The Mirror that fell of the wall

Just like the night has eyes
You also had all your eyes on me
You always starred at me
unashamed
You were never ashamed or afraid to be honest with me
You never Judged me
I did that on my own
You were just wise to reflect what you saw
In perfect silence
I would sometimes get angry at you
Not that it was your fault,
that my clothes hugged me,
revealing my unwelcome love handles
Just like the night has eyes
you also had all your eyes on me
You were there for me, my kids, my visitors
Everyone entering my space, noticed you, noticing them
I have travelled from flat, to house, to cottage, to town, to city, to countryside, to beach front view apartment and back to house with you
Ours was a long-term relationship of relevence and silence
In retrospect you were one of my more stable relationships
We had a silent yet powerful relationship
Even in the night, you let your presence, felt and be known.
I still turn around, even after the acceptance that you are gone
to see a white wall,
empty
also grieving the loss of your presence.
I never knew what to say
What to feel
or what to do
but pick up the broken pieces when I got the call that the wind had blown you off the wall
and you now lay in 8 irregularly shaped pieces
To be exact.
Some pieces, just scraping the top of my son's head who was walking past you.
You were never dangerous
I knew that
You left him unscarred
Several sharp-edged thoughts went through my mind
The superstitios say your breakage means 7 years of bad luck
I chose to remember what Mama used to say:
When something breaks, it marks that old things are gone and behold all things become new
I walk about in the same room, were you paraded your African beauty
and realise
that I no longer worry about who is looking at me
who is watching me
it is as though I was always
waiting
to be judged and i had gotten used to hearing your silent views
and other peoples point of view
about me
but like Mama used to say, old things are past and behold all things are new
mirror off the wall, your 8 pieces lie as a piece of art and a mosaic
a beauty to behold
on how, even after being shattered
you still remain a piece of art
I dont see myself through you in the same way
you no longer see me in the same way you used to
Just like the night has eyes
I reflect about your reflection
8 after all is the number of  new begginings
© Zoom

Schizophenic lover

I am talking to you
Can you hear me?
Why are'nt you looking at me in the eye?
Am I irritating you?
Are you too busy?
Okay fine
I will leave you alone
But Baby why did you not pick up the phone?
did you not see the missed calls?
My sms message said you received the message
C'mon
Baby, is that lipstick on your shirt
Its red
I did not hug you today
And I did not put lipstick on today
I only used gloss
Baby you smell different
Did you buy a new perfume?
But its flowery
Baby I thought flowery perfumes made you sneeze
Where were you?
Are you going to answer me?
Fine
I will keep quiete
Are you a brick wall?
Sweets?
Love?
Baby
I am obviouly an irritation
Do you love me?
Are you ever going to answer?
(Storms out sniffing and banging the door)
(comes back in)
dont say I never tried loving you
I care for you
Does that even cross your mind?
Okay fine
Thats it
I have had it

(sits and cries loudly.  No one comforts her)

The other side of the fence

My mom rose before the sunrise and was louder than the cock that crowed two hours after she had already woken the entire house hold up with her shuffling around the house and making porridge in the kitchen.  It did not help that she had a limp and a special way of always tripping on things followed by a loud scream of shock, from herself to herself for all of us to hear.  You would not dare make a comment on her scream or her fall, if you knew what was good for you.  She had a way of making sure she was the reason you wore a smile for the rest of the day or had a good-night sleep but her wrath was nothing you would want to know.  It stung like a bee.  She was just loud like that and a sweet heart as well.
I remember locking myself in the bathroom of my apartment on the first Christmas I spent without her.  I cried on the floor, head on the toilet seat.  No.  I was not thinking of drowning myself, but had to have a private cry. I don’t know what it is about my daughter Tendai, she has a way of sniffing out my emotions and my feelings and is a private investigator of sorts.  She may not always know what to say but she is somehow a constant shadow and hug provider.  I could hear her little fingers tapping on the door and when all else fails her she will keep her “I love you mommy" record on repeat mode.  And that only made me sit on that fluffy pink bathroom carpet some more and cried till the tears met up with the snarlies above my upper lip and together made their salty way into my mouth through the side entrance.
The cry changed and no longer became  about me missing my mother and all that she meant to me but on how selfish I was being for not appreciating and embracing the load of love that I had around me with Thapelo and Tendai.  Thapelo is best with forehead kisses and smiles in your face.  Just to make sure that you don’t miss his silent "I care and I feel you.  I don’t understand the depth of your emotions but I am here and I love you."
I woke up bright and early this morning, with so much purpose. The day before Christmas and wow my wreath is up and all the lights twinkling, just the way I like them too.  I got up with so much ooomph and I realised that sometimes it’s not what you have or don’t have but whom you have in your life that counts.  Yes the goodbyes are sad.  They are hurtful but the hello’s have so much potential and opportunity that missing those could mean messing up your today and perhaps your future.
After my father left his cancer ridden body.  I could not cry.  No matter the situation. I could frown, I could scream, I could shout, I could smile brighter than before and I could laugh really loud but I could not cry. I was numb. Emotionless and I remember looking through my Donna Karen of New York sunglasses at the casket going down the grave with my dads head facing the west and I knew that the wrap and curtain call of both my parents’ life meant a new beginning for me.  One that had a lot of potential and one that means a whole new book.  It was no longer a chapter of my life.  It was an entire foundation.
My parent’s instantaneously became individuals in my life. These were the two people in my life that were a constant team.  Together.  Whether in a fight or not.  I spoke to one and knowing that it would not be long before the other knew. Good or bad. They were a unit. They painted the canvas in which I was to live my life.  They chose the background.  They chose the paint.  The setting.  The frame of the picture.  I now had to come out of the painting and enlarge myself.
I think more than any of their other kids, I took to these two people as my friends.  My siblings would sometimes be embarrassed - well they should not be reading my stuff anyway. I know I did not copyright the letters but still, my dad and I exposed our mind-space and feelings in lengthy letters. With mom it was behind closed doors.  I mean everything.  The conversation would start a similar way that my daughter starts a conversation with me, way too often for my liking. It goes something like "Mommy do you promise you will still love me and won’t shout at me..." and I not like my mother who would always say "Yes".  I am an "it depends" type of a mother.
These conversations would teach me that no matter what the situation, no matter how dodge it was, no matter how my angel wings got clipped in my escapades of life so that I had no option but to allow my profile that looked like I was  flying on a broom stick to be published.  Embarrassing my family, their values and sometimes myself but I learnt that family is something you don’t choose and parenthood is the biggest calling of loving in spite of.
Loving is just that one thing that makes living for those that love you so important.  I realised that I lived for my parents.  Yes I moved out at 21.  Infact, before that. And married young etc, in time for them to love me back after a divorce and help me raise my kids, including waking them up at 3am with tears in my eyes and a high temperature child.  I never called the Doctor first.  I called home in tears and the silly kids would laugh and smile as soon as I entered the house.  Love cures.
I sit back and smile and sometimes miss the lengthy phone calls that always came via my office line just before 4pm.  Instead of just asking me to come and pick him up from the office, he did not feel like driving he would start the conversation with "that man is not good for you" refereeing to a guy I was dating and then that would change too "I am old.  You are lending a hand to my death.  You are wasting the good-looks I gave you.  Why don’t you and your sister have relationships?"...the conversation would end with me in tears and me speaking loudly asking if its about cows in his kraal or about me.  He would pretend he did not hear me and carry on without a full stop but a whole lot of exclamation marks after his questions, that he did not bother to wait for answers for.  I would eventually get my two cents worth after a hot ear that was now stuck for an hour .  Did he bother to read the bible and see that HE who finds and not SHE who finds, finds a good thing and obtainath favour from the Lord.  So I am the favour that needs to found.  Maybe I just was not being found for goodness sake. No one has entered into a treasure hunt.  Their bad. Not mine.  Maybe that’s the problem.  Dunno why everyone thinks I am too fussy.  Do I look fussy? Of course not.  Anyway an hour later would find us taking a slow drive together to Ntuzuma and me listening to the achievement of his recent court case.  My dad started making sure on taking me out for a meal at a classy restuarant  or  calling me home for dinner were he would braai.  Yes he always did that but now he was trying to paint a better picture on my view on men.  We got closer after moms death.  I suddenly became his baby in the sense of being a real 'daddy's girl' so much so that he felt he needed me by his side when he gave into death.  He would make sure that I was on point on style. He liked buying and giving.  He even bought my brother’s late wife’s Christmas clothes.  Now that was just scwheet.  Hope my future father in law spoils me.  My Tata was a black Italian, and he knew that I laaaaav style and yet wanted nothing to do with a temper and tantrum throwing man.  Gentle and peaceful, loving and kind was my type.  Hence I did not know why I did not change my glass lenses to see through a man who wore sneakers and shorts during the week or one who chose to wear his reading glasses in the sun as a man with potential capabilities of being a decent man for me. Alas! My fashion-police citizen arrest portfolio always seemed to get the better of me.
Subconsciously and more consciously when I lost my parents, I realised that the dreams I had, my aspirations were all a game plan to bless them, to make them look good and feel good.
They were the sun rays that kept my purpose warm.  Last Christmas was the second one without my mom and I had my Tata in hospital. This year, without both of them I am at peace and find that my family tradition, has died and a new lifestyle has begun. I am now responsible for being a great crafts-woman for my children and I need to guide them to be independent thinkers and Presidents of their world.
My friends keep on threatening me that my kids will not leave in ten years as in move out the house. This of course is my grand plan.  I will be 42 and HALLLO but my life will have just begun. So practically speaking aside from my last five year plans which was way too ambitious, my next 8 plan is about trying to find a plan.
Let the games begin!  Sakikiza isalukazi sathi llilililili kwakuhle kwethu...when I get married...the song "isencane lengane, ubani obethi ayishadhe", will still be the first track.  Did I add that, a Zulu speaking friend is a must in order to translate most of my closing lines on this blog.?

Merry Christmas Yol! Treasure all those who add to the warmth of your life.  Make sure that they know that they are all that and more to you. Love and Joy from my world to yours.

I try
she just does
anything that comes to mind
she does
I at least get time to think things through
after I have done them
not that I regret
but at least I acknowledge situations
The past to her is as immediate as the next second ticking on her digital watch
fashionably aware
loud as can be
says things as they are
I hardly make time to find out what is going on around me
Things find me
I treat words delicately
Romance them from thought to voice
With a straight look on her face
She shoots with the power of a general in command
Directing her energy through her voice
And just when you think everything is serious,
she laughs at you for failing to get on with the times
that was then, a few seconds ago
this is now, the future

My friend is the other Myself
we are just generations apart
She is the motivated one
the self encourager
the strength to the weak
I am compassionate
and an encourager by words
She is love
I am hope
sometimes faith
She is an extrovert, I an intorvert
I can only strive to understand love
She does not have time to think
She does
action is her abc
action is her 123
What comes out of her actions
will result in the power of
 one is to love
In her is the answer to love
Her answer to struggle is answered with her dress tucked into her panties and her sleeves rolled up
she is action
she has no time to talk
I talk things through
maybe with too many words
Through it all, my friend
is the other myself

Till Death do us part

I had no intentions with starting off with a morbid post.  I recently had an opportunity of going to a young Sensei's funeral out in Umlazi, South of Durban.  The particular lady, who was been giving a send off, had her coffin warmly covered in a blanket, a South African modern tradition and had her friends, in their karate kits, carry her coffin for a good 10 km, doing Karate and kick boxing chants.  The girls and boys were bare foot and furious at death whilst also celebrating their friends life.  I was personally moved by the amount of energy they all had.

I will be writing more on funerals and the process which the family of the deceased go through, in various black families in South Africa.  This particular girl was also a Sangoma in training, a huge and perhaps scary eye opener for me.  She had a group of three different people, besides the family taking charge. One group was the karate team, the other was a church group of zionists and the third team was sangoma's.  I fell in the family and friends category. 
PS. This blog is not about death, at all. I just have a series that I have been meaning to write about.  I otherwise will be writing about life and the joys and experiences of good girls!