Blacks Love Hate

 

I honestly believe that there is no race more racist towards black people than black people themselves. Despite Martin Luther King’s moving speech, we are the ones who judge others by the colour of their skin. Ever since black people were freed from slavery, they have been racing towards opulence, exorbitant wealth and stunting on everyone around them. Black people hate everything and anyone doing better than them, even each other, and all it does is make my people look like clowns. Don’t get me wrong, there are some races that I also despise. The 10 kilometre really gets my blood boiling.

All you need to do is take a peek into black twitter to realise that the magnitude of the meaningless ridicule, constant bashing and terrible typographical errors are taking black people so far back that it questions how much we deserve nice things like freedom, warm water and internet.

Genders

The battle of the sexes in the black community runs deep, like the well that girl came out of in ‘The Ring’…  no it’s harder to get out of… like that hole the Dark Knight struggled to escape from. Whatever pit you can think of, it’s that, but without a bottom. We have men vs women, women vs women, and men vs men. This is the flagship demon of the black people.

Black men attack black women (sometimes physically) because black women are all apparently whores until proven otherwise. Once proven otherwise, it is only a matter of time before they become whores anyway. They believe that black women have an attitude that makes them cold, soul sucking vampires, not unlike Dementors. They are also believed to only want black men with flashy cars, designer labelled clothes and the tears of unicorns as cologne.  In light of this, whenever a black man becomes successful enough to attain these trinkets, he usually marries a white woman. This stench of insecurity is so self-defeatist that it even perpetuates itself onto the social fabric of black women. And so the vicious cycle begins.

Black women live under the notion that all black men in relationships will eventually lead a life of infidelity, no matter how well you treat them. The most amorous woman, with chef-like cooking abilities stands no chance holding down the promiscuous black man. The only type of black man that exists is a promiscuous one. A black man is to be treated no different to an untrained dog, according to black women. They must be told when to stay, who they can go out with, and who their friends can be. A black man’s phone activity should always be monitored for any extra-curricular feelings, events and meetings, in lieu of actually voicing any problems that the black woman may have. Yes, I know. It’s all rather confusing, even for me.

The black man does not like his fellow black man. He is a threat to him. If he pops three bottles in the club, it is up to you to pop four. If he has three girlfriends, you have to go gather up some girlfriends of your own. Once black males are around each other, there is no other intention than to exert your testosterone and solidify your place as the alpha-male.

Black women will twerk their way into a coma if it means another black girl doesn't get whatever she wanted. They judge each other on the enormity, or lack, of mammary glands and the gluteus maximus.  Your weave has to be perfect in the face of gale force winds otherwise you will be labelled as a ‘basic bitch’. What exactly ‘basic’ means in this context escapes me, but I’m sure the knowledge of it would scare me. There are ‘bad bitches’ and ‘ratchet hoes’ which I have learned (to my despair) are exactly the same thing except the one group has more money than the other and is thus held in a higher regard by his or her peers.

Complexion

Being light-skinned is close to godliness, that is the motto.  Whether you are male or female, if you have a light complexion you are believed to be better. And by ‘better’ I mean more sexually desirable. However, if you are able to have a caramel skin tone and still manage to be ugly, you are going to Hell, no questions asked. There are, however, some unwelcome caveats to being light-skinned.

Light-skinned men are considered to be more in touch with their feminine side than their dark-skinned counterparts, whereas light-skinned women are deemed to be self-obsessed gold diggers. These are very small prices to pay to being light-skinned. Dark-skinned people are treated with disgust and ridicule. A dark-skinned person is always the leading suspect when a crime is committed, whether they have an airtight alibi or not.

What I am trying to emphasise here is the very fact that, within a single racial group, there is racism between the light and the dark. Sound familiar? Do we miss being enslaved by white people so much that we create our own racism among our own people? It all boils down to one of two things: 1) Black people have too much time on their hands or 2) Black people hate being black.

I’m going with the latter. There have been celebrities who have been known to bleach their skin to make it appear lighter in the hope of being accepted on a more universal level. We’ll give Michael Jackson the benefit of the doubt, and vitiligo, but local celebrities like Mshoza have bleached their skin to appear lighter. Even Nicki Minaj has purposefully lightened her skin to appear ‘more white’. The burgeoning business of buying weaves from Brazil and India also support my suspicions that we don’t want to be Africans.

Service

Receiving good care as a customer is about as likely to happen as a giraffe winning a game of limbo, in an ocean, made of cement. But when a black person serves another black person, the air just becomes filled with flammable attitude. Black people in the service industry lack the appreciation of haste about as much as their black patrons lack the virtue of patience.

When the age gap is very large between the parties, the hate just inexorably filters through their pores. While other black people watch and make wagers on who will be attending whose funeral, you just sit and wonder why the black service consultant doesn't treat the black customer like he would a Caucasian customer? It’s disconcerting to accept that your fellow black sisters and brothers (no Sizwe Dhlomo) won’t treat you as well as other races. This is a part of the game that we can live without.

You can’t say that you've never walked into a KFC and the full figured lady working behind the till has given a particular look of resentment that leaves you regretting that you ever entered the establishment. It’s at this moment that your pride builds and you make your order with such authority that you even describe the chicken pieces that you want and who must serve them to you. As soon as she turns around, it hits you that she will be handling your food. Your shoulders slump and with them, the chances that you will ever get anything you want. The white family behind me is greeted with so much gusto and enthusiasm, but I comfort myself with the assumption that the till lady doesn't see too many white families in the Gugulethu Square branch of KFC.

All in all, I just wish black people could uplift each other instead of fighting all the time. Bringing each other down will not aid prosperity, it will just stifle growth. If you look at other cultures and races, from white people to Jews to Indians and Muslims, they all help each other gain as much as possible. Unit trusts are opened at the age of 12 at bar mitzvahs, while beers are sold to 12 year olds in township taverns. Black people don’t even restrain each other from making terrible decisions. If someone steps on a fresh pair of my friend’s Jordan sneakers, the only amicable way to resolve it is to shoot the perpetrator. As students in the education system, we don’t help each other unless it involves stealing someone’s girlfriend. It’s just not on. We need to mature as a collective. As new as the freedom and the money is, we need to give it a chance to grow old and accustomed to us. 

Beat Your Kids, Beat Your Legacy.

Domestic violence is ubiquitous around the black community, and it took me a particularly cynical Tuesday afternoon to ponder the reasoning behind it. Most black people are raised by black parents, and most black parents use violence as a form of disciplining their children. No, I’m not talking about sending a child to his room for ‘quiet time’, or being bent over a knee to get spanked, I am talking full blown violence.

I don’t know how many times in my childhood I considered calling Childline to have my parents arrested for inflicting grievous bodily harm on me. I often disguised these feelings as anger as I was afraid of looking like a spoilt, DSTV having, decent school attending, roof over head having little bitch. I also consoled myself with the belief that there were a lot of other, less fortunate black children who had it a lot tougher than I did. This did not, however, remove the scars that I still have today, physically and mentally.

I soon accepted this as a form of punishment and took responsibility for all my actions, understanding the repercussions that would follow. Consequences often involved fetching the tool that I would soon be beaten up with, sometimes involving being tied up during the beating itself, and on the rare occasion, an all expenses trip to the emergency room after the beating. All is well that ends well, and I have grown up to be a bright young man with facial hair. So it can’t be all that bad, right?

After leaving your parents and involving yourself in a relationship with someone, your partner tends to take on a guardian type role. It is of no fault of theirs; how else would you know when to turn the geyser on, wash the dishes, record the game, not go on boys’ night out, or drink alcohol? Your parents are no longer there to tell you to perform these tasks. In so doing, you are more likely to discipline your partner in the same way your parents disciplined you. If your parents used violence as a form of discipline to raise you, I believe that you are more likely to use violence to discipline your partner. The dynamics of when you were beaten as a child has changed over the years, yet the previously abused will see no difference.  Men will physically abuse their wives partly because they know of no other method to get them to do what they want. “Talking about it” is not an option because his parents never wanted to “talk about it”.

If twitter is anything to go by, a lot of the black South African youth are still in favour of using violence to discipline their future children. Obviously these are people who were beaten by their parents and feel like they came out alright. Maybe they want to exact some kind of misguided revenge on their parents. A little bit of “the sins of the father so on and so forth” springs to mind. I just think there is more to raising your kids than using intimidatory techniques like grotesque violence and humiliation. In fact, using reasonable punishment methods (whatever those may be) could raise a more considerate and caring child. A listener, but also someone that can make sense in words as to why things are the way they are. Our children are the best way for any of us to leave a legacy, they are an extension of ourselves, and all we want is the best for them. Give them a chance to grow up in an openly loving home instead of a house they are afraid to stay in.

Red October: Must Be Nice.

On Thursday the 10^th of October I woke up to a world filled with renewed hope and vigour. Not only was it because of the imminent weekend, but also the weekly Thirsty Thursday where I can unashamedly indulge in liquor in the middle of the week and feel like I was a part of something instead of feeling guilty. However, my boisterous mood was short lived as I arrived to work and learned about Red October.

At first I thought it was some ominous reference for Libras across the world, being a Virgo I wasn’t worried. The real horror that I later scoped was that Red October was in fact a gathering of white South Africans protesting against the notion of “white genocide”. These  people believe that white people are oppressed and marginalised in their “own” country, the worst part is that they believe that white people are being singled out and that they are the only race in South Africa which experiences the horrors of crime, poor education, and not enough tomato sauce sachets from take-away restaurants. It came with very little shock that the march was led by none other than the infamous celebrity, Afrikaans singer Steve Hofmeyr. Reports say that the march later harmonised itself into a right-wing choir, yelling chants of “Hofmeyr for president!”, but surely that was just the brandy talking.

I could imagine how cute it was; Out in the sun, acquiring skin cancer in their Kaki shorts, long brown socks and black shirts. Protesters were releasing bio-degradable red balloons into the air as a sign of their involvement in Red October. I just could not believe what was going on. Have white people run out of Rhinos to shoot in their backyards? Do they honestly believe that they are getting the brunt of the bad treatment? I thought to myself that it must be so nice to be white and purposefully oppress other races for centuries than experience 19 years of democracy and then complain that you are now the ones being oppressed. I wanted to experience this oppression that white people claim to have. I mean, considering that only 1.8% of all murders in South Africa are of white people and that less than 7% of the white population is unemployed, it couldn’t be so bad. But I guess they thought I had to feel blessed with my own people killing each other over spilled drinks in taverns and our unemployment rate of over 30%. I had to be cool with that.

“What is the point?” was the next question on my mind. What did white people have to gain from all of this? That we would all miraculously excuse them from crime and hangovers? In my humble opinion, white people should be thanking their lucky stars that someone as kind as Nelson Mandela was our first democratic president. Had it been Robert Sobukhwe or someone in the mould of Robert Mugabe, white people would have been marginalised out of the country, probably with first class tickets to Australia. You would have had to have gone completely out of your way as a white person to not have gained considerably from apartheid. I presume they just want more of that easy lifestyle. Maybe they miss the “good ol’ days” when black people couldn’t just go wherever they pleased. They suddenly can’t believe that they have been walking among these savages for the past two decades.

Could it be just a way to nip oppression in the bud before it gets authentic? Granted, Black Economic Empowerment has lowered whites in the vocational pecking order, only if every other candidate is equal in compatibility for the job. It must be so sad that your mortgage was paid in full by the nineteenth century.

I’m not saying that our country is perfect, but Lord help us if our previous oppressors are feeling uneasy while everybody else does their level best to make democracy work. It really is spit on every other citizen’s face when white people march to parliament to complain that they alone suffer in this country. You might as well have protested against equality.  I fully understand that this whole campaign was initiated by a handful of white people. Most white people in South Africa seemed just as enraged as everybody else, if  not, even more so for giving their race a bad name. Although, on the Red October website, there is a petition that has been signed by over 23 000 people. 23 000 people feel that white people are oppressed and that there is a “white genocide”.

I wasn’t aware that there were this many people who felt this way. We cannot be too surprised. White people took everything away from us, now they also want oppression. 

Rise Of The Geeks

Like it or not, social media has given the unassuming kid a second chance. Those that were once coerced to be introverted have now found a new platform with which express themselves, and it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. The beauty is that it’s inside, in the mind. People are now publicising their thoughts for the world to see and everybody has the time to give a damn. Back in school, the quirky kid with the shirt tucked in a little too tightly never got a chance to put his message across freely, until recently, and in such a vociferous manner.

So here we are, the geeks are finally getting the freaks in the most unprecedented manner. But what’s the difference between the popular kids offline and the popular one’s online? The mind. Sure, we have profile pictures, display pictures and avatars, but what really gets the people going is your particular brand of perspective on... everything really. A lot of popularity in the real world is attributed to aesthetic appeal. You can’t even fault it, as Drake the philosopher says “If you ain’t got it, you ain’t got, the theory is brilliant”. This is why you can’t even be surprised that the most influential people offline are not heavily invested online, because it dilutes their presence if their smarts don’t match their appearance. In some cases, you get to see the inner workings of a troubled mind, and it belongs to who you thought was always cool, calm and collected. Sometimes you have the rare occurrence where the cool guy with street cred is also proficient with the QWERTY keyboard. However, more often than not on social media, people are attracted to a person’s intrinsic beauty rather than their outward appearance.

A lot of talk, and sometimes stigma, circles around starting relationships with people you meet online. I’m not entirely sure when meeting people became so complicated that it became judged, but you can’t help but feel connections with people that are on your wavelength. If you want to meet those people, go for it. I think it beats befriending people purely on the basis of being your friend’s friend. Online, people are a lot more open, direct and free. They no longer have to worry about anyone invading their personal space unless they invite them. People become so comfortable with each other that they overshare or become emotionally invested in the most trivial matters.

Is making friendships or any kind of relationship online any less real than making them at a house party, mall or back seat of a taxi? I certainly don’t think so. Yes, we have catfish and people who pretend to be something they’re not, but all these facades are dispelled by the first meeting.  All the nerdy, awkward children are now adored by the masses. In the marathon of life, they just got a second wind. By association, it has filtered through to the real world. The cast of Big Bang Theory is more likely to get laid than the cast of Blue Mountain State, whether they are online or not. Smart is the new beautiful, yet still in the eye of the beholder. Maybe I didn’t see this in the past thanks to my naivety and being wet behind ears, or perhaps it was never mentioned out loud or posted all over the internet, but people are less shallow than I thought. The playing fields have been levelled in a way where jocks and mean girls are now required to incorporate some level of depth in their personalities... or not, they can continue to adorn the fashionable fabrics of misters Hardy, Abercrombie and Fitch.

One distinct disadvantage that has arisen since the advent of social media is the level of judgement that has

increased at an exponential rate, as was showcased after the ellipsis in the previous paragraph. Cyber bullies have contributed to the suicides of several people that they never even met. This is where a level of discretion needs to observed. If you take everything seriously, you will have a very bad time. However, if something is repeated often enough and convincingly enough, you will subconsciously take it to heart. Either way, I’ve always thought suicide was for the emotionally bankrupt and cowardice extremists. Just please, before you make any rash decisions, look at the bigger picture.

No longer are people subjected to conduct themselves to the whims of the genetically gifted few. Creativity within well articulated prose now has a relevant place in the world. Never has it been so cool to be strange. This is the rise of the planet of the geeks. 

Town Ships

Town: verb 1. To participate in sexual intercourse without the use of protection, usually that of a condom.

Other forms: towning, townable, towntalk, towner, townist.

Eons ago, when the indigenous people of South Africa were able to freely roam the vast and abundant pastures of its land, ignorance was the greatest bliss. Strandloopers would play with the Koi-San, Xhosas would play with sticks, and Zulus would play with their foreskin. All the land was our’s, as far as the eye could see (you still had it even if you were Ray Charles to the distribution of land). During these times, towning was not an unpopular choice. It was the only means of having, and/or enjoying sex.

Skip forward to 1652 and Jan van Riebeeck, the sailing Dutchman, arrives at what would soon be called The Cape Colony. He introduced us to Bibles and mirrors, and forced upon us what his society perceived as right and not-so-right.  Interestingly enough, it seems as though we indoctrinated the Bible and mirror religion whole-heartedly, and with it, lost our blissful ignorance. Who would have thought that grown men would be taking selfies (pictures of themselves) today?

We could no longer just town anyone we wanted in the hope of them not knowing how beautiful they were or without them bringing up the moral or ethical values of casual coitus. We lost a large amount of our land and were banished to the outskirts of major cities (commonly known as townships) and Lesotho, because let’s face it, Lesotho is just a shorter way of saying Drakensburg Mountains.

In steps father Democracy in his knight and shining armour in 1994, expected to fix the injustices perpetrated in South Africa’s troubled past. President Nelson Mandela, being a symbol of reason and forgiveness, does not exact revenge on all white women and children. Instead, he promises equality for all and happily ever afters. Land reform policies follow suit, without much success. But there’s also a new kid on the block that’s been brewing for a decade or so, AIDS. And boy, it’s a killer.

Gone are the days where our forefathers could just happily town and reproduce without fear of child support payments or death. We can no longer town without consequences. South Africa now has one of the largest proportion of infected populations in the world. On top of all this, WE STILL DON’T HAVE OUR LAND BACK. I think it’s time. It has been 19 years and father Democracy is taking his own sweet time. I’m not saying we revolt against every white-owned establishment across the land. There just isn’t enough good land left for all that, and I’m not about that war life. I propose we take to the sea.

Money acquired from corrupt government tenders would raise enough money to build massive yachts. Almost like cruise ships, like the ones that have golf courses and extra-marital affairs on them. They would set anchor at every major city across South Africa, even makeshift ones in Gauteng and Bloemfontein. These yachts will be free to board by any indigenous South African citizen and will be equipped with the latest in medical technological devices. Scanners at boarding gates will detect any STDs instantaneously, in which case you are not allowed on board. Ankle bracelets will be fastened on every passenger, rendering them infertile for as long as they have it on. Milk, peanuts and bananas will be on the house while everything else will be generously subsidised.  

Cabins will have numbers. These numbers, instead of increasing in sequence, will state how many people can comfortably have sex in that cabin. Naturally there will be a lot of twos, but if patrons are feeling extra feisty they can opt for rooms numbered 3 to 8. The homosexuals will have their own wing, on top, or the bottom. Passengers will be able to disembark at any time they wish by just walking off the yacht, and handing in the ankle bracelet.

I would like to call these the new, and improved, Town Ships. No longer places of civil unrest and xenophobia, but vessels of unrestrained, yet consensual towning. Without consequences beyond that of a bit of chafing and classy walks of shame from exquisite yachts. Towning without consequences... it's beautiful, like drinking without hangovers.

Funemployment To A Degree

I graduated with a bachelor of commerce in 2011. It's called a BCom general majoring in finance. I tell you this, not because I want to gloat about my academic under-achievements, but to give you an idea of where I'm coming from.

A large majority of people are under the belief that education breeds success. This notion, though not far from the truth, does have its anomalies however. Some of the most successful people in the world never got a whiff of tertiary education. Granted, the people I speak of were too incredible, and passionate in their fields to be bogged down by the constraints of higher learning. Bill Gates and Richard Branson both dropped out of Harvard and high school, respectively. These are two highly successful and respected individuals, and various Forbes lists will re-iterate this.

Acquiring a degree shows cognitive ability and the ability to finish what you start. It shows a desire to gain technical or theoretical  knowledge in a field you are interested in, or not interested in. A degree also comes at a price; monetary and otherwise. Fresh out of high school, time is one of your greatest assets, as you have  so much of it left on this precious earth, God willing. Yet we are inclined to spend 3 to 7 in an educational institution. It almost sounds like a jail sentence. After which, you start at an entry level job in a company you only have the desire of owning. You might not even find a job in the field you studied in. During your studies, you might have changed your mind about what you want to do for the rest of your life. Before you know it, you're getting capped in front of your parents and it's all a very joyous occasion. The crippling reality is that you're not the only graduate in this world. Your matric friends that went straight to work after high school have a lot more of this valuable work experience that everyone wants. They might have even started their own companies. Maybe that degree, with your name on it, helps you sleep at night, but before NSFAS wakes you up demanding a loan repayment ask yourself this: Is this what I really want?

I completely understand if you studied what you loved, with a bursary even, and still enjoying it. You are one in a few and are very blessed. Most of us are not afforded that luxury. It's just that times change, and time is precious enough as it is. I feel as though we should be creating our own jobs instead of competing with others for the same ones. Even the satisfaction of creating your own title is greater than getting a promotion at Whatwhat & Sons. As far as I know, we are still under economic turmoil. This doesn't mean there are a lack of resources. You need to take charge of your situation and take advantage of the world's situation. Create something that was never there. Or you can just chill, it's up to you. Who knew twerk teams could be so lucrative? I have seriously considered starting a Home Wrecker's agency where I employ beautiful and charming people most likely to end marriages. Our clients will be those seeking easy divorce through adultery on their spouse's part. Payment will be a proportion of the consideration from the divorce settlement. Not sure it's legal though.

At the time of writing, I still want to pursue an honours degree in finance or travel overseas to teach foreign children English. I just don't know if I want another feather in my cap or an experience worth having.

Not Your Average Tweeter

There are many different types of people on twitter. Although their cyber presence may not be a true reflection of their lives, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I don’t find it entertaining. There are some tweets out there that make me sad, happy, excited, depressed and all in a matter of a late morning. Twitter is far more stressful than Facebook because it operates at breakneck speed. It’s a haven for those with ADD. Don’t get me wrong, there are some amazing and profound tweeters in the Twitterverse. I’m not criticising anyone or the way they tweet. I, myself, fall into a couple of the categories listed below.

I’m only going to concentrate on Twouth, I mean South Africa, black twitter in particular. I just find any other type of twitter too obsequious. These are the types of tweeters I have experienced.

Beginners:

Usually starts off their account without uploading an avatar and therefore being displayed as an egg, accompanied by a tweet along the lines of “This is my first tweet! I’m twittering! What’s #FF?” This encourages ridicule from anyone you try to engage with. You’re an egg, your existence has not yet been realised.

A few 100 tweets and a shady avatar later, you’re in everyone’s mentions, trying to get a rise out of them. And by a rise I mean, an RT of acknowledgement that you boosted their ego, or more eloquently known as ‘dickriding’. Or, you could go for the jugular and tweet some gassed up attention-seeking bile a few times and see if anyone bites. Be careful with this one because you have to back your, in this case bile, up until the very end otherwise you’ll fail to make an impact. This task is better accustomed to the “A Mention Seeker”, which is explained later in greater detail.

Failing all this, you can resort to tagging everyone in alphabetical order followed by a #PFB (please follow back). Don’t forget to add a smiley face to make it look more personal :) 

Avatarists:

Only for self-obsessed beautiful people (girls, preferably), or those with an incredible perception of camera angles. Your favourite filter is black & white with a generous display of leg and/or cleavage from a bird’s eye-view.

You begin your day with a “Good morning J” tweet and see if your latest revealing hipster avatar will source any thirst. You then carry on your day complaining about how your beauty makes people treat you differently and dropping more tweets of a tortured soul that usually end in #FML. Avatar changes that are followed by tweets announcing them are recommended.

You can add a few easy followers by aligning yourself to #TeamScreenMunchThatNigga. Their mission statement reads as follows: “Any thirsty DM, or even BBM, must be attended to with the swiftest bat (rejection) then carefully screenmunched for the world to see how unapproachable you are.”

McFollow Burger:

These are the people that retweet anything that contains the word ‘follow’ and are never afraid to celebrate an achievement of a milestone fellowship. Tell us how many followers you need to reach 700 and I’m sure everyone will be queuing at the ‘follow’ button trying to get you there.

You have evolved from #TeamFollowBack and have adopted an unhealthy sense of what is best to hashtag, everything. You can occasionally drop a pearl of wisdom, which will surprise most of your subscribers into RTing you. But wait, there’s more; you can RT every single time someone RTs you and inception everyone into thinking you’re not too bad.

The Police:

This is for the righteous and all-important. Twitter is a place designed for you to govern what others should tweet about, when they should go to sleep or when a certain topic is dead.

Clearly your life has given indication that you can’t control everyone so you decided to question people’s eating habits on twitter instead. How adorable. As wonderful as that sounds, you have your work cut out for you. Your selection of followers has to be impeccable so as to get to the breaking news as soon as possible. It’s sometimes best to call back up, so tag your twitter mates and let them know you’re at the scene of the crime. While discussing the offence, a lot of bystanders will get involved to give their statement and testimony and presto, you have a trending topic.

You specialised in relationship advice, and since you’re here to serve and protect, your unsolicited counsel is most welcome.

Dear Diary:

This is no different to using twitter as a diary and/or food log. Tweeting that you’re going to the gym doesn’t add value to anyone’s life except your own, so you have to tell us.

In actual fact, you’re most likely to decrease the value of life by tweeting about a fatal accident before calling the police (I am not referring to the category of people above). Ironically, you will be the first person to tweet “RIP” if anyone passes away, whether you knew the person or not. You’re great at seeming positive, so you’ll also be the first to wish a happy birthday and the first ‘Halala!’ at any personal achievement.

To add to your experience, you can take photographs of your filtered food and cautiously placed cutlery.

A Mention Seeker:

You will do anything to get a mention, or attention. This can be done in many different ways. You can be vulgar, immoral, anti-establishment, a troll and a general discomfort in the rear end.

The more insanely ludicrous your tweets are, the better. You can spend hours just trolling celebrities or you could make a statement by dehumanising rape, it’s up to you. Your tweets can have quite an impact if they get through the right channels, so keep trying.

However, you do run the risk of being roasted by a stronger, more powerful tweeter. This might force you to go in hiding and change your handle, or God forbid, deactivate your account just from the sheer embarrassment of it all.

The Over-Tweeter:

You tweet all day and all night at an average of over 100 tweets every 24 hours. You tweet so much your presence on people’s timelines becomes the background.

Your tweets become numbing to most but you are loved by many. You are the go to guy, the last patron at the bar still standing. You engage with everyone and are a joy, when sober. Give that man a Bell’s. And although you tweet about it a lot, I can’t imagine what your life is actually like since you tweet so much.

Everyone’s Favourite:

You fall into an elite group of people who can do no wrong. Your tweets are always stellar and consistently brilliant. You produce tweets with a wonderful combination of humour, profound awareness and humility.

People refrain from saying anything harmful towards you in fear of the masses suspending their account for you. You have a reputation to uphold, and as upstanding as you may be, it is difficult to save face when someone does come at you.

There are many other types of tweeters, like Sports Fanatics, Poets and Story Tellers, which speak for themselves. There are also those who merely use twitter as a platform to chat to their mates. You may fall into any one or more of these categories, or the ones listed before.

If you don’t, you’re probably the cold part in a poorly microwaved pie; you will be reheated. Terrible analogies aside, you have been heeded. 

 - @SeeYay

The Sex Exchange

If dick were a commodity at the Johannesburg Stock Exchange, it would be a share as desirable as a vagina after birth. Don’t get me wrong, shareholders continue increasing their influence in the industry.

Men have this uncanny ability to put up an intelligent façade and yet still do the darndest things. Dick is so freely available that it’s even given to the dead and infants, without consent obviously. Recently there was the tragic gang rape and murder of Anene Booysen and it brought the public to a state of realisation. The realisation that shit like that happens. What I’m interested in discussing is when did dick become so useless that it has to be given under duress, with multiple participants and then proceed to murder? It’s disgusting.

Every man knows how difficult it is to turn down pussy. Thankfully, and unfortunately at the same time, women are aware of this. The bank accounts of many a grown ass man have been depleted to negative figures because of the pursuit of vagina. Women need to understand that men cheat only because they are given the opportunity. You can’t cheat if no one else wants to fuck you. And we generous gentlemen just give the dick away like we’re Oprah Winfrey hosting a Christmas special. Grown ass men are publicising on social networks how they would do unforgivable things to merely toss the salad of any ample bootied woman that crosses the street. It’s all rather sad actually. I mean, I’d be crying if women were not so emotionally invested in the idea of having a man.

Ever since that Egyptian goddess Cleopatra, the pussy index has been known for trading at above market value and it has held firm. The screenmunch and thirst trap era, coupled with the inevitable “Ain’t nobody got time fo dat!” has secured their [missionary] position. As men (the competitive variety), we need to increase our stock price. This can only be achieved by ignoring the pussy altogether. Do not buy women drinks, pursue your non-sexual fantasies and leave before the club closes. Not unlike Facebook, I may be talking to a wall here. As humans, we are not designed, only taught, to not act on our desires. But in one’s quest for self-actualisation, all desires are recognised, according to Mazlow’s Heirachy of Needs. Please do not throw obvious bones at these women otherwise they will never let you forget. If you have to throw bones, make sure they are inception bones that cannot be used against you in the court of law. By the way, to 'throw bones' is to mack, spade or just basically letting someone know that you like them.

Don’t misconstrue what I’m saying as a plea for a young thug not to fall in love. Just don’t undermine yourself or give up on your values or principles. That is what women are attracted to; a sure man, an unforgiving man, a confident man. I may be wrong, but I think it was the recently retired Pope Benedict who once said, “You will lose money chasing women but you will never lose women chasing money”. Who knows? You might actually grow up and mature, thus also maturing what you look for in a woman. Sometimes it's not all about aesthetic appeal but emotional connection. You might even start to relate to Jimmy Soul's lyric, "If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife".

Fun For The Hoe Generation

The greatest trick the hoe ever pulled was convincing us that she didn't have feelings. Most men have, at some point, made it off the bench and started for Team Save A Hoe. I would also like to venture a guess and say that most men lost their virginity to a hoe. Hoes are a part of life, they are the backbone to the moral fibre of society and somebody has to do it. Please note: In this piece, 'hoe' is synonymous with 'side chick'.

They usually start off very cool, almost like a male companion. Laughing at chauvinistic comments and getting involved in general bro talk. Men take this as "She wants the D", because more often than not, she does. She'll casually come up with an ideal proposition along the lines of fooling around with no strings attached. At this point, the man doesn't feel obligated to divulge any much information with regards to whatever relationship he might be having at the time, nor does he care for whatever relationship she might be in. Besides, most men know that nothing beats the warmth of your penis wrapped inside some vaginal walls. So you proceed to fucking like champions and enjoying the pleasures of a non-committal and unemotional relationship... then the man gets confused. This is primarily because his dick is hard 95% of the time he's with her, and the amount of blood in the male body can only run one head at a time. This carries on for a couple of weeks or months and the man may start to consider dating her. The problem is that he doesn't want to jeopardise the great head, solid vagina and non-existent pillow talk and she doesn't seem to even require a relationship.

This is until she sees the man in his mack stance, talking to another woman. Or until she finds out he has a girlfriend. This is when all the shit hits the fan where all hell has broken loose. She will badmouth your girlfriend, threaten to castrate, or set clothes on fire. The bi-polarity of hoes has always astounded me. For example, even after the less than amicable end to your extra-curricular dalliances, she will see you at the club, drunk, and attempt to have sex with you in the bathrooms. She'll do this right in front of the leopard printed shawty with the pedicured toes you were trying to win. Some hoes take it as far as conjuring up fake pregnancy scares in an attempt to trap the man, or get money out of him. This is a bold move and used as a last resort that could turn out very ugly, especially if she really is pregnant. This distinct lack of tact pushes the man further away and before you know it, all is forgiven and memories are kept. It goes without saying that this methodology is what makes her a certified hoe. It is the combination of not wanting a relationship while having casual sex, then acting like you did when it's over. Take away the latter and you have a girl that just enjoys having sex. Hoes love attention.

I don't have anything against hoes. Life would be boring without them, and probably longer. I wish we could celebrate them with some kind of Hoe Olympics where performance enhancing drugs are the norm. I would love to see who the Dance Hoestrong would be. What bothers me is the amount of emotional turmoil hoes withstand to continue hoeing. How much heartbreak can one take before they lose it completely? Maybe that explains why they're bi-polar. And it is for this reason I do not want a daughter. I would consider starting a new family if I saw my future daughter tweet "We outchea in VIP! Hoe vibes lol ;)".


Disclaimer: No hoes were hurt during this post.

Left For Dead

Sbu and I at the IG office in Greenpoint,

On Friday I went to an Instant Grass party. It was at this new place called The Industry on Harrington Street. I later remembered that it used to be a titty bar called "The Cage" where pregnant strippers were not uncommon.

My friend, Adam, and I started at Neighbourhood for a couple draughts and a catch up on THESE WHORES!! The establishment was more full than last night's moon, so we didn't stay much longer than the duration of imbibing a cursory draught and tequila shot.

When we rocked up at The Industry, it was pretty empty. There was a boxing ring around the DJ booth which kind of reminded me of Vinyl Digz of winter last year. I heard that this particular party was organised by Leneave, but I couldn't blame him for the mediocre attendance because it was still very early. Adam and I resolved that we would leave if Raiko's set didn't bring a vibe that would involve women losing their inhibitions, morals and the occasional braid. The problem was, during his set, Adam's pops texted him to inform him he was dropping furniture off at his place at around midnight. He said he would go home, charge my phone, then come back. He never came back. Mind you, he still owed me two rounds.

Adam and I at Pop Bottles last year.

There I was, left for dead with nowhere to go. Shafted like a Capetonian in Joburg, I was determined to attempt a 'Spread', like Ashton Kutcher. Then I saw Mila. Mila is short for Milagre. He's from Mozambique and chews honeys for fun. He advises me that there are two girls who take the D seriously enough to fear it. I just wanted to sleep, so I winged for him. The girl's names were Vuyo and Sandra, and after some carefully placed negative compliments (by Mila, of course), they offered to take us to their humble abode. They lived in Woodstock, filled with Woolworths products. We drank and smoked until night and day became an item. I was wearing one of my worst pair of boxers, so I had no intention of showing them to anybody. I woke up from my drunken stupor at 1pm on Saturday, not knowing were I was. Sandra and Mila were nowhere to be seen. I woke Vuyo up to let me out but she wasn't impressed. I'm not sure why because I'm a good person, but she had short blonde hair and I couldn't be associated with her for much longer in fear of what her boyfriend may be capable of. I've met some that have priors, so I'm not delusional. By that time I knew my girlfriend was hacked with me, so I left immediately. I asked some winos where I could find a public telephone (I gave my phone to Adam the night before) to call Jade. I found out that she was at the Old Biscuit Mill enjoying The Neighbour Goods Market so I met up with her there. I relayed the events of the previous night told only to find out that Adam had already told her the concocted cover up story. She was cool with it but not keen to go to Vinyl Digz, which her friends had launched her into attending. I didn't really care, I just wanted the hair of the dog that bit me.

I get to the rooftop and it's hotter than a mahfucker (still not sure what's that suppsed to mean. How is a person who fornicates with your maternal parent, hot?). I smoke a few joints with Sakhile and chill with Jade and her mates. We commandeer a couch under some gazebo thing. It was so hot I had to take off my black tee. Now, I have only just recently become accustomed to showing my torso in public. I'm not saying we should all go to a nude camp and see what happens, but I'm not against the idea. My psychosomatic illness came from having an outie bellybutton and a surgical scar around it, but I digress. Looking around the rooftop party I met some more good peoples in Roxy and Vim. I started receiving lingering glares from the crowd, but I attributed that solely to the bundles of oestrogen around me. The heat, the beer and blunts started catching up on me worse than some trifector that Satan probably places on his mantle piece at his crib. Jade and I ducked out of there before things got way too messy for our budget.

On Sunday I woke up feeling more tender than a recently gangbanged vagina. Lying in the foetal position in bed, my girlfriend baked what would later be some delicious mini-Oreo cheesecakes. What a sport. Good weekend.

- Siyabawisa or @SeeYay for short. 

My Handle

I attended Rodebosch Boys' for eleven years.

Okay, let's double back. Having spent the first seven years of my life eMthatha, I knew next to nothing about isilungu. I had my first crush in what we used to call Sub A at Umtata International School. She was a coloured girl in my class, and one day I arrived at school and my teacher was unconscious with blood all over her face, outside the classroom entrance. Being the Jaleel White (of the 90s) of awkward situations, I searched for my crush. I found her sitting on the floor, crying for her teacher in distress. I'll never forget what it felt like to hold and console her. PAUSE.

The next year we moved to Rondebosch and I was associated with white kids until about Grade 9. By that time the black kids in the school became wary of my delinquent behaviour and I felt ordained when they took me under their wing. And no, it wasn’t to reform me. As much as I felt like I was only there for these okes’ amusement, I truly felt the friendship when one of my mates started calling me 'CA'. I heard this as more of a ‘Siya’ on some Colonial French tip. Either way, I ran with it further than Bruce Fordyce. Maybe even to a point where I was inceptioned into studying chartered accountancy. Nah, that's just the weed talking.

- CA

PS: Oh yeah, my Sub A teacher suffered her head injury by walking into the face brick wall next to the doorway, on her way into class. Drugs are bad, kids. 

So Far And Before

"Compleemants of teh seizures" - Me (31 December 2012, Midnight). To all those who sent their season's greetings via SMS with perfect grammar and spelling, I'm so sorry. You lot should learn to live a little. Ironically enough, I tried this last year, and as most Bafana Bafana fans don't know: You win some, you lose some.

Things only really started falling apart towards the end of last year when I lost my job. There are few things I hate more than dwelling in the past and wallowing in self-pity, so I'm not going to go in to detail as to how my vocational contract was ended prematurely.

All in all, however, 2012 was a memorable year. Partially because for most of the year, a very small part of me was hoping it would all end on the 21st of December, as predicted by the extinct Mayan people. I drank, I loved, I lived. I learned a lot about gin and tonic, managing relationships and being nice to others. I am happy, in a stable relationship and still loved by my parents. This all may sound like fun, but through all this I also hurt, and learnt, the hard way.

I'm not the type to blow his own horn, so I won't. I am an advocate of self-deprecation, so I laugh at myself as often as possible to prevent others from procuring as much joy from my dismay. During the embryonic stages of 2012 it soon became apparent to me that I was somehow more appealing to others than I have ever been (men and women). I'm not exactly sure if it was because I had a new found confidence in myself but something was ripe in the state of Denmark (Hamlet). I had graduated in BCom Finance at UWC the year before, and I was eager to engage with people that wear jeans that fit and mouths that were worth opening. Too eager. A couple of broken hearts later and almost losing a close friendship (which I'm still trying to fix), it hit me like a "Missed My Flight" from Abantu at 2 in the morning. You know, when couples are already on second base right next to the bouncer sitting on the barstool outside? I knew I needed to grow even more worldly than just the cosmopolitan confines of Cape Town. I met many new people from all walks of life: Those that are not from South Africa, gays, lesbians, transgenders and some big booty hoes.

I was living on my own, on my own account, for the second time in my life. And the rockstar lifestyle dwindled along with the wages every month. I look back at it now, and I honestly do not regret a single moment of it. A lot of people that know me, or think they know me, would be forgiven for thinking that I was some kind of sex-crazed alcoholic. At some point, maybe I was, but there are so many different aspects of my personality. I am terrible in my mother tongue (no incest), good with maths and English, and my mind rarely sleeps. A good friend told me that I drink so it can sleep, to which I hmmmm'd very introspectively. So I carried on living outside of my means and out of my comfort zone and realised that what I want in life won't be attained while I'm blacked out, or maybe I black out because I'm afraid of what I'll attain if I don't. Petty excuses, I know. One thing I haven't lost is my need to throw in a crumpled piece of toilet paper in the bowl before I defecate to prevent any arterial spray during any audible log droppings. Okay, time for a new paragraph.

Twitter had a huge role to play in terms of my relationships, viewing the world how others perceive it, twerking and a whole host of other abominable realisms. People are not inherently on Earth for everyone else's benefit. They generally don't care unless it involves them. And they often find amusement and joy in the failure of others. But I'm not here to give Twitter a bad rap. During the many times I was painting the town red, people would approach me asking if I was 'SeeYay' or 'Sunny's brother' (Sunny is my brother). By then they had already had a decent grasp of what kind of person I was based on my tweets, and it was thus easy to engage with them, if I wasn't on the floor begging it to stop spinning. This was around the same time I decided that Twitter was indeed real and I would use it to my advantage. And by my advantage I mean get women. It worked, but it was meaningless. I was never raised to be that person, and I never will be.

It has come to my attention that I want to become a writer and need to not mislead people with 140 character sensationalist tweets, but rather get a full view of who I am. This is what I think is the best platform to showcase this talent and kill two birds with one bone (yes, this is a threesome reference, but not really). So here I am, giving in to the whims of blogging for the betterment of my life. I really don't subscribe to the notion of IDGAF. Everyone cares, and without caring all we have is anarchy and unkempt toenails. Like my early days on Twitter, I have no idea how this works but one thing I do love is learning. And with that I complete my first blog post.

- Siya Mawisa or @SeeYay for short.