometimes angry with the wrong people. I remember holding it together from the outside even when my insides wanted to explode. 

It was In a career path discussion with a former manager, I was asked how I'd like to advance my career. I spoke passionately about becoming a news anchor and one day hosting my own show. I painted a clear picture with words. It was my dream and I had imagined it. It was my story and I Knew how to tell it. The response I got paralyzed me. Every time I think about it, I hear the words in his voice. In response to my short presentation he said, "You know Matubs, I also love air planes, but I know I can't be a pilot". There were so many things I wanted to say in response to expose the fragile masculinity. His words went straight into the Bull Shit filter and I knew I had the moral upper hand. 

I must admit that I stopped fighting to make my dream a reality. I put roadblocks for myself with negative thoughts. But I was never confused of my capabilities, but here I was letting someone who probably forgot that he dismissed my plan. What's the filter for, if I am going give up? 

Fast-forward to 16 June 2017, I read my first live bulletin on the most watched news channel in the country. Even clinched an interview with Lebo Mashile and Majola (Khanyisa Buti) on their new album Moya. I was also privileged enough to interview Mike Siluma, who was part of the class of 1976. One of the youths that faced bullets while demanding justice from the apartheid government. The production team were also people who are more than colleagues. Award winning producer Mava Khuselo led the news desk while multi-talented journalist Mmalegabe Motsepe held it together with the technical crew. It was not planned. I then started  to dispute my conclusion that I was delayed. The gods made it happen at the right time. I am now executing my career plan in a newsroom that's led by a young Black woman who is also one of the great TV minds in this country. Who gets to be news editor and Television anchor at the same time? I hope to inspire many others to be resilient in their quest for a successful career. 

My funny Valentine

My friends and I laugh about the girls 'I dated' in primary and high school. The highlight of my short-lived relationships with the girls was always Valentine's Day. My first girlfriend, Albertina Mnisi (the most beautiful girl in primary school), chose me over other boys, who spoke better English. It was a thing back then. I think people still shame each other about this. 

It was just before Valentine's Day, when Albertina promised me my first kiss. I won't say I knew I was an LGBTI child, but I wasn't thrilled about the set time, date and venue for the kiss. However, the obvious envy of the other boys made me look forward to it. I won't go into detail about the day, but I will say I was elevated to new social circles. But this is also when I realised that certain social expectations were now placed upon my 12-year-old shoulders. I now faced the uphill battle of maintaining the relationship with my new girlfriend. It meant I was always asking for extra cash and more lunch box goodies. It didn't work out so well. I remember Mama threatening to take me back to the township school if I didn't stop with my demands. She complained that my bus fare and school fees were already a disadvantage to my other siblings. My mother was a shop assistant at CNA. So naturally, my stationery was on point. And I was generous. I gave out pens in pretty colours, to pretty girls. But soon after Valentine's Day of 1996, Albertina dumped me, because I could not deliver a R5 caramel dip ice-cream. I didn't want to share mine either. I'd come to the conclusion I was tired of carrying her bag to her taxi after school. I was forever nervous and conversations were awkward. Then, I was made fun of, for being dumped. 

Now, lesson number two was knowing that people saw me as a different kind of boy. The fact that I was happy to let my girlfriend go, opened me to abuse. Justin and his crew got a new name for me. Moffie. I didn't know what it meant. The unpopular kids who accepted me back from the upper class, explained what it meant. I thought they viewed me that way, because of the amount of time I spent playing with the girls at home. 

Fast-forward to high school. It didn't take long before my academic achievements would cease to shield me from abuse. The confusion was palpable because I started noticing good-looking boys. I had not given the way I felt a name. I refused the gay or moffie labels. They were used to denigrate boys who were not 'man enough' to do certain things. Every year, Valentine's Day was a big deal. It was celebrated with beauty contests, wearing civilian clothes instead of uniform and the exchange of gifts. Oh and the gossip about the seniors and what they got up to. My first high school Valentine was my friend up to this day, Itumeleng Ramaila. But I don't think he knows, or even remembers. We both wore school uniform on that day. I was just protecting my already bruised self-esteem. I knew the clothes I owned were no match for the children I went to school with. I had never worn Nike, Adidas or any of the popular brands. So we both sat and watched the activities unfold. 

The following year, an opportunity to date a girl presented itself once more. Hahaha! Mary, the girl, was from Mamelodi. I laugh because I was reliving the Albertina days. There was the lead-up to Valentine's Day, followed by a kiss, then the prize-giving. I remember calling Mama from a tikkie box to tell her what I'd like for Valentine's. It was the list given to me by Mary. Chocolates and a teddy bear. I had to make an effort to dress up like everyone else. So I wore my brother's Levi jeans, which he bought with money from his small camera film business. The high-fives and appreciation I got, for being one who takes care of his woman, made me feel great. Now looking back, this is one of many ways young boys are conditioned to be the providers, and sometimes the abusive partners, to their girlfriends. My friend, Charmaine, helped me carry the goods to class and the wait for Mary began. I did not see her in the school assembly hall. When we walked back to class, I got news that she had been dating one of the popular guys in the senior class and they had gone to the movies and were not coming to school that day. Charmaine, now a mother of two with a top job in a leading bank, reminds of this day every time we get together for a catch-up over wine. Even my husband tells this story with authority, as if he was there, thanks to Charmaine. So, with Mary not at school to receive her gift, Charmaine was happy to eat the chocolates. But she didn't want the teddy bear because she had a boyfriend who was yet to give her what was due to her. I don't even remember what happened to the cuddly bear. Hahaha! Was I heartbroken? No, just disappointed. It was more of a bruised ego, than a sore heart. I remember Itumeleng, who didn't have a Valentine, consoled me. He suggested we leave early and walk around the Pretoria CBD, before catching the bus. This would be the best part of my Valentine's Day with a boy that year.  There was nothing romantic about it, or maybe we just didn't give things like that names or labels back then. But it felt good. It later became the strong foundation of a friendship, that would endure. Fortunately, my last attempt at a relationship with a girl had nothing to do with the 14th of February. It was the matric dance. To cut a long story short, I ended up at the matric ball with one of my best friends, and the girl I had been dating brought someone else. We sat at the same table. This didn't break my heart either, because I was beginning to make peace with my sexuality and gender identity. My father was paying for a therapist. He didn't understand why I needed one, but he knew my matric results depended on it. 

I'm happy to say that my hubby and I don't really celebrate this day. We celebrate our love every day, because to get to where we are, we have been working on our relationship daily, and we have families who helped us nurture this love.  

When God and Badimo call

In my early days as a Sangoma, I used to keep a diary. I wrote all my appointments and how much people paid or owed me. 😂 

Most people I don't remember. Some I've become good friends with and others are now family. 

It's hilarious cause I even recorded the chickens, cows and goats we've used in ceremonies. I'm sitting in my Ndumba now stock-taking and adding newly acquired herbs into the data base. Who would have thought nje that Matuba would be fulfilled by sitting on a reed mat, throwing bones and counting his blessings? I am Gogo Manzolwandle. 

The balance of being young, career-orientated and a devoted Sangoma is not easy to master. But neglecting any of them always made feel incomplete. Everyone at home expected me to come back from heeding the calling only to dessert Ubungoma. But I didn't, I embraced it with everything I had. I still do. More than seven after graduating I am Gobela (trainer or teacher) to five people who have also graduated and exceeded my expectations because they still practice and subscribe to African religion. Many people fall through the cracks of misconception, lack of support and the continued assault on African religion by other religions. Especially Christianity. But today I just want to count my blessings and not talk a lot about what's wrong with society. The year 2009 was tough. My father who never wa Ted me to go and start my journey as a Sangoma, finally conceded that he had to let me go. I stayed with my parents for the longest time. Technically I still do because my Ndumba remains in Soshanguve where I was born and raised. After unexplained dreams, visions and long stays in hospital it was time to go. The biggest blessing, which I realise now  years later, is being sent by my ancestors to place where all I could do is learn the craft and hurry back home. Everything that had nothing to do with Ubungoma was falling apart. My very new relationship with a guy I just met was also in tatters. That moment was like a filter. I was left with family and a few good friends. It took me a while to realize that I was not supposed not supposed to fix anything that was falling or even try to keep anyone who walked out on me. Everything fixed itself. All the thing I needed were there. The things I wanted weren't all there. 

After my return everything fell into its place. It has been an upward trajectory most of the times. I am reflecting on my early days as a Sangoma because today I was sent back to my Ndumba by God and my ancestors. They sometimes communicate harshly when the scales don't balance. It made me chuckle. I wasn't angry because I knew I was spending time on social media, at work or out with friends having a good time. So they called me. And again I heeded the call. 

No Woman, No Cry

I defied my own rule of going to bed after the ten o'clock news tonight. The headlines were disturbing in a way that I cannot get over, unless I write or say something about it. The first headline is about a poor, Black, unemployed young woman who locked her children in her home in an informal settlement so she can go look for a job. The news hook to the story was that she 'chained' and locked them in the house, but the house is referred to as a shack for drama. The children are said to be in a place of safety somewhere in the Gauteng Province. The patriarchal society we live in does not leave space for us to question if the police will help this woman. I saw people's reaction scolding the mother. Questioning why she had kids if she can't take care of them. 

In the same story, there are two sound bites from people from the same area. One of them says the area is not safe and defends the mother for preventing her children from leaving the house while she is out looking for work. The mother of these children is described as non-violent person. The other clip defends her actions too. The woman in the clip tells the journalist how that area isn't great for children to grow up in. The last clip is of the police in a very dismissive tone. Rejecting reasons given for "neglecting" her babies. It makes me curious what will happen to this woman who is also not a South African citizen. It's said she is from Zimbabwe. Probably not documented because she stays in a squatter camp. No proper address, so her experience with the law will be painful one. Don't forget we are a xenophobic country. The story left me angry and anxious. 

There was a second story of another woman, also Black, not poor but unemployed too. She is also well known because she used to be the police commissioner. The first woman to hold that post in post-apartheid South Africa. I doubt apartheid South Africa considered a woman to do this. But today Riyah Phiyega is fighting the boy's club that put her in the powerful she occupied. The media has not been kind to her. She presided over a period that saw miners were massacred by police. She tried to spin her way out of it and fell. I don't have English words to express the discomfort I have with how she's treat d from different quarters. This includes the media and her principals. In my opinion, that treatment has something to do with her being a woman. I will push it and say a Black woman. Even with her social power, she will sometimes find herself in the same boat with the arrested Zimbabwean woman who locked her kids up and went to look for a job. Because of the common denominator.