Men, where have you been.

I was wondering why I am particularly touched by the men posting about what women need, and then I realised it is Women’s Month in South Africa, and I normally have an opinion about how it is celebrated. I have been so busy that I actually forgot to get on my high horse so I could get on my soapbox. But here I am, just before the month ends.

Unfortunately, because I have been so busy, I have not been monitoring the goings-on around the celebration of women. The promises made, the policies reiterated, only to be forgotten in 13 days. Luckily for you, I have been on Instagram, and I have been watching. I am a voyeur, as you know.

For the past few months, I have been meaning to comment on this. I have been seeing men, even before International Women’s Month in March, speaking “up” for women. Earlier today, I saw another video/podcast of a man sincerely telling other men what women want and need.

Sincerely. He was mentioning deep and meaningful things that he knows women want, such as “Women want emotional safety” and “Women need consistency, not grand gestures.” The list was long, but my attention span is not. So, I fast-tracked to the part where he offered a list of “How to make a woman feel chosen.”

On the list, he expanded on how men must make women feel safe, and it had nothing to do with the fact that we are prey amongst predators, just how not all predators view us as prey.

For a balanced view, I have also been seeing videos of another male expert on how men are naturally designed to be leaders, and how women need “to pretend to be incompetent, so they can feel like providers and heroes.” Side medical fact if women do not behave accordingly: Allegedly, a woman’s inability to do so affects a man’s testosterone and socially, and to our detriment, if we do things on our own, which are naturally hardwired in us, we emasculate men and make it difficult for men to find us attractive partners.

I am going to land this — just be fucking patient.

The irony is that, from my mid-to-late teens up to my late twenties and mid-thirties, we had women’s magazines that, weekly or monthly depending on the publication’s run, told us what men want from women and how to attract, and in the best-case scenario keep, a man. Then the woke men (I cannot remember what the terminology for that group of men was then) rose up and said women should not be listening to other women about what men want and should rather ask men what men want.

The irony, in my 20s: “Men: ‘Stop letting women tell us what we want!”  – In my 40s: “Men: “Let me tell other men what women want.”

It used to be women cannot speak for men. Now it is men can speak for women, as long as they are “good men.” See part two on Good Men vs Not All Men.

At the risk of coming across as ungrateful, I do not need a man to tell me what I want. And I do not need a man to tell other men what I want either.

However, if you are a man who genuinely wants to help other men show up better, thank you. We need that. But do not do it under the banner of “speaking for women.” Because the moment you start saying “Women want and need X” with authority, you have become exactly what you complained about.

For the record, I am not mad; I am just saying: if we are going to gatekeep who explains whom, let us at least be consistent and allow each of us to speak for ourselves.

Security Guards, Therapists, and Me: A Glimpse into My Mental State

Colors of Imagination series. Artistic background made of streaks of color for use with projects on art, creativity, imagination and graphic design

Tuesdays are my “Not working from the office day” – I am learning to do me, and part of that is seeing a therapist. Between you and me, I think she enjoys my sessions the most.

We haven’t gotten to real talk, as much as I see her wanting to leap into it, but I am like girl, this is the one time I get an hour to myself – you just here so that I don’t come across as a crazy person talking to myself.

Which reminds me of an Oprah episode about what defined an alcoholic; and one of the key identifiers was drinking alone. So, if I am drinking in my house, with the kids in the house, technically I am not alone.

Ergo I am not an alcoholic.

I know I am not crazy because last week, I was sitting in the car waiting for 20 minutes (I arrived early) before our session and realised that I might have my days mixed up. I sent her a message, she didn’t respond, gave her 10 more minutes just in case she was in the middle of session and didn’t have her phone on. But when after the 10 minutes she didn’t respond, I drove out.

Great for me because I knew that this session was going to be her other attempt at the real talk. So, I drove out, heading home, justifying to myself that I showed up and she didn’t. Or maybe I got the dates/times wrong. At the T-junction, a left turn home, five minutes to home, but most importantly no interruption as my executive team knows where I was, she responds and says, “Yes I am waiting for you.”

Fucking annoyed but secretly happy that I get to hang out with her again, I turn back. The security guards in our over secured suburbs look at me suspiciously, but when I go back into that building block, I confirm to all three at the same time, “Yep, she is one of them”

If wondering, who one of them is, it is the crazy ones.

See, the office block is majority mental health specialists.  Can you imagine how indulgent I must come across, fancy car, weekday afternoon session for me to talk about my mental state. It must seem so frivolous to someone who had to catch three taxis to get to work and spend their whole day off their phones, no book to read, just spending 12 hours of your life guarding people who “Don’t know how hard life is” – comparatively speaking.

Don’t compare pain.

I watch them as I drive in to go spend money to talk to some white lady about my problems, which from the outside, doesn’t look like much. And genuinely, if I was him, looking at me, I would think the same.

But I don’t compare pain.

So…I mean, you know.

An epilogue to my tale

Unrecognizable young woman turning the pages of a book while reading in bed covered with the duvet

It is Sunday evening. Just wrapped up my last check in with my Kagiso and tucked Lesego good night.

Kagiso is 19 now, I know hey, last we spoke about her she was turning 16 years old. She is now in university, out of country, 8 989kms away.  Lesego is 13, and yes, I managed to keep him safe from his sister. He also is now an independent human being. So grown that he made me breakfast this morning before I left for work.

And me? Glad you asked.

I now have me to focus on. And I have for the past three weeks, Kagiso left for university early September, to figure out who I am without her as the centre of my existence. I know what you are thinking, but you still have Lesego. No maam/sir, he too quickly found his independence the minute she left.

From everything I have said about raising these two you would think I would be celebrating. But just the opposite is true, I am off balance.

Every time I bitched about these two in my house and how they relied on me and how my whole life revolved around them and how I could not wait to have them out of my house, my friends warned me about a phenomenon called “empty nesting”.

Empty Nest: “This syndrome can involve feelings of grief, loneliness, and a loss of purpose, as the parents’ role as primary caregivers has ended. While not a clinical diagnosis, it represents a significant life change that can be challenging for some but also offers a new opportunity for parents to focus on themselves and other interests.”

I countered the argument that people who suffer from “empty nesting” are those that have not had to ‘give up their lives to raise children on their own’. And once they were gone, I would eventually have time to myself. I am sure that I have said this before.

So, it turns out that they were right. I have for the past few weeks struggling to find my footing. I left with Kagiso to onboard her in a new country; we spent those two weeks cramming as many said and unsaid “I love yous” as we possibly could. For two people who could not wait to be apart from each other and find themselves independent of each other, turned out every cliché about mothers and daughters is true.

She is the love of my life as I am hers – true story, she told me. In fact, she said “As much as I believed Lesego would be the one living in your basement in his adulthood, I think I might have been wrong, it is me who is moving in with you.”

And let me tell you, Lesego is sending me application forms for boarding school. He is giving me 2026 but 2027 he says he is out of here. Another cliché, last borns are more independent than first borns.

What does that mean for me?

I have spent a good part of my life hating being a single mom. Now they are grown and I have the “freedom” that I have longed for. And yet, once again, I have what I have been praying for, but now I sit here wondering, what does one do with this ‘freedom’?

Too big for your boots

I am eventually going to write a book, but I am waiting until I am 55 years old so that I can be considered wise, or become the first lady😊 Yes, I said it.

Ten years ago, I quit my job without another job lined up. I had proactively searched and was interviewed for some, some head hunted for but never got either of them. The interviews for the ones I got head-hunted for were a disaster – I fucked them up royally, not intentionally but it just worked out that way.

Fact of the matter was I had to leave. I knew I had to leave the place that I had called safe, I could get to our offices with my eyes closed, but in that year, I knew I had to leave.

There were several factors and none to do with my employer, I was up as high the ladder as anyone in my position could be, I wielded the necessary power, earned as much as the person in my position could, but I had to go.

After disastrous interviews and some promising options, I got the offer that would solve my financial problems. At that point, more money was the deciding factor. I had two kids who relied on my salary, and I could not make ends meet. Yes, I was married and in a double income household – but you are going to have to wait for the book to find out about this story in full.  

I have over the past 10 years tried to figure out the sequence of events that led to my finally making the call to leave. But for this story, I will tell you about ‘my being too big for my boots’.

See I had just gotten promoted, another one in a shorter period that usual. The position I was now at, required me to have a ‘corner office’ but after three months, I was still sitting with the ‘lesser paid people’. Don’t worry if you judge me for this terminology, I wasn’t popular for it even then.

I then asked, casually to my soon to be former superior and soon to be equal, when the construction of my corner office would start/materialise and only to be met with “You are getting too big for your boots”

I remember looking down at my feet, to check my size eight feet (that I had been made fun of throughout my life), to understand what the hell she was saying. For decades, my feet have always been too big, and I have always had the luxury of never not having my size. What the fuck was this bitch on about.

There is something that happens to you when you are being talked down to by someone that you think little off and have had to suck their dick for the bigger cause, that when you don’t need to do it anymore – you cannot.

I went home and typed up my resignation letter and I sent it. In the morning, I left a hard copy on her desk.

I have been called many things before and since then – but no words have ever affected me as those. I don’t know what brought this up now, and yes, I have told anyone who would listen about this story. If you have heard it before, thank you for listening, again.

The thing is that I am surrounded by so many people, including myself, fighting monsters and labels that were put on them by those they trusted and loved.  And then they are those, not brough into our lives by our choice, that put their monsters on us, and we help them carry them and feed them, to their knowledge or intent or not. As you can see, I have been feeding and carrying the person I clearly think less off’s monster.

As a result, you are stuck drinking the poison and hoping they would die (I know, I came up with that saying myself). I know that saying is going to be the most quoted quote and hopefully when you use it you will remember that you read it here first.

Glossary (for those who are new here)

*Person I think less off: hate the fucking bitch

** Too big for your boots: Behaving as if you are more important than you really are

***Foul language: Please add the f-word appropriately through the text. I allegedly don’t swear anymore

**** Suck their dick: To curry favour from one of higher authority

**** Curry favour: To suck dick.

But most importantly, as we continue riding this wave called adulting, I hope that you are never told that you are too big for your boots, or worse, you believe that you are too big for your boots.

Letter from Mother

Gemstone structure extreme closeup and kaleidoscope. top view of round gemstone 3d render, 3d illustration

Dear Kagiso,

When I told auntie Sarah and Shoni that I was going to adopt you – I know this is a terrible way to find out that you are adopted – but that is a conversation for another day – they told me that children show you who you are. It’s been 16 years of learning, reflecting, and wanting to be better, for you, because of you.

The only reason I want to live a long life, is so I can continue to bask in the human you are, and that I am😊 I mean, they say, you are a reflection of me – even allegedly look like me. I will take that because it means I am as gorgeous as you are.

I remember someone asking me, do you struggle to choose/share your love between your kids, my answer without thinking was, God gives you a heart for each child you have. You have my whole heart; I love you, with the heart that God gave me for you, and I love you with all of it.

You are the most perfect human being I have ever met, and I am privileged that you chose me to be your mom. There is a Buddhist saying that I always refer to (when I am TedTalking) that we choose the life we are born into, for the lessons we want to learn. From you my child, I have learned love, unconditional love, kindness, generosity, tenacity, and just overall greatness.

The next few years are going to be challenging waters that you will be treading my child, but the foundation for one’s character is built during this period.

As a result, I commit to being here for you as you tread these unchartered waters, called your life, solicited or not. For as long as I live, because my calling, and you know how I feel about being summoned, is to make sure that you get to live your life in full and to fulfill your destiny. The world needs you, whole.

You might not understand it now, but you will at some stage. I have responded to the call to keep you safe, even if it comes at a cost of you not liking me much, hoping it is only sometimes. 

I thought this was just me who finds you fascinating, mothers are often biased, but you carry your names everywhere you go, from the hair salon I did my hair today. The lady remembered you from some hair salon when you were four. To the ladies at the nail salon, who know that you speak fluent French and are the sweetest girl, they have ever met.

I pray you don’t disregard the impact you have on those around you because you want to fit in. For the record, you can’t t fit in, you are destined to lead. Take your position. Life is all about which lens you are looking at it through. It might be a bit blurry now, but I know you have the sense, to make it clear.

I love you; the world is a better place because you are in it. And I am blessed, that you chose me to love, educate, empower, and encourage with your love, peace, and abundance.

You have lived and continue to live up to your names, Khanyisile – one who brings light, Boikago, one who builds, Kagiso, one who brings peace.  I have just been privileged to bask in your light, prosperity, and peace.

I love you, my nana. You are destined for greatness, my child, and I cannot wait to take credit for it.

Mother.

Read the damn instructions

A few weeks ago, I told you about the box of my personal goodies that I got back. I decided to experiment with one of the items in the box. When I shared my deepest darkest secret with you, I said it was because I hoped it would give you the courage, to be honest with yourself. 

What I neglected to tell you is – I didn’t neglect to tell you – I didn’t know. But as soon as I found out, I am here telling. When you find your box and you go through your items and decide to try them on, read up on them a bit.

Dumb me, I didn’t do that. I ignorantly picked up ‘self-worth’ and put it. And things have gone batshit crazy.

Self-worth has me acting weird.

Firstly, I am talking funny. I have for the past three weeks been going around saying things like “No. I don’t like that” I heard me say to someone, “Well then, I guess we are going to have to part ways because that does not work for me” and I wasn’t left with the need to explain and make it better for that person.

As I am busy dealing with this, I realise that my posture has also changed. Head held up, shoulders are pushed back, bum is out –I am walking around like I know something.

Crazy mad things. I looked around and thought, I am possessed. This must be how Emily Rose felt.

Now if that wasn’t bad enough. This past Friday I left work later than usual. As I am driving home, I go past this pub. The doors are open wide enough to see inside, and you can see their clientele. I take my cute little nose and push it nicely up on those people.

“Who the hell hangs out at such places – what could possibly be missing in your life to find yourself in such as place” As I am busy snubbing away, I realise, oh my goodness that used to be my hangout spot!. Those people used to be my crowd, my peeps. Now that self-worth has invaded my mind, I found myself saying to myself, this place is way below me – I can never let myself be found in places such as this.

But that is not the craziest thing about this self-worth business. It is how you start being picky about who you spend your time with. You find yourself saying crazy things like this person and I are not in the same league, I am not benefiting anything from this relationship. Not only am I blocking you – I am deleting your number.  Honestly, it is you, you are not my type. Oh yes, that is another thing, you start having a type – both personal and professional life.

I am becoming those people I used to judge for thinking they are better than others. The truth is they got themselves some self-worth.

I hear you asking, what is this self-worth that has you acting crazy like this?

I Googled it and the closest explanation to what is happening to me is “Self-worth is the sense of knowing one’s own value or worth.”

I told you, it is batshit crazy.

Lost and Found

I had a call last week Friday that might shape who I spend the next 40 years as. This woman calls and says she is So and So from So and So. By now you should know that people’s names don’t stick with me. Especially if it is our first non-social/business introduction. I don’t invest much time in remembering your name – I always work under the assumption that I am never meeting you again. As I write this, I can see how I must sound – and how short-sighted I am. I apologise, I will try harder.

But this is not about that.

So and So says she is calling because she has my box with “my lost and found.” I know she is not talking about items of clothing – which I also have a fair share that I would like back. She is talking about my ‘character traits’. My therapist says a character trait “is the way a person acts: it’s a part of their personality and it comes from inside’.  The first thing that jumps to my mind is – “Oh God, they found the bits and pieces of my reputation that I have left behind on many dance floors” I love dancing so much, I just don’t know why I can’t dance.

I catch her at the end of the sentence when she says, “When you get here just ask for me at reception and I will bring it to you”. Now I don’t who I am going to ask for when I get there. But she has a very important box of mine, I don’t want to piss her off. Sure, I say. I will figure it out when I get there, I always do. I have a week to figure out what could be in that box, except of course my reputation.

At reception, I casually and confidently say “Hi, its Thandi, I am here for……” the receptionist answers “Oh Bee, let me call her”. God is a great guy, I appreciate Him, this could have been such an awkward moment. Elizabeth, as she introduced herself to me, comes just a few minutes later and takes me into the small meeting room by reception. A clear indication that I am not expected to be here long, but she will give me a moment of privacy while we briefly discuss the contents of the box.

The box itself is not dusty, but the contents are, well to varying degrees. There are some that have gathered dust and others not so much. Which begs the question, how long have you had this box and why are you giving it to me now. Questions she answers before I ask. Apparently, until now, I never indicated that I wanted these items, so they are a collection and storage agency and they keep them until they get a message that the owner is ready to have them back.

I have undergone a few changes in my life – I assume that was the message.

I look in the box, there are things in there I didn’t even know I used to have, things such as self-worth, confidence, happiness, sense of stability and comfort, courage and my God, peace as well.  She says to me, now you have your own back, you don’t have to go looking to others to give them to you.

I look inside the box and some of these I have lived for such a long time without, what does one do with self-worth for example?

 

 

 

A Season, Reason and a Lifetime

A few weeks ago I buried my baby brother.  I know death. I get death. People die. I even have a list of people I think should die. With this as a premise, I don’t get how he is dead.  I genuinely cannot accept that he is

dead. I wrote him a letter last night (see below) and even as I was writing it, it was as if I was trying to convince myself of something that is not true. But here we go……

To Lebo,

You were my season, my reason and my lifetime. You were my north, my east, west and south. You were my partner in crime and my alibi.  Lebo how do I say goodbye to you.

How do I say goodbye to my one constant, the one that I took for granted, the one who was always here? My weekend special, my conscience, my gut feel and moral compass.

How do I say yes to my heart being ripped out of my chest without warning? How do I forgive you for leaving without a heads up? Say it is not so. Say it not true. Say they made a mistake. You win, you play dead longer than Lesego. Come back from heaven.

I don’t know why He would take you. What are you doing in heaven except driving everyone crazy. He made a mistake, and I know He doesn’t make mistakes but this time….

It’s now four weeks and two days. And I don’t know when I should stop waiting for you to come back or stop counting the days that you have been dead. I don’t know when you become a distant memory. I don’t know when you die or even if you do die or what dying means in relation to you. In the meantime, I hold on to your favourite sonnet….

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines,

 By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”

 You were my summer’s day. I will love and remember you every day of my living days. You were my season, my reason, my lifetime. You were my north, my south, my east and west. My baby brother and my older brother. My best friend and my true love. I will honour you with every waking minute and every effort of my life.

I love you ngwana heso.

 

I am a superhero and I slay ninjas

I have been quiet. In all fairness a lot of things have taken place in my life, some great others not so much. But still processing so not going to talk about them now. And they involve other people and not so sure how they would react to my sharing.

My son is five – I know, time flies hey. But he is five, over the five years, I have been told that our relationship is slightly concerning. I have written about him being my little man, I admittedly now can say, I did not know how deep that statement was. I am however blessed with a very close friend that keeps cautioning me about my son and I’s relationship, saying it borders on incest.

I am categorically stating that I don’t initiate the things that she has referenced as proof, but I will also not sit here and deny that I don’t entertain them. He is five, with very limited exposure, so all the things done are in a display of affection for his mom. To those older and with more experience, it could be concerning.  Not even going to tell you half the shit he does, you will call child services on me.

While her berating me always leaves in laughter, now that he is five, I do have to admit that I have been a bit concerned about how he displays his affection for me. I, therefore, asked a few mothers – with boy children, if this is something they have experienced, and I was told that this is normal. In fact, they found him pretty mild, they had disturbing stories to tell.

With my concerns put at ease, I can now assess his affection with less concern in my eyes.  This is what I know, I am his mother and he loves me. But let me also tell you that this is not just a ‘perve’ form of affection. I am his superhero. True story, he once told me that had a dream in which he was battling a bunch of ninjas in downtown Joburg and he was losing this battle. Things only turned around for him when I arrived, sword in hand and kicked some ass and we won.

He took his afternoon nap today and woke up to tell me that he had another dream but wasn’t scared in this dream because I was there. Makes sense, remember I am the chick that fucked up a bunch of ninjas in downtown Joburg.  When relaying his dream, he says he did not see my face, just my superhero boots and that is why he wasn’t scared. For the record, I don’t have superhero boots….well none that I know off.

Now that I know that I am a superhero, I want to say something to you, agree with me or not – it is really up to you. A guy who says to you he doesn’t get well with his mother is either saying so to impress you or has issues – big issues, deep dark emotional issues that you are going to pay for in some form or another.

It is also fair for you to say that I have not taken my year off talking shit to study the male psychology, but I am willing to put my head on the block for the above statement.

Just to let you know, I have heard many women complain about their partner’s mothers and their relationship. Either the guy is a “mommy’s boy” or the mother is a complete overbearing bitch. Firstly, about the “overbearing mother-in-law”, I have to say my mine was a sweetheart. Hence I could never meaningfully engage in the mother-in-law bashing. However, now that I have explained my son and I’s relationship, I get how one could be perceived as overbearing.

I think overbearing is too strong a word. Think about it, she gave him life, she is his first love, lover and long-time partner, confidant, best friend…dude need I say more. But I will tell you for free that she knows him better than you ever will, how can she not. And this relationship is not one-sided. He is besotted with her,  how can he not be. He has spent his whole life with her, and he has many times told her he loves her, maybe in not so many words, but he has definitely shown her, and actions speak louder than words. What you are, is the bitch coming between them.

In saying this, I can see how you could raise your brows at me and others that have given birth to boys. I just have one thing to say to you, give birth to one and we will talk then. For example, at this point I know that I will select the woman my son is going to be with, what her wedding dress is going to look like – I have his/their lives all planned out and it is going to be great.

But also, I am not saying you should go marry the guy who goes home to mommy to breastfeed every second day, that could also be a bit problematic for you.

All I am saying is and speaking on behalf of all the freaking moo cow mothers-in-laws out there, is that I have superhero boots. I am unsure what that means for you and your relationship with him. But I will tell you this for free, if he tells you that he doesn’t love his mother and they don’t speak regularly and their relationship doesn’t leave you slightly uncomfortable…run girl, run.

With that said, I am also not sure how you manage me and the many like me out there. I did say mine was five when he starts liking girls and I have to deal with them, I promise I will holla.  Until then, I repeat, stay away from the non-mother likers.

Recognising our worth

So 2016 kicked off with a bang – Penny Sparrow causing much fuss in the year that everyone hoped would be the year of great things to come – or maybe it’s just me who was excited about 2016 and its prospects.

In any case, the reaction to Penny Sparrow had me thinking – as most things do. In illustrating my point, I wanted to share my experience as a tweenie. By the age of 12, I was technically an orphan. My dad and mom died when I was six and 12 respectively. As my siblings were still in high school and first year of university, I was shipped off to live with my favourite aunt – my dad’s youngest sister. Growing up I used to love her visits – she spoiled me rotten – the mother I always wanted. So when I had to be shipped off to her, as devastated by mom’s passing, it wasn’t so bad since I got to live with someone I actually loved.

I was 13 and didn’t realise how badly I needed a mother at that time. While I had all the comforts of a normal family life, my aunt had her own two kids. I quickly realised that living with someone who is not your real mother, and has children of her own, has it challenges. I spent the next five years of my life hoping that she would claim me as hers. For example, in the early stages of our living together, her friends would visit and would say “Oh this is your daughter!” knowing very well that I wasn’t her biological child – they were just trying to make me feel included; but she was always quick to point out that I wasn’t.

It was never malicious, but most of the time, especially because of the speed that they were corrected on what she knew they knew, it felt me wanting. But most importantly, it hurt tremendously, especially because at that point I wanted so badly to belong – or for her to even claim me as one of her own. But a grew up, moved out the house and finally after many years of therapy, came to understand that as much as she had provided a roof over my head, it did not automatically make her my mother.

So what the hell does that have to do with Penny Sparrow and every ‘racists’ outed in the past few weeks? We need to get to the root of why we continue to take such an offense with racists/people who don’t want us. Please don’t misunderstand my lack of understanding of racism. I spent a good few years in a corporate environment where I got paid less my peers, was never really good enough – and when I tried to claim my space in their business – I got told that “I was getting too big for my boots”.

This morning I listened to Bob Mabena congratulating Ster Kinekor’s first black CEO. I am not hating, congratulations to Wanda Matandela. To have made it to the top seat in their world is an achievement, I guess. Like many of us who walk the corridors of corporate South Africa, we know that Wanda is CEO as a result, he will have a Board that he will report to, and his transformation vision will not be at the shareholders demise.

On the same show, one of the interviewees was someone from a marketing industry who was speaking about white people being curious and understanding us so they can sell their products – something he highlighted that was not happening but would be great if they did. Fact of the matter is, despite their lack of curiosity about us, we still consume their products.

Listening to that show this morning, I realised, that we are trying so hard to be claimed and to belong. And when we are not, our feelings get hurt, like that 13 year old I was telling you about.

Imagine if the interview on Kaya this morning was with Wanda Matandela, the first CEO of a black owned and run cinema. I for one am tired of trying to find a spot in their little kingdoms – there are too many of us capable black people to be chopping at the bits of one seat every decade.

How about we start building our own empires where the transformation we so desire would be at our design. For example, according to Census 2011, the country’s population stands at 51.77, with Africans in the majority, making up 79.2% of the population.

Based on the above, quick maths says we have 40 odd million people that if we created our own economy, our own businesses, we would be able to the provide jobs and lives our people so deserve. All it needs, in agreement with Mr Matandela, is to work as a collective. If at this moment, we took our money and spent with the people who are remotely interested in us, we would create an economy to be reckoned with and then everyone would engage on free will – not some form of obligation.