maybe you don’t call it depression maybe you don’t know its symptoms— maybe you blame the devil. it must be the devil, or the boy that left. … Continue reading I Tried Calling it Depression.
and when you hold your new lover, when your breaths become the same, your heartbeats in sync like a lyric, and the you feel. your old love oozing. out … Continue reading make him wonder.
what if i am the one in need of healing? what if i love you, so much, that i still love him what kind of hell will that be … Continue reading this greed. this misery. what if?
The first time I loved a boy more than he loved me, I remembered my father. I remembered how my mother loved him more that he did her. I … Continue reading The Things I Know About Love
“Living life as Black women requires wisdom [,] because knowledge about the dynamics of intersecting oppression has been essential…”—Patricia Hill Collins, Black Feminist Thought (257) The oppressive intimacy of … Continue reading A Tale of [Revolutionary] Motherhood: A Feminist Critique on (Post-)Apartheid Epistemology
There’s a sound I will always remember. The sound of a body bag and a mortuary crane. Oh, how the yellow zips clipped and crackled my chest, Closing off things … Continue reading Some day, you will meet your home–
The garden of Eden Was the first funeral We brought flowers to. We bring flowers to funerals Not as a gesture of love, Or sympathy But to feed … Continue reading Lilies, Roses and Tulips
I want your dreams to know the scent of my skin, To call me by name when I am not around. I want them to know the bumps on my … Continue reading Lovelessly Loving You
When I was a little boy, when I still dreamt of being a lawyer like many of my peers at that age, my inquisitiveness bothered my mother. “Mama,” I … Continue reading The Purposes of Writing from a Lonely Place
This one is for the ones formerly known as fairies. For the ones known as fags, For the one whose existence is minimized to a crime, For the ones called … Continue reading For the Femme and Defiant
Gay, skinny, big headed and undignified Zulu boy are some of the adjectives that are often attached to my identity. I always knew I would question my identity, but I … Continue reading I will never be Zulu or Man Enough
I was not a musician, a record collector or hoarder of musical items. I have no interest in things that sound like cars beeping in a Johannesburg traffic jam during rush hour; sounds of goats getting slaughtered or metals beaten together to create a melody. I was not tempted to be polite or appreciative of the gift but I had already stretched out my arm in respect of my mother’s gesture. These records hid under my mother’s bed like an envelope waiting to be handed over to its owner.