Call him by name





Run to Twitter, compile the hashtags and shame him.

Did it work?






On my mind 30/03


The pockets of my universe are spilling all at once.

The peices of my heart are dropping all at once.

The gaps in the passage ways of my mind are widening all at once.

My laughter invited my tears to travel on the path that runs through my lips all at once.

The spoils in my bank account have depleted all at once.

Weeds of resentment and restoration grow all at once.

Oh how I wish you could have loved me all at once and not in pockets that broke the stitches that held my happiness bound

I am no Saint 

I am no delinquent neither.





• Suffer in kind, tenfold










And I? I am Sorry

UNdo (18.09.2012) 















Confessions of a young wife Part 2

Before we go any futher, let me mention that although I have improved greatly, my mouth still has its moments. It is as if the more you uncover in marriage, as far as your spouse as well as challenging dynamics are concerned, the more you have to say. Anyhow…

There are many ‘love languages’, and today I want to share my experience with the kind that has less potential of causing emotional damage. Funny though, as much as it is commonly related to the physical, I personally find it emotionally and mentally stimulating.

A wife who cooks and cleans. (Feminists just put down their mobile devices, kidding). Growing up, cooking and cleaning was a chore. A hideous one at that. Possibly one of the reasons the above ‘cliched statement’ grew to be a sore point for many women. Domestic duties became an exercise set to prepare us to adequately perform in our ‘wife’ capacity within the institution of marriage. To cushion the blow we were told that “a way to a man’s heart is through the stomach”. I battled to associate a pot belly with happiness, the harms of literal thinking.

I am generous at heart. This translates in to me being what I call a ‘feeder’. I want everyone to be fed, and fed well, all of the time. This however does not mean I have an interest in cooking daily. Bless the soul who developed the concept of Mr Delivery. I also did not suffer the stereotypical behaviour expected from black/african men (Come home and demand you plate full of home cooked food). Many attributed this to my husband having an English father and being of Scottish decent, but this sadly is not the cause.

My husband spoke a similar ‘love language’.

Why do I believe cooking is more than a chore? My husband’s reasons for taking his turn to cook, do the dishes or make a cup of tea were varied, but at its core his wished to remind me that he was present and wished to meet my needs. He came how one evening, after we had consumed take outs for a while (way to long honestly) and said “Tonight you are cooking, what do you need”. I turned around with such vigour and enlarged my playful eyes and responded quite swiftly “What the hell for?”. His response was simple “I miss my wife’s cooking”.

My husband did not miss my cooking (as good as my cooking can be if I say so myself), he missed my attention, consideration and warmth. The things that homes are built on. Cooking, when done well, is an art. The reason our ‘quick meals’ and failed lasagnes are found acceptable however is the heart behind the art. Someone took the time to consider my physical and mental needs. The body and mind sadly do not function on romantic utterances.

Look at the concept of negligence. Failing to meet the physical and mental needs of a child by failing to provide regular and wholesome meals is considered negligence. Marriage doesnt suddenly allow us to evolve in to super beings whos needs suddenly differ from those of all mankind.

The mind also requires a sense of order in order for it to function in an orderly fashion. Creating a space where this is attainable speaks more of your ability to sympathise with the needs of those you care for than your domestic finesse.

I am appealing to the part of our beings that are able to put the needs of others before those of our own. This speaks more of us than it does of those who receive. An abundance of self love allows for an extension of genuine care an affection. With no expectation of a word of gratitude. How much more happier would we be if we found contentment in simply knowing that we have done good and we did it well.

Food speaks to all of our hearts. So men should not shy away from learning and speaking this here language.

I probably should mention that we live in an age of food channels, food blogs, cook books, cooking lessons, Woolworths (hahaha) so excuses have been reduced.

Explore the human condition. Relationships thrive on the reciprocating of meeting human needs.

Let me cook… Not

Confessions of a young wife Part 1 














Cook or something,I hear it’s calming

If not me then who? 

I asked why me and the answer was swift…If not you then who? 

My wounds are deep but my heart still beats
If not you then who? 

Am I losing the last few strands of sanity my feeble hands have desperately been holding on to?

If not me then who?

What happened to gratitude? Food on my plate, clothes on my back, a ceiling for shelter… I think I crave the light of blazing stars. A light that generates a glimpse of hope at the end of the dark tunnel called life…

If not me then who?

I am bitter,sore and cold. Stripped of my pride by the unintentional deadly grip of even colder hands… 

If not me then who? 

The child that was molested, or the mouth that has never tasted bread? The woman beaten, the man tormented for what he has no power to change? The race that continues to be oppressed, the womb that is cursed? 

Wait… Pain chooses not its intensity. It hurts, it hurts deeply. But if not I then who? 

God, I believe in you, but never have I felt so far away from you. The chills feel as though evil found a small crack in the partitions of your hand, found me, grabbed me, rooted its claws of sorrow and now won’t let go of my bleeding throat. I cant breathe Lord…
If not me then who? 

I cried till my tear asked me to stop. They had seen enough of the ground. And after a long while, I managed lifted my eyes to a once familiar place. 
I asked once more,why me? The answer was swift; 

If not you then who? 

Who would know the hurt of her people so that kindness could be made manifest in her?                      Who is yet to realize the enormity of her strength?                                         Who will carry a new generation and deliver a breed with a difference…    See, you are allowed to hurt, but never wallow for too long. You are allowed to feel as humans do. 

That question may never leave you, and neither will the scars be invisible to you, but let the answer be clear;

How can you be a better you if not you…