The Weeping Widows: An essay

( The following is adapted from an essay I wrote during Trial exams for English Paper 3. Since I have no word limit or time restrictions now, I had some fun rewriting this piece and thinking about the story I tried to get into three pages of writing. I hope you enjoy it)

The gunshot thundered from across the lake at daybreak. A sleepy sun rose and began to awaken all those that sang among the crystal dew- she did not sing with the birds but she was awake all the same. It was the girl this time, Old Sarah knew it would be the last of the rebels to be killed like this. They wanted to make a point first. They would hang the rest in the capital for the nation to see.The old woman sighed as her bones creaked into movement like dry branches in the wind, she had lived too long. Instead she yearned for a final rest while the youth were slain. She yearned for the clouds to gather and wash the dried blood off the girl's body. She cursed the sun for shining on a day as wretched as this.

The widows lived simply in the house by the lake. It belonged to Old Sarah who took them in if they had nowhere to go, if they had no kind relation to bear their sorrows with them. She had been a widow for more years than some had been alive. It kept them safe when the war began, the outsiders were superstitious - no harm fell on them for fear of divine retribution. 

There was no time for tears in this life, Old Sarah believed this through sunshine and through rain. But she shed them every time the gunshots boomed. As the day began the house filled with the sound of dishes clinking and bristles sweeping  away the dust that settled at night. It was like this every morning, all the widows cleaning and humming as they worked. On this morning there were no songs on their lips and no words that expressed their wounded hearts. 

The youngest one, wept while she peeled potatoes, her swollen belly pulled the cotton taut and caught the teardrops that fell. Her husband was among the first to be executed after the rebels were captured. So she came to the whitewashed house with the creaking doors, mourning as her fatherless child that grew month after month. Blameless child who was due to enter an unforgiving world soon. She had known the dead girl well. Everyone knew the girl. She had planned on studying teaching in the city nearby. Destined to be the pride of their valley one day. But that dream was no more.

The girl had been too young to die. 

The blush of womanhood was drained from her cheeks when she joined the rebels. The soft lines of her frame hidden in fatigues. A wedding veil for a helmet. Necklaces for the noose. The girl swapped all of those for the colours of freedom. Now she would return to the soil with hardened limbs and a face that would never see the wrinkles of age settle upon it. Old Sarah knew that this would be the turning point. The last drop that caused the floodgates to break open and unleash a flood. She knew it would happen when the rains came again. Or at least, she hoped that it would. 

It was midday when the mourners walked past, dragging their feet on the parched ground while singing sober hymns of a better life beyond the grave. Dust rose filled the air with a reddish haze that settled on their clothes and exhausted faces.They were tired of the war and of the outsiders who ruled the countryside. The girl's death would stir the hearts of men, perhaps. Perhaps they would cast out the foreigners who did this, who claimed to rule this valley.Many holy buildings that became defiled by these men were symbols of how far the oppression had come. The weekly prayers took place by the lake now, under the willow trees where God could see them worship beneath His shelters. But this did not alter their circumstance, they would need more than miracles.

It had been ten years of this existence: war and men of war who took, from the young women, what had been saved for the marriage bed. A decade of widows and widow makers. This is what war was in this place.Fields of green became dry battlefields watered with blood.The rebels were young and full of courage alas their rebellion did not last for more than a year before they were captured and sentenced to death. Old Sarah waited for the rain. She waited for war to end. It needed to end before she returned to the soil.

Night began to creep into the valley when the waters broke. Old Sarah chuckled as she looked up to the heavens, she had prayed for a new chapter of their lives that washed away the sadness of their past. But she did not expect this kind of flood to come so soon. Old Sarah hobbled to the room where the sounds of labour could be heard and the cries of an already fatherless child pierced the cool night air.

On Mandela and why I'm grateful to him

I know that I will always remember that I was buffing my nails and watching a TV show about gypsy weddings that night. Bored and a bit tired because we had a late flight back to Durban from Johannesburg, it was pretty quiet when my sister said to put the news on immediately. 

After months of not knowing what would happen and worrying about his health as a nation, Nelson Mandela had died. And suddenly, it was like a chunk of what defined our cultural identity passed from everyday news into the history books. I don't normally cry when people die but suddenly I felt tears stream down my face. 

I was born in 1995, a year and a chunk into democracy. I grew up free. I can't recall when I first heard about Apartheid because it was always just something you knew about as a kid (at least in our household). I enjoyed History most of all at school because I gained a deep appreciation for South Africa's journey from the first settlers until now. The syllabus for Matric was centered around black leaders like Martin Luther King Jnr, Steve Biko ,Nelson Mandela and the role he played in the road to democracy.(Cuba featured too but I didn't choose it because the appeal wasn't there for me). Many of my friends commented that our entire Road to Democracy essay came out in the TV shows. It was history learned and now we watched the screens as history was made.

I'm not going to write about Tata Madiba's life because its full of remarkable actions and besides, you can watch and read things that explore his role in the Struggle. They're wonderful and I ended up crying during most of them. But I can write about how grateful I am to him. 

I owe a lot to those who fought and died so that people of all colours could have opportunities and not be oppressed based on the level of melanin in their skin. I'm grateful that an Indian girl could have a good education and be friends with people of all walks of life. I'm grateful that my best friends could be Asian, Indian, Black, Coloured and White( I can't imagine life without the rainbow troupe I can call my friends). I'm thankful that I live in a country where I can go to a church, temple, mosque or synagogue and not be persecuted over my religion of choice. Grateful that I have friends who are gay, bisexual and straight and still know that they'll be able to marry who they choose to in this beautiful land. In many countries, people are not afforded that. 

You only begin to learn about the world when you meet the different kinds of people who live in it. After 27 years in prison, he came out and forgave those who oppressed him. He wasn't a saint but he was pretty close. He was a leader who respected every person he came into contact with. Not many leaders can profess to that level of humility. 

The world mourns. We weep as a nation but we sing too. To celebrate the man who changed the course of history. Our history. To celebrate a long life that had 27 years where he was behind bars and labelled a terrorist. He became a great leader a mere 4 years after his release.

Pray tell, people who who spout this fact vehemently( Namely the blonde girl in my Maths Lit class who, a few months ago, said he was a terrorist so why did the entire country have to celebrate his life on Mandela Day. Yeah you who sat in the back row and barely paid attention to the lesson and had no respect for the teacher. Open your mind)-  where have you seen a terrorist become a global icon for peace before? Terrorists are not empathetic, charitable people. Maybe read into why the Umkhonto We Sizwe was formed? Read about the Sharpeville Massacre. Then we can talk. 

 Nelson Mandela gave South Africans a reason to be filled with pride, to feel a sense of deep love for this land swell up inside of us when we sing the National Anthem. You can go anywhere in the world and people understand his significance. He dedicated his life to ensuring his dream of a better South Africa was seen through. 

So I thank you Madiba, for all the sacrifices you made so people like me could get an education and strive to fulfill our dreams. I'm grateful that in the upcoming elections, I'll be able to vote. I certainly will because you fought for that. 

Rest in peace Tata

(1918-2013)

On the cusp of adulthood and guns blazing about voting and groceries

In 29 days, I will be an adult. 18 with a terrible ID photo and a valid passport in case I decide to enter The Amazing Race. I won't because university registration is pretty early next year and apparently Wits and UP like having a response promptly after results come out. I'm also trying to book my learners so I can have valid reason for wanting a car.

I'm unemployed and registered to vote in the upcoming elections next year. I turn 18 at the end of the month and this prospect has been a topic that I've surrounded with excitement. I'll be able to drink, go to clubs and drive and all kinds of wonderful things. 

Haha I joke, I have strict parents. It'll be water and the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse for me (I'll go on my scooter. But not the Vespa kind). On a serious note though, this voting thing. The class of 2013 is a huge class, so a lot of 18 year olds will be able to vote next year for whatever party they see fit. 

Sadly, many will not be instagramming their #InkedThumb next year and a lot will post Facebook statuses about how "cool" they feel because they don't contribute to the system by voting. Of these non-voters, a large portion will be the first to complain about the state of the country. This is where I get annoyed with the Department of Education for not putting the importance of voting into the Life Orientation syllabus. Thanks to the DoE I can advise my friend on how to deal with stress and creativity but my friend does not know that she should be at a voting station next year.

 I'm not getting into the politics of it all but I do believe that apathy is a choice. Those who blatantly say "Meh I don't care, I won't vote. It doesn't matter" are the people I have a real problem with. The leaders have their own issues but they have the media and Twitter activists to keep them in check. It's the people my age that bother me, the Freedom babies and Tender Toddlers(here it isn't referring to their softness)who proclaim loudly that this country is going to the dogs and they don't give a damn. 

To me the greatest evil is NOT the man on the street stabbing another, oh no. The evil ones are those who watch and do nothing. If you have a problem with how the way things are run, don't get on your soapbox and moan and moan. Vote for somebody, anybody, who can make a change to whatever you're unhappy with. If you see something that isn't kosher, go out of your way to make it right. Have some humanity dammit! 

Of course you don't care about etolls and that wretched Secrecy Bill now but in 5 years you will care. In 5 years you'll start to wonder where your tax money is REALLY going to and why MP's are getting mega houses when their salaries can't possibly finance it. In 10 years, you may have kids and wonder why the level of education is so mediocre and why some settlement in the rural areas still has a school without chairs, desks or teachers. 

Or not. In 10 years some, actually MANY, of you will probably still be apathetic and you'll still be telling your kids and friends and anyone who will listen that there is a "Them" and an "Us". You'll be people who leave backward comments on News24 (if you even read news) and spouting nonsense about how everything is about race and that it defines you. It doesn't. Lets move past the racial typecasting now because you just look idiotic when you use them to strengthen whatever argument you're making. Judge people by their actions not the level of melanin in their skin. 

If you were born here, in this glorious land of boerewors, bunnychow, babotie, braais and bhontshisi then you are the product of a few centuries of brave industrious people who came here and settled on the shores of the Mother City. You are a testament that peace can triumph over many decades of hate and separation. You are part of the "We". Every action you make has a ripple effect. It doesn't need to be a huge splash or a wave that bring attention for a short time.  Little drops, little actions all add up. It's the little drops of rain that make up the flood. It's the tiny grains of sand that make the mountain. 

Please vote, people died so you could have that right. I beseech you. Make an informed choice. Your vote is a secret so it's just between you and the ballot. Vote for yourself, for your future. You don't have to shove the political party of your choice down people's throats but try to discuss things more. There are people in the world who can't vote. Even today. Think about that for a second. It doesn't matter who you choose to vote for, but vote. You're a generation with access to the Internet. Google the suffrage, South Africa has the longest entry on the Wikipedia page. Do some reading on the corruption in parliament or the whistleblowers who are being silenced. You have nothing to lose by trying to open your mind. You don't have to have a degree or be a brainiac to have an informed opinion about why it's your DUTY to vote. 

Also, there was an MP called Sylvia Lucas who spent 50k on her groceries using the tax money saying," How would we have eaten if we didn't use tax payers money?". Here's the link to the Mail&Guardian article : http://mg.co.za/article/2013-09-16-00-n-cape-premier-defends-r50k-fast-food-bill. This annoys me, I'd like to have her voted out at some point. I'm sorry but if I have to pay for my Cherry smoothie, hidden centre cupcakes and speckled eggs at Woolies, then everyone should be paying for their own stuff. Go to Checkers if Woolies is too high end but don't use tax dollars( Tax rand doesn't have the same effect). 

If all else fails, I'm going to start trending #IVotedToday when the elections come. Peer pressure is a thing, it works. I mean have you SEEN how many people are not wearing pants on the Internet? I'm using the information LO gave me for something useful. Vote or peer pressure will give you FOMO(fear of missing out) next year. 

My rant regarding bullshit books

The following may or may not be a rant. Either way it's about time I got something off my chest in a way that couldn't be done in 140 characters or less. And yeah, its TOTALLY aimed at some of you. (Not all, some)

I love books, for most of my life I've devoted my time to reading them. I adore how writers can wrap you in a blanket of prose that sweeps you away and let you fall into the story as you turn the pages. Some of my best speeches and essays are about books or an appreciation of an author. Currently I have a box with about 14kgs worth of books next to my bed that I need to read. My father used to discuss Dickens, Shakespeare and the Bröntes with me while walking me to school every week(that is another story altogether). I'm pretty confident in my ability to identify a good book and a bullshit one. (If that offended you, then stop reading. Especially you mum. Stop here!)

The latter is pretty easy to recognise because they all are about the same things, there's usually a contrived twist that somehow reveals a deep dark backstory that is a Macguffin to (eventually, after various conflicts not unlike the family fights seen on Keeping Up with the Kardashians) lead you to believe that your money wasn't wasted buying some garbage in hardcover. They're all basically glorified Mills and Boobs bestsellers... Sorry Boons.

This said, I do not appreciate half the bloody population of females between 13 and 60 telling me to "have a go " at Twilight, 50 Shades of Grey or The Vampire Diaries. I wikipedia'd them all (I can't debate something I don't know jack about. Twilight I read through for an hour before the pain medication wore off and the girl who told me to read it was satisfied that my appetite was whetted. I'm a good actress too, you see ). Oy vey at that load of garbage. 

Heaven forbid I actually paid MONEY to buy the pitiful excuses for literature I was told I "HAD TO READ!!". I actually feel insulted by the amount of times I've been told to read them by fans. Is this what popular literature has come to?

I get it- you're into that idea of a mysterious, brooding and slightly dangerous male protagonist (that means main good guy) and you cannot help but see yourself as the damsel (this means girl with no self worth) who is so delicate and subservient. A flower who is toying with the very poison that could kill her.. Oh *tosses hand up in anguish* (See, I could write this bullshit too. But I wouldn't because I wouldn't disrespect the English language like that). And of course there has to be some kind of problem that is too good to be true but true love always wins, right?

You're all better than that. Even the girls putting #50shades or #TeamEdward in their twitter bios and the myriad of girls who suddenly are called Salvatore or Cullen on Facebook. And the lady from up the road who informed me that 50 Shades was some fun female reading. If you could fork out whatever amount of cash it was to buy that, then you could buy books that actually were good. Your claim could be that you actually read a novel that wasn't filled with the literary equivalent of horseshit.

Read something that is a labour of love, where you see the author's tears act like punctuation when someone has to die. Where the ending isn't always happy but you come to terms with it because you know there was no other way but you can see that the writer wanted you to walk away with something more. Learn about human nature in the subtle actions that are portrayed by people who have lived a life very differently to yours. Read something that actually matters.

Escapism is fun, by all means try to escape into another world. But it shouldn't be isolated to some bedroom or in a town filled with vampires where you identify with the "weak" human girl. Where her only option to be strong and protect herself is to change who she is and "turn"(is that what you guys call becoming a vampire right?) into something she's not. Its tripe. I won't even explain why because my fingers will not bring themselves to type the reason why that whole concept of weak, delicate flower toying with strong poisonous guy who may be her doom and all the associated melodrama is a load of hogwash.

 You're better than that.

If you really want 50 shades of something then I'm sure Dulux has a wide variety of paint that you can sample to suit that urge. If you want pale bloodsuckers then Kotex has a range for that too. If you want violent, blood-filled action in a bedroom then come visit me in summer and watch as I kill mosquitoes that venture into my territory.

If I ever wrote a book, I would want it to challenge my readers. I would not assume they were all mindless goons but instead a crowd of intelligent people who deserved better than some fan-fiction or a shiny mystery man who was a vegetarian vampire(yeah nice one there. Totally makes him more accessible as a character). Instead I would want to write the kind of novel that made them think, made me think and work at trying to build a story from the first lines to the denouement. If someone paid, they should get a good show.
That is all.

PS: When you're all done with tweeting about how angry you are with the casting of the 50 Shades of nay film, help me pressure Vikram Seth into finishing his sequel to A Suitable Boy (note: it took him 7 years to write that one novel. THAT is quality. Not a whole trilogy in 12 months) because I've been waiting 6 years already and they postponed the release date to 2016 (What the hell Vick. I've spent most of my high school career waiting for matric because your book would have been released, only to find that I'll have to wait until 3rd year at university. I won't have time then. Not like I have now)
Anyway, help me get my new favourite novel published quickly.  My problems trump yours. Read a good book soon, okay? 

Thanks.

Hello old friend, won't you sit down?

Greetings dear readers

So I've had this blog since I was in Grade 10 and a lot of you have been wonderful in constantly reading this, giving me feedback and just letting me know that I haven't been spouting out nonsense into the vast unknown and some of you are listening. I would love to have a conversation with all of you but alas that is not possible. 

But lets pretend for a second it is, you are sitting with me and drinking a warm beverage (tea perhaps? I would be drinking water or juice because I can't abide by tea or most hot drinks) and we could talk. I'm sure it would be as if we were old friends and you'd see the anxiety in my eyes as I prepare for my final exams. I would ask about your passions in life and maybe ask what food you liked to eat. There would be no need to say much because by being here, you already know so much about me and my inner workings. But you don't quite know the random, ordinary stuff about me? Yeah I thought so. 

To be very honest, I'm just some seventeen year old girl who is secretly shy but also a public speaker and at one point debator. Slightly schizophrenic? Yes but shh my friends don't know that inside I'm terrified of stuff too. I'm opinionated but I try very hard to keep an open mind ( I generally can't stand people who won't listen to various ideas unless it conforms with their own beliefs. Your mind is an umbrella - it won't be of use unless you open it). I value family and how even people who aren't directly related to you, can be just as close as a sister or brother. I'm a quitter of note in terms of things I've tried - Bharatha Natyam (spelling is probably off, it's Indian classical dance), piano, belly dancing( though I really loved and wanted to continue that), debating (ditto. Adored it) and yoga ( I'm pretty sure the instructer died though). To be very honest I really wanted to do violin, ballet and synchro swimming- would have stuck with those. Everything else about me is on Twitter. 

Enough about that, the real reason I've asked you over for a chat is to say Thank you. I am grateful that you've made this girl who wanted to write have a reason to keep going on( and often going off on a tangent). For the past two years, I've shared my naive tales of high school and next week that journey will officially end. My dad said to me last week that after I write my last exam, things will change. It's a coming of age and you aren't that kid anymore. I'm glad I got to share those stories and my thoughts with many of you. Maybe you've seen me grow( if I grew at all) or picked up that my tale about Dubai was "Part 1" and almost a year later Part 2 about Thailand never came up( I never got around to finishing that post). Maybe you wanted to know if I still cry in the bathtub, I'm happy to report that I haven't cried there in a while. I'm eating healthy and getting over my old demons that lurk in the mirror. And Cousin A is still a douche. And I still wash my hair at odd hours if the morning. I'm sticking to my story with the Survival Guide and my heroes are still out there showing Life how its supposed to be done. 

The next time I'm gonna be able to post will be after the last paper has been written and my uniform put away for the last time. The past two years have been a learning curve and yeah.. Thanks for sharing it with me. 

Until we meet again, my friend

Su

The Spirit: What a group of girls taught me about unity

For the past five years of high school I've looked forward to events that allowed me to sing and shout and dance around showing pride for my school. It's this immense feeling of unity and sisterhood that overwhelms me. I am not a sporty girl at all, but I am a passionate supporter. 

Today was our last Inter-House Sports Day. The end of 12 years of galas and athletics and fun events that got me dressed up in house colours and cheering for my side. Something happened today that shattered every preconception I've had about the power of unity and the pride I have for my school( and actually the future, now that I really think of it) has grown exponentially. You see, there are four houses that we are divided into - Red, Blue, Green, Yellow. ( I've chosen to leave out the house names and just stick with our colour). Now in the past, there was fierce rivalry between everyone for the Spirit Cup.

Highly coveted and what is the best award because it didn't depend on who was fastest but rather who had the most passion for their team. So about 20 minutes into the singing and shouting, Red and Green decided to merge to form one HUGE house that sang and clapped for everyone. Soon it meshed in with Yellow and the atmosphere became filled with the buzz of excited girls who sang together. Now everyone wanted it to move further, have Blue join. But the request was spurned and the festivities continued. Races were ran and Pom-poms were fluttering in the warm air. 

For the first time in the schools history, houses joined together to celebrate our school. To show the strength of all our voices combined, or at least most of our voices. The voice over the mic requested everyone to sing the school song but we sadly noted that Blue refused to join in with everyone else. So they sang after RYG finished, but everyone else joined in. Because a lot of us realised it wasn't about winning anything or losing but about celebrating and having healthy competition yet still cheering each other on. 

The reason this bizarre event gives me hope is because in that crowd of 700 or so girls, may be a future leader. Your future decision-makers or voters or just a huge amount of potential. For the most part, everyone didn't care about who won, we screamed in joy and pride that this was the potential. In a previous post I expressed fear that this generation of young people needed to learn that it's ok to be proud of each others victory. And today, those fears were squashed. I saw 13 year old girls who were initially too shy to even sing along that eventually ended up jumping around with their peers.

Inter-House Day became INTEGRATED. It wasn't Segregated House day, but something magical( to me at least) that took a bunch of girls who usually cannot even unite to sing during assembly and changed that same bunch into a cheering force. I truly feel honored that I was privileged to be a part if that today. For the moments that it lasted , it etched itself into my memory. It wasn't the day this house lost or won but rather the day we all (well most of us) came together. To the few members of Blue who snuck over to join us and were later reprimanded- You made me smile because you chose what you knew to be better.

However the best of things cannot last and even though it was proposed to award the Spirit Cup to the ENTIRE school for showing tremendous spirit, it was vetoed by Blue. At the end of the day, it seemed that they insisted on a winner because sharing the victory that the entire day was, was not good enough. The houses were told to divide back and each one gave their all, although heartsore that  we had to part ways. Blue won (as they are accustomed to) and no one begrudged them for their victory. They won and it was what they do as Blue. But Red, Green and Yellow celebrated louder afterwards - For them the victory was in finding pride for each other. From the quietest to the loudest, the fast and slow- we sang one last time to remember something that never happened before and was unlikely to happen again.

You cannot conquer while divided because in being together you find so much more strength and joy. 

I'm proud of you LeVauStone. You made my last Inter-House Athletics day into a memory I will cherish because it taught me that the greatest pride can come from something other than victory - Togetherness.

Before the screen fades to static

I was born in the year 1995, so I'm half inclined to call myself a "90's kid" even though I only really recall about 2 years of the nineties. But what I do remember (quite vividly ) are the VCR cassette tapes that my parents would buy and that I would watch again and again.

We have a cupboard full of plastic cases at my grandparents' house, an array of Classic Disney, cheesy Hindi films, some home videos and a lot of nostalgia are found in them. Did you have any of those? Can you recall how easy it was? The straight forward "Play" without all the extra features or language choices. Yes you had to wait a few minutes to rewind the video( this happened often because I would always forget to rewind it afterwards) and the test pattern would hurt your ears for a few seconds but it was part of the fun. A ritual of my childhood I suppose. Rituals that I try to carry out now and again when I realise that so many years have raced by already. Nostalgia is often my favourite drug.

My first day of school I remember in a haze, like the beginning of the film as it came into focus. The tight plaits that stood stiff on either side of my six-year old head and the shiny stationery and the smell of wax crayons that would cling to the plastic of my pencil case. I remember being at the same table as people I knew from pre-school, happily waiting for Mrs Pringle ( who ended up teaching me again in Grade 3 ) to tell us what to do. Twelve years later and I'm still longing to be back in that sunny classroom with the mulberry tree outside the window, waiting  to learn something that I didn't know before. I remember figuring out how many years until I reached Matric (Grade 12) and every year it would become smaller and smaller until suddenly... There I was, walking into the gates on the "First Day of School" for the last time. It had become such a natural place to be in, home away from home. 

And the realisation scared me. Scared the part of me that is still a child waiting at the table with a wax crayon and a bright smile with a loose tooth that I kept jiggling with my tongue. There won't be a safety net after I leave these busy halls and that there was this huge expectation that I don't fall off this tightrope. That maybe this time, I can't go back and relive the magic from the start...

Trial exams begin in less than 2 weeks. A precursor to the final examinations that everyone keeps saying will decide my fate. Not a moment is to be wasted (even these precious few that I've stolen to write this ). The climax has come and gone, all that is left are the few formalities to tie loose ends and decide the destiny of the characters in the film.

Gone are the days of keeping silkworms in a shoebox and of letters home complaining that my writing is shoddy and I surely have a learning disorder. So quickly have the last few years rushed by in haste. Of screaming girls running to class and teachers who taught me to think and to love learning. People who's names and stories I know so well, probably will vanish into the depths of my mind. Only to be dredged up at a reunion in a few years (maybe).  Soon, I will walk through those gates for the last time and all of it will seem like a dream. Not being able to recall parts if it that once seemed so vital. They become dulled and skip over like a broken VCR tape that sends the screen into a shock of black and white static. 

Su's Survival Guide to being an Indian Teenager in Matric

In my family (and generally most Indian families I know) Matric is seen as a definitive point of ones life. For a lot of people, your worth WILL be measured by how many A's you get at the end of that year. I hear people saying, "Yes he's a brilliant chap, got 7 A's in his Matric year" (this may ignore the fact that aforementioned "He" is now a drug addict who sleeps on the beach). Or I end up having my mother ask with fear, "Su, you will get all A's at the end of the year? " after she hears a horror story of a "Golden Child"* who failed a few subjects and can't get into university. Do you know many hours I've spent consoling and reassuring her that I will not fail? A lot.

[* Golden Children are often just rotten kids who get gilted by Mummy and Daddy Dearest who go out of their way to inform you how brilliant their offspring is. Repeatedly. At. every. Single. Family. Function... Twice]

I feel like there's some sacred but secret Indian tradition called "Push your matriculant into the Psych Ward with a Nervous Breakdown". I honestly believe that it exists and should be put into writing so at least we know what to expect. It starts before you even begin the school year, it begins as the matrics of the previous year get their marks back and everyone is frantic to know if Pushpa's son did better than Bobby's daughter or if Seema and her boasting paid off with her child getting brilliant marks. Everyone is calling each other and congratulating Polly's son for his one A in Life Orientation (somewhat a private joke in South Africa as it is probably the most redundant subject ever taught, much less required by the Department of Education) and oh everyone just goes crazy! And you're on the couch, scared as hell!

Then there is my dear sweet Mother... Back where we started with the fear in her eyes and the flushed look on her face and the question, "You won't embarrass me like that Su? Because Polly always said how brilliant her son was and see what happened?". 

Thereafter I told her that Polly lied because her son was the sort of boy who could tell you how to spike your hair up and when to wear fake FUBU shirts to the mall but he could not remember why Animal Farm by Orwell was an allegory. Obviously this reassurance was not enough ( I've learned to block out the questions about exams and Finals now) and it pops up now and again. I've learned to deal with it. But it gets worse, much much worse.

I'm not sure if you're familiar with the organism referred to as an Aunty ( Homo Auntyous obnoxious ) but I am. Commonly found in their natural habitat (a lounge with many doilies or a relatives house) and on occasion fanning themselves with punjabi scarves on a plastic chair at a family wedding/funeral/prayer/event. You will recognise this breed of Aunty by the shrill pitch of voice and a steely glare as they size you up to tell you how fat or dark you have gotten since they last saw you. They ask you your age and then mutter "Ahh in Standard 10*? Working hard? Will I see your name in the paper with all A's? Do you have a boyfriend? What are you going to study next year!!?" The trick is to smile and nod at everything except the Boyfriend question and then to mention a prestigious university and a "Good" career choice at the relevant points ( good= Doctor, Lawyer, Engineer, Accountant ). And even agree when they say you've put on weight and compliment their garish sari blouse too. Then walk away quickly !

*[Standard 10 is Grade 12 but for older people- I would explain but I have no kicking clue why it happened that way. I just add 2 years to the standard and nod .If you do know why, leave a comment... Please]

Now the counterpart to Aunty is Uncle (Homo uncleis Boringous) who is characterised by his pot belly, a full mustache that is his pride and an insistence to hug you even though you want to shake hands (I don't like hugging old men who smell of cigarettes ). You may run into Uncle as you escape Aunty and he WILL interrogate you-

 

You: (being the polite child you are, you greet the uncle who is tipsy and scowling at his glass of watered down whiskey) Hello Uncle. *extends hand to shake his but you get pulled into a hug *

Uncle : (Coughs and squints until he vaguely recalls who you are) Ahh you! In Matric eh? You remember how I used to visit when you were small?

You: Not really uncle, but yes I am I Matric

Uncle : ( asks odd questions about your parents , obscure relatives ) (Then begins to tell you why being an Accountant is the best option for a career because you won't be happy but at least you'll be rich and how choosing law will never benefit anyone)

You: I'm so sorry, I think Mummy needs me to get something for her.. * tries to walk away* 

Uncle: No no, *continues *

You: * sits patiently until your mother decides to rescue you after an hour*

The Uncle is far more dangerous than the Aunty. Avoid at all costs, lest they invite you on "The FacingBook".( That was a true story, and yes I did get a Friend Request that was ignored until it went away)

My tips on surviving this last year of school are as follows: 

1) When asked about your schoolwork, respond with how it's harder than ever( Even if its as simple as  Life Orientation's booklet on Coping with Stress) and you are applying yourself to your work diligently.

2) Avoid family gatherings in this last year of school if possible and if you MUST go, fake laryngitis and cough when approached by an Aunty or Uncle

3) Ignore what happened to Tina's sisters' neighbour's child when  they studied until 4am and became a president. Study the way that works for you (and dammit, get enough rest. Tina's someone's someone's child was an idiot who blanked out during Finals because they broke down, the President thing was a lie to make you want to compete. Don't fall into that trap)

4) Don't let people's comparisons and comments get to you. This is your year, not an audition for Idols. Unless its Simon Cowell as your Uncle, he cannot be a judge to your standard of excellence

5) If you're gonna aim to be a Golden Child, make sure that that gold is the standard of your choice. 9 karat or 24 karat, it's you who decides. 

6) Don't forget to compliment the Aunty's garish sari blouse that doesn't fit! 

That's as much advice as I have right now, I'm currently avoiding Mother and a box of past papers she's brought for me to work through and I'm trying to relax for a little before the humdrum of Trials and then Finals begins. I also have a family thing coming up soon so wish me luck as I try to convince old people that shaking their hands is an alternative. Lastly, if all the above fails, for a few minutes , go curl up under your desk and take a nap. Naps would have saved Tina's fake sisters' fake neighbour's fake kid. But he stayed up and studied like the Aunties said he should. 

Skin Deep : On fair skin and why it shouldn't be " In"

(Edit: 14 September 2015. Consider this a sort of retraction, in retrospect, of one or two things said that may diminish people. When I wrote this, I was incensed at my personal battle with people around me propagating certain ideas of how people should look. In my deep passion, in trying to prove a point about being comfortable in ones own skin, I diminished those who are light skinned. I am so sorry. The following piece isn't necessarily changed but it has been edited in order to convey my original message- to be in love with who you are, which is every reason I write this blog. Xx Su)



I'm ashamed to say that my newest pet peeve is when I see people edit their pictures until they are unrecognisable. The vanishing noses, artificial poses in bathrooms that could use a tidying up and the brightness setting turned up. 

After brief deliberation I realized it wasn't the editing that upset me (I love what can be done with effects and adding magic to a picture, you can transform something banal into something beautiful). It was the degree of "retouching" that occurred. They were not touched up, those photos were groped and pinched and scratched into "sexiness". It was the reason they edited the pictures: Where naturally beautiful girls ended up looking like plastic dolls and phantom ghosts because they seem to think their natural complexion isn't something they should be proud of.

I do want to point some fingers at what may be the cause of this obsession with being fair skinned. To do this I might need to use an example about being fair or being darker skinned in various communities  around the world, whilst all skin types are beautiful, it is a tragedy when women try to alter their gorgeous skin to conform to an ideal that is neither healthy nor positive. 

 Colorism is defined as a form of discrimination based on the colour of your skin that results in different treatment socially, within your own ethnic group.It has nothing to do with race, often it is within ones race that people discriminate against the individuals who have melanin rich skin, by that I mean darker. It happens in many Asian countries, India and in Africa. 

Instead of going on about it from a detached perspective, I might use the advantage I have of actually seeing colorism first hand. I am an Indian, I live in South Africa ( and am a bornfree) which is a wonderful melting pot of many different cultures and people... So I get to see the common threads of colorism in cultures that would seem poles apart.

I've been to weddings where I've heard older women say, " Oh she's a lovely bride, if only she wasn't so dark.". When a baby is born I've seen people coo " What a lovely fair skin she has!". We watch Hindi films where every actress is lighter and every time I go out into the sun, I hear someone say " Don't get too dark !! " (in my head or in real life). You see many boys say "Yeah shes a doll, look at how fair she is ! ". Why wouldn't girls think that beautiful meant being light? 

We've been indoctrinated into feeling that being brown isn't beautiful. We begin to resent the gorgeous hues that we come in. And then we start hurting that skin by plastering lightening creams (often with dangerous substances like hydroquinine and mercury) on them and by damaging that delicate skin for years. Beauty should NOT be pain or something that would result in an illness. It riles me up that young women are pushed to this. It irks me that someone who is naturally brown edits something until they are a milky white face floating on my timeline.

It should start at home really, where a girl is told she is beautiful in her own skin. Where she wants to be more than just pretty on the surface. Where we embrace the entire spectrum of skin. From milky tea to black coffee. 

I love my BROWN skin, my melanin soaked and not easily burned BROWN skin. I love the parts on my cheeks that get slightly darkened by the sun whenever I smiled. The lighter spots on my tummy that never gets to see the direct rays of sun.  We should all love the skin we're in. Be proud and brazen about it because if we don't start saying something, no one else will.

Hey mum, if you're reading this

My mother has a bottle of (almost empty) perfume that my father bought her when they began dating (or something nostalgic to that effect) . It had a dark blue stopper and a scalloped shape bottle with the faded gold lettering that once said Shalimar by Guerlain with an amber liquid that smelled rich and like something dipped in Oriental spice. Its still in her cupboard somewhere ( I hope) Part of me feels like the wonderment of this bottle began my loveb affair with perfumes. My mother used a variety of perfumes that would cling to her when she got home from work as we rushed up to hug her and smell of a sweet fragrance that lingered in her hair. To me they smelled similar, all what I associated love and warmth to be. A safe smell that would hold you tight if you felt scared when nightmarish apparitions snuck into my young slumber.

I loved smelling the different scents that hung in the air as people hugged me ( this applied only to the perfumes and not the body odour that lingered, that didn't get any joy) or walked past. The overpowering cheap deodorant sprayed with zeal that burned my nostrils to the cloying sickly sweet perfumes that older women wore in excess, these became pet peeves. But I think the one person I loved being near because of their scent, was the woman who started this love of perfume and of the clean lines of good china plates. This woman who was the epitome of grace and elegance to me,who still is so beautiful to me.

I've repetitively said that it was abnormal for a seventeen year old to care about how well a crystal chandelier paired with the curtains of a lounge or how a tea set would be ideal for a brunch(even though I detest tea drinking). I blame my mum, who would smile through eating scrambled eggs that seven year old me, had emptied rosemary and thyme. I remember when we would sigh heavily about walking around the shops with plates and vases, saying that it was her second home while we waited to rush to a bookshop or toy store. Eventually I developed a love for these visits and now I walk into them before she does. I had wanted to be exactly like her, after all isn't that what most kids want to be?

I was insanely jealous of my baby sister, who everyone said looked like a carbon copy of her and I looked like my fathers parent (who, if truth be told, I didn't particularly want to look like . As good looking as they may have been in her youth - sorry Daddy, sometimes we just are inclined to want certain things). I wanted to be like her so I joined debating and public speaking(things she had excelled in when she was younger). I endured painful Saturday morning dance classes because she was very enthusiastic about having daughters who could be graceful Indian swanlike dancers. And then there was piano, which I enjoyed but wasn't passionate about, but the voice behind it all knew mum would like nothing more than having us play well. My sister succeeded in all these things. I left it to her , happy that she could make mum proud.

I don't write near her, I avoid letting her see my scrawl on a page because again, they've been a source of despair among my parents and teachers(the latter , has had to grow used to it with time). Its not something I could possibly be proud of, it's the bane of my existence to be honest. I never happy with handing anything in (regardless of how good the content may be) because they all look at me with some weariness and sigh. It stemmed from about ten years ago when the temp teacher called my mum in to say that I was a substandard pupil, that my work lacked care and suggested I had a learning issue , note this was about an 8 year old kid. Mum came home and was angry(probably at the woman but I think a little at me ). Whatever happened that hot afternoon shaped the rest of my life , not immediately but as I grew I would recall it. It wasn't that the woman made me sad but the thought that I disappointed my mother, that I would not be all she wanted me to be. This fear of being an embarrassment or failure in her eyes.

There's an Afrikaans poem by Antjie Krog called " Ma" , which I identified with. Of feelings of wanting to be a good daughter, good enough and being sorry. Apologetic for all the times our personalities clashed because we were so alike yet so different. I had developed a personality that contrasted hers , figuring that it would make up for not being all she wanted if I was my own person who achieved things that made her beam. Being the person who she may have been, thirty years ago.

Ten years on and it's my final year of high school, it's that same drive to make her proud, to prove that snooty woman wrong that motivates me to push through another hour of Biology when all I want to do is sleep. Yeah I should be "working for myself" but at the core of everything is that one maxim : Will she be proud? Will they be proud?

Hey mum, if you're reading this, I hope I can make you as proud as you make me.

Pearly wisps of the ocean and my left foot's mosquito bite

This mosquito bite on my left foot is distracting me from my train of thought that had sped along so well, just a moment ago. So is the soft jazz music that snakes from the television screen, to the couch where I fidget to kill the pest that is resting on my arms and legs at intervals. Its one of those warm nights where the air is heavy with the sounds of crickets and the humidity that clings to every food of your clothing. I'd like to amend that "warm" into a furnace of a night where the blessing of technology allows the air conditioner to comfort me with an icy rush directed to my face.

I would immerse myself in some cool water outside but my fear of frogs and jumping creatures petrifies me. And the idea of itchy eyebrows is unappealing as the insects that bite find the exposed parts of my body and my lonely swim would surely be ruined. So I remain inside trying to catch that delightful thought that slipped through my fingers like silky sand on a faraway shore. I hate when that happens, when thoughts run off and disappear into a frenzy of noises and pictures.

I digress, my initial thought was actually about traffic and some observations I have made in the past year or so, but this recollection if swimming has washed away all mechanical thoughts in favour of the element I most love. Water, where I am weightless and I can dance without having to bend to the laws controlling gravity. Like I used to when I was very small and took up dancing with ribbons and I would twirl in the air with them, like a bird. At least I felt like a little bird with my long navy ribbon , the same elation that I feel when I dive into the water. Those fractions of a second when you're mid-air and fear of the icy water is juxtaposed with the excitement of sliding through the cool cocoon of blue. It's the shout of joy before you land and the first bubbles of air that escape your lips as you surface that create the most wonderful sensation.

I almost always gasp in shock when people say they hate swimming, granted that people have different hobbies but what contends the soft ripples that dance as you move and sway or the salty curls that form in the jumping waves that make you move as one with the sea? They all link to my inner child and her love if splashing by the seaside with shells collected in buckets. The prettiest or the owns with the most desirable texture stayed in my pocket to hold or display in a tiny wooden box. Beach trips were(and still are) my favourite things to do, sitting on the shore and waiting for the waves to rush up the shore and caress my toes.

The number of times I go to the beach have dwindled to just passing the beach and the expanse of ocean that just just a stones throw from the road I go along every morning. Watching the golden splashes of sun on the calm blue-grey water that only disappeared when the clouds drooped to kiss the morning waters.

My love of water is romanticized with the pearly wisps of childhood laughter that mingle with my never ending awe of the beauty of the sea. And if I come back to my opening, my left foot still itches from that mosquito bite but I don't mind as much anymore.

The Bookworm

There are very few people ( I believe) that have a love affair with books , as I have had .There probably are more than I naively estimate but very few who I've encountered .I come from a family who (mostly) love books and who have nurtured this adoration I have .This obsession with the almost woody scent of the pages bound together is insatiable. It is filled with delighting in older books that are slightly richer in scent with softer pages that have been held before to the crisp scent of just unwrapped and virginal pages of a new book where the ink feels minutely raised off the page. It is the inscription on the front leaf , maybe a birthday wish or the current owner (I always write my name and the year I received the book in a corner of this page) that sprinkles enchantment on the book (still unread) or the nostalgia of buying and experiencing a new story.

I've detailed before how I was introduced to reading but it is how I took to books and the large supply of them , that probably shaped me for the rest of my life . It's strange how all my favourite things to write about tie back to books ,be it the books I find in flea markets or the ones I read with the stain of mulberry still faintly on my fingertips or (this was the most common) the books I voraciously went through on rainy days.

I think everyone knew how much I liked books, because now and then someone would send a book with my mother for me to read or enquire at family events about what I was reading . I don't think I spent any part of my childhood without a book nearby , I stuck to the classics or books that were older because early on I developed a love for the style of writing and the references to a time long past . Little Women , Black Beauty or Great Expectations were regular books I read when I was much younger.

Once ,my uncle brought a box of books (I recall it being from somewhere where the owners where getting rid of old stuff as they were moving) home . They provided some of the nicest company on a winters night , when I sat with them and a heater to spend the night , sometimes only sleeping as I watched the sun rise .The books in that box took a while to get through , all the inscriptions were obviously a bit old or illegible in the faded cursive script .But I read every single one .

The local library was another favourite spot but I would always accrue fines for forgetting to bring a book back (often borrowing piles of books using 3 different cards ) until I had read all the good ones and couldn't find any new tastes to delight my palate .But every Saturday after dancing or piano ( that is another story altogether really) we would go and with my head tilted at 45 degrees I would scour the shelves for something new .Until nothing new took my fancy anymore and I moved to other sources .

And then there was Mum and Dad ,who bought me books because I would spend all time at the mall looking through bookshops .and would start reading the new book as soon as we got into the car . It was Dad who suggested many books when I was at a loss and who would talk to me about these books we both read (many times leading to a telling off by my mother and sister who had not been able contribute at all) . I loved those discussions because I felt like a person , not merely a being who was present .It was when no one could say I was wrong for thinking what I thought because they hadn't felt the book as I did .I began to see people a lot better as I didn't expect only good or only malice in everyone .They taught me about the facts of life through the many eyes of people who had lived in different era's or circumstance .

I don't think my father ever handed me a book that had no significant impact on my life .They all did in some way or the other .

I guess I could end by saying that I started reading books to learn about this open ,unknown world around me , but by reading them I soon began to understand the people in my life and how to deal with things better .They showed me how beautiful something as simple as a river in the morning light could be ,or how the smallest dreams could manifest into something much more .

An ode to rainy days

Rainy days are my favourite kind of day, not those half-hearted drizzles or those short bursts of heavy rain. No, those days of steady rain that kiss the grass with a rhythmic patter. They mean springtime as it edges into summer with days ( sometimes a week or two ) of endless , delightful precipitation. Most people moan and complain but I have nothing but happiness on those rainy day?

I associate them with the first time I had hot chocolate , made sickly sweet and too hot (burning my tongue in the process). It was a weekend away in the Drakensburg when I was six ,when sheets of water fell on the poppies that grew in splashes of scarlet around the houses. It rained that whole weekend but I remember being filled with laughter and happiness.

I recall a rainy day that was the the end of a journey for me, it was the first time I consciously registered that I had to start "growing up". It was the final day of primary school ,where (for the first time ) everyone I had known since I was four would scatter and I would probably never see them again. There wouldn't be anymore early morning walks to school to swim as the sun rose above the jacaranda trees, no more knowing everyone and I felt as the safety net was slowly disappearing under me . For so long, I had always been five minutes away from home, I knew where everything was and this was always an unconscious dependence. Anyway I remember the last time I saw many of those people who used to all I had known. It rained the whole afternoon as we cried and laughed together for the last time.

The last goodbyes where we all cried and for that one last time I walked home together with some of them, the last time we sang together. It poured with rain that entire night, I was inconsolable because I was the only one (that I knew of ) who would be going to a high school in the city (a longish drive that I now regard as normal ) so far away from the familiar small town I knew. Heck, my first day of high school was a scary rainy day where I was thrown into a sea of faces who would later become friends and sisters.

I can never regard a day with rain, as something depressive but as a reminder that everything has its place, that even after a season of dryness there is life triggered by those drops of water that fall from the heavens. That even though change comes with a storm, it washes your slate clean.

The Eastern Spectrum : Dubai

True to my nature of being a procrastinator of note , I put off many blogposts that were planned for last year . Rest assured , I did try to write about it , multiple times , in hotels , in the plane , in a coffee shop in Phuket whilst the rain poured outside . So let me condense those posts into two (hopefully) that makes sense however vague it may be .

We spent most of the year planning and getting excited for our trip . During those two weeks I learnt about airports , exchange rates , architecture and how I can sleep anywhere on command whilst traveling the East. Or at least the spectrum of the East . From the slick , modern streets of Dubai to the spice and busy alleyways of Thailand , there was quite a variety of experiences to be had . Different cities were hues that contrasted each other like scarlet and indigo juxtaposed .

After an arduous flight to Dubai ( the exertion being as a result of the fidgety Indian mother who sat in front of me , who pushed her child into another seat and slept across two seats whilst snoring and complaining about the food . This resulted in me {being too polite to say she was causing irritation} not getting much sleep) we arrived at the airport sleepy but excited to have landed .

I'll skip the details of the grumpy man at immigration who's head wrap kept slipping and even forgo the joys of a travellator ( a moving walkway in the airports ) that made one feel as if you were flying over the ground . All that is irrelevant when i think my first glance of the city that was unforgettable . We always imagine destinations before arriving , usually from travel shows or pictures off Google , I imagined a dry busy place full of dust . It was the opposite (still busy however) , a city where every pavement was lined in blossoming flowers and the buildings loomed tall and out of an architects daydreams . A metropolis of glass and steel that blew me away . Every building was a spectacle , as if it was a show where every skyscraper was trying to be the star .

We stayed in the hub of all this beauty , Downtown Dubai , a stone's throw from the Burj Khalifa (the tallest building in the world at present) which was the centerpiece of this bejeweled metropolis . Words cannot describe how overwhelmed they all left me . It's all so "much" in that city , the malls are huge , the buildings tease the clouds , there were granite tiles on the roads which were mopped , for crying out loud ! Then , just as you think nothing could be more amazing , night slips it's glittering gown on .Everything lights up , the buildings become spectacles of colour and the child within begins to awaken in wonder of all this . It seems as if it were all a dream .

It's hard not to marvel at the metro system ( the whole transport system is actually so incredible and efficient ) as it zipped through the city in a matter of minutes . Another thing that I noticed , was how considerate and polite people were . There was a lot of etiquette involved in everything , from dress codes to areas one could sit on a bus . It was an interesting experience but I welcomed it . The people are also very accommodating and helped us find our way around .

The Gold Souk , wow is pretty much the only word to explain it . There was an excess of gold , diamonds , precious gems ...Everywhere . You felt as if you had bathed in gold , it surrounded every window . From simple chains to a huge , intricate body covering made of gold . Personally , I don't like yellow gold (which there was a lot of ) so it just was too much for my liking . The shock of the souk to a foreigner , is that you feel like you've been dipped in sweet syrup and all the vendors or shopkeepers are flies who can sense this . There is no exaggeration when I say , they swarm . Shouting at you to come to their shop , buy the "good copy " of some branded clothing , to come to their restaurant . It is a weary sort of experience . But fully worth it as you got to see all the different facets of the city .

We spent a lot of time exploring Dubai , going to the Jumeriah Beach Park ( only females were allowed on that park ) where the sand was silky and white , exploring the Dubai Mall ( it was enormous , I think we only went to a tiny portion of it , and that was over 2 days ) going to places of interest and generally doing typically touristy things . The highlight however, was desert bashing .

Desert bashing is basically driving up and down the dunes of the desert in a Land Rover . But that description does no justice at all to the experience . The drive out of the city is about 45 minutes , as you watch the the high rises melt away to reveal a more barren , sandy expanse with occasional caravans of camels moving along the dunes . There were about seven other vehicles with many tourists who (like us ) took pictures of everything . The real fun started when they drove off the road and onto the sand . It's like a roller coaster , up and down and our driver (who was liked playing music quite loudly to enhance the entire thing) often would turn dramatically , making everyone in the vehicle let out a small shout of delight .

Soon after all the dunes had been driven on , we were taken to camp . Here we were greeted with food and an old lady with henna , there were stalls of beverages , camel rides , lots of low tables and cushions (and even a hubbly lounge in the corners ) . A man with a falcon stood amidst the crowd , while a photographer stood by to take a photo . As the night wore on , an Arabian feast was served which was quite tasty .

The real entertainment were the dancers , who performed on the stage in the middle of this camp . A man who spun with multiple stuff skirts that lit up ( he didn't even suggest dizziness after 10 minutes of twirling ) and then the Arabian answer to Kylie Minogue , a belly dancer named Olga (and she looked like a brunette Kylie ) who gyrated and flirted with the audience . She was spellbinding as she glided across the stage . If you looked up , the sky was filled with stars that gleamed like this city which was a jewel of the Emirates .

Those were the highlights of Dubai for me ... What happened in Thailand was more of a culture shock .