Bandals...WTF!?!

I’ve been wondering what they call those strange shoes that look like they were once boots and then became sandals. It came as no surprise to discover that they actually have a deceitful name to match their dodgy appearance: Bandals! I have been coming across this ridiculous joke of a shoe creation a lot lately and it always does a pretty good job at annoying me every time.

Was any point to the creation of the bandals? I really don’t understand them. Are they meant to keep the wearer’s feet warm like boots are meant to do?

Are they supposed to be summer shoes or are they just meant to be a fashion statement?

I can’t think of any other reason for their existence, except maybe for annoying me. One thing is for sure though, they are an epic fail in both at being boots or sandals.

The sound of one hand clapping

A bang on the door, a pound on the table, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face.

Somewhere in my mind I strongly believed that one day he would come home with a smile. “Honey, I’m home!” He would announce, greet me with a kiss and tell me how wonderful his day had been. I kept hoping frustration would go away and be replaced with peace in our home.

A bang on the door, a pound on the table, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face.

They say insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. I guess you could say I must have been insane; I kept on going back to him, expecting to find a changed man each time. Only now do I realise that I must have been crazy to expect him to step back each time I screamed “STOP.”

A bang on the door, a pound on the table, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face.

Each night he stumbled his way home, speech slurred, eyes red and fists ready to attack. It always began with careless remarks on how useless I am. Funny how everything that never went as planned was a result of my presence in his life. A very vulgar lecture on my nonexistent whoring ways would be followed by my screams of agony.

A bang on the door, a pound on my face, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face.

Now I know the truth. He will never change. My beauty will never return. The bruises will never fade. My confidence will never resurface.

A bang on the door, a pound on my face, a thump on the wall. Eventually, a slap across my face. The sounds of his one hand clapping.

Truth is, you can only go back to him so much before
you either exit in a coffin or bruised forever.

Not all who wander are lost

After reassessing my ways, I found my mojo! 

About year ago I went through a somewhat difficult time of my life. I had discovered what I thought to be the worst mistake of my life: a completely wrong career choice! I had graduated from university and been in the industry for about two years but felt like I had not achieved anything. I realised that I had wasted three years of my life studying a course that would bring me nothing but misery instead of the success I had been hoping for.

If you spent time with me during this period, you would have been forgiven for calling me unstable, uncertain and lost. By this time I had changed jobs for three times in a bid to find one that truly satisfied me but I always found a number of things to hate in each of them. I was in the verge of a nervous breakdown when I decided to sit down and reassess the situation.

I love communications and media with all my heart so there was no way I could have made a mistake by deciding to study PR Management. So why was I never satisfied with any of the positions I acquired? After all, they were all in the field communications and media.

After much thought and analysing, I learnt that I had been going after jobs solely for the purpose of making an earning. I did not consider other important factors like the nature of the projects, working conditions and the work load. For that reason, I found myself in a never ending and a sad pursuit for job satisfaction. I was wandering like a lost traveller when all I needed to do was to just look for a job that I would thoroughly enjoy.

I decided to quit my job and go after what I truly desired; a creative job. After a while of unemployment and financial struggle, I finally got what I had been searching for! I am now finding my feet in a job that I would call perfectly ideal. As I look back on my journey, I realise I was never lost…I was walking towards the right direction but looking at the wrong way.

Give attentions to the dykes already!

I like the way South Africa, marks certain periods of the year to celebrate and honor certain groups of women. For example, August is marked as women’s month where women are celebrated the on the basis of the 1956 women’s march. This month sees campaigns and events that are held with an aim of highlighting the role of women in the socio-economic success of this country.

Then there is the global 16 days of activism against women abuse and children. Also a women empowering initiative, the campaign aims at demolishing or at least lessening gender violence while it fights for the recognition of women rights. It’s really heartwarming to see that there are means out there that are meant to celebrate and protect women.

However, there is one group of women that very less attention is paid to: lesbians. I’m not sure if it just me but out of all the women empowering campaigns and initiatives that are widely publicised I have not come across a single one that is designed to pay tribute to our lovely lesbian sisters. I, of course, stand to be corrected.

We are constantly reminded about all sorts of women’s rights, privileges, abilities and potential but nothing is ever mentioned about the existence of lesbians. Violation of lesbian rights, such as hate crime and rape is worryingly increasing but very less measure are taken to address this.

If this country aims to put an end to prejudice and discrimination, then all kind of our people must be equally celebrated and protected. 

How do you step from the top of a 100 foot pole?



Sissy Boy & The Poles



Stepping from the top of a 100-foot pole means taking a risk; it is finding the courage to do something extraordinary or taking a decision to finally go after your utmost desire. This could be starting your own business, a career change or, in my case, wearing high waist Sissy Boy pants (that are actually meant for girls)…

Stepping from the top of a 100-foot pole does not always guarantee a safe landing. Some people do not succeed in their attempts to start new ventures. However, with proper planning and the right tools, one can achieve their goals smoothly. By “right tool” I’m referring to confidence, education or, in my case, a rebellious urge to oppose the typical…

Stepping from the top of a 100-foot pole can be a very hard decision as it comes with many sacrifices. Often, people are discouraged from doing what they truly want to do by the fear of failure, societal norms, or, in my case, astonished stares and giggles from people…

Stepping from the top of a 100-foot pole requires uninterrupted focus, passion or, in my case, a sometimes ridiculously carefree attitude…

Stepping from the top of a 100-foot pole can lead to success; if done properly and cautiously it can result to a very happy ending. This can be a booming new business, a rewarding new job, or, in my case, applause from my equally crazy friends and flattering attention from strangers!

Is mob justice a solution?

While my heart goes out to the families of the young men that were recently set ablaze in Khayelitsha for allegedly committing crime, I somehow understand the frustration that led to these fateful incidents. Being a victim of crime myself, I know what it does to one’s emotional state.

I have been mugged for quite a number of times and most recently, I was victim to fraud where my entire salary was stolen from me. I will be utterly honest, driven by anger and hurt, I did wish death upon my perpetrators, that’s only natural. Those thoughts were always discarded by the realisation that the death of the criminal will not really reverse the damage done nor will it put an end to crime.

Naturally, the first question that came to my mind when I heard about the incident was “is this a solution?” Will setting fire to the guy bring back the stolen goods, mend the broken heart of the victim and ensure an end to crime?

As it seems, I may be one of the very few people who think setting fire to criminals is no help. This past Saturday I almost got into hot water with taxi commuters when I tried sharing my sentiments on this matter. All I said is that as much as criminals do not have a right to harm us, we also do not have the right to kill, as per the instructions of both our law and religions. This was the biggest mistake of my life! If it was not for the lack of a flammable substance nearby, I would probably be ashes right now. 

One girl came up with a strong point though. She said the police are not doing a good job in combating crime so people are resorting to alternative solutions. I believe this is correct. However, my view is that our community is already plagued with so much violence and chaos. I feel using death and fire as means of remedying the situation is actually worsening it.

There are only so much criminals that we can kill, but what we can’t destroy is the source of this evil, which is poverty. That’s the sad truth…

We are what we do

# Born to dysfunctional family, an alcoholic for a father and a drug addict for a mother, I am a prostitute living on the streets. We are what we do.

# They retrenched me at work, the bank repossessed my house. I sold my car and went back to my mother’s house, at the age of 42. We are what we do.

# A lot of people had warned me about him, they said he’s bad for me. I listened to my heart and now I’m fighting for my life in ICU. This is a result of my silence; I kept quiet while he continued abusing me physically. We are what we do.

# I had based my entire existence on our relationship. I lived for him and my whole being revolved around him. One day I found him in bed with the girl from next door. I died, at least not physically, but mentally. As I write this, I am held captive in a mental institution. We are what we do.

Sometimes, our grief is not a result of our choice, but the choices made by those around us