Live in Hope

Feeling a serious bout of sadness today after having to relive traumas infront of a police camera yesterday…

The feeling is indescribable… like the wind has been taken out of my sails… the smile wiped off my face… sensed numbed, sensibilities erased…

A walking emptiness….

I tell myself I have to ride this… Wait it out… feel the pain of abuse…

Don’t deny myself this agony…

So the healing that I crave is whole and true and thorough

I live in hope… and those fluffy PJs I bought on Monday are coming in handy…a physical, soft, cushioned, fluffy, comfort.

Finally threw out my abusers PJs… it took me this long🙄

Like my soul knew what I needed when I cancelled everything on Monday to go PJ shopping…

Listen to your soul…


The new and improved Africa land grab…

So the new imperialism starts again…circles are so frustrating and boring… this time Russia is the major player in carving up my Beloved Africa according to The New York Times.

Out with Western imperialism and in with Eastern style exploitation where they treat the colonised with ‘respect’ according to this article.

The responses to the NYT epitomise the greedy and sneaky attitude to Africa.. there’s an underlying assumption that we’re gonna be controlled… the question is who.


I’m tired of being presented as a victim… coz that’s just not what Africans are. We’re beautiful, innovative and super nova clever.

Look at Botswana and their upward trajectory. The Africa Development Bank even states that a borderless Africa would make us more powerful on the global stage.

The way TNYT presents our plight reminds me of living in an abusive marriage where I’d lost so much confidence in my ability to be independent and so had those around me.

I had to forge new links, cut out the parasites, relate on my terms, to move forward and I am!!!I’m unrecognisable!!!! We need to stand on our own 2 feet and we can…

Grenfell… who will fall?

Failed. Those court findings fail.

They flail at putting the right people to resign, be publicly mocked, and punished.

The blame put on the Fire Brigade today makes me physically sick.

When all the money has been sucked out of public services in the name of Austerity,by the very idiots who call Brexit an effective use of public funds. mmmmm

When the fire brigade can only do what their funds dictate…. of course set by our government. Like the police, schools, hospitals how are they supposed to operate on no money?

The government are putting the working classes to death in this country through starving them of what they deserve because the only people who suffer in this public- service- starvation – are the penniless masses, not the decision makers, who probably have private health care and a skiing trip round the corner to look forward to.

It makes me sick that I volunteered at Grenfell for weeks and weeks and weeks helping in the community, wrote about it, yet none of the truth was leaked to our prestigious press…

Nothing was heard of the many more bodies that were seen by locals but not officially counted, of the mounds of victims who were illegally in the UK, of the weeks it took the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea to give the survivors food; my mates were doing it!!!!! Of the joke – public meetings where the top people at the council behaved like they were fresh out of a 1920s aristocratic film set.

They had no empathy, they were wooden, they didn’t know what they were talking about, their posh accents were just one of the painful reminders of the chasm between the Lord of the Manor and the Poor … How do such Etonites end up ‘representing’ those struggling and drowning in the poverty trap.

It’s a joke 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄


Pyjama and general winter warmer shopping with my darling daughter…

Had to cancel many appointments to get to this relaxing state of mind of leisurely doing one thing slowly.

This is important.

Taking our time… postponing what isn’t urgent and searching out good vibes…

Especially when the mind is filled with too many pieces, stories, admin, awkward conversations….

Take your time…

Take note

Me before the ballet…

Hold onto special moments… when you’re enjoying things, when you feel good.

Remember them, highlight them, force them to the forefront of the mind.

When existential crisis is simply a way of life-a perennial buzzing noise at the back of the brain, so longstanding and so negatively normal… Good Times must be returned to, savoured, calmly surveyed inch by inch.

With a fearfilled interview ahead of me this week, involving me remembering traumatic events that I have buried to simply survive living… I need these precious triggers of Goodness, anticipation, warmth, safety.

Planning my outfit, pulling on my silky, delicate tights, choosing my bling with a careful aesthetic eye, eyelining with dramatic emphasis, wrapping myself in my faux fur…

Spending 2 hours indulging in beauty that is unnecessary but oh so necessary….

Do this for You, for your loved ones so they can get the best of you, so you can be resurrected once again to that bright, shiny You.

Me and Giselle…


Dado Masilo’s production of Giselle is a force to be reckoned with.

What a privilege to see this beauty in action… It reminded me of home (being half South African) … hearing that distinct Zulu intonation and ascendent choral harmonies, seeing elements of the traditional dance and Kwaito, feeling the pain of Apartheid pulsating through the alcoholism depicted and exploitative family relationships, took me directly home to my own yard in Soweto.

The bold unison movement that punctuated Giselle’s personal tragedy reminded me and my Greek companion of the Ancient Chorus: powerful, hypnotic, overwhelmingly fatalistic …

Somehow, Dada’s characterisation spoke to me as a mixed race woman who’s never quite fitted in…searching desperately for somewhere to belong and being periodically abused by My Own along the way.

Most importantly, it reminded me that the revenge Giselle achieved in the spirit realm is a fantasy absolutely not worth chasing.

Giselle succeeded in seeking vengeance from her predators in the most potent, self – actualised, feministic fantasy – sort of way. But it just didn’t appeal to me as a path to go down. Giselle in the process lost her softness, her naivitie, her innocence which despite my own suffering, I hang into with all my Will. Bitterness is just not an option.

Let our abusers  hang themselves…. Life Will do the talking. 

Get on up…


James Brown said it and it sounds proper cool!  

I have to say it to myself every so often when Depression crowds me, presses in and corners me.

Because I’ve had so many break downs, I feel this massive responsibility to Me, to be stable enough, to keep going, to get on up, to care for my young…

I’m relieved to say the downs are short lived and the longer I’m away from the toxic environment that I didn’t realise was a toxic, wasting away of my Will to live… the easier I get up, dust myself off and ‘keep it moving’ .

In this temporary home, afforded by the council to escape domestic abuse… I can breathe, I can start to peer into my past and write My narrative and keep on unchaining myself from the lies force fed by a cult church and its cronies…

But how do we get up again and again and… again?

Do what you like.

I like food and I’m a genuine Jafakan. I love all things Jamaican. I ate this food on a downer I was spiralling into on Wednesday afternoon and it definitely contributed to lifting my mood as well as my super entertaining daughter taking my mind off me.

Calaloo, saltfish and Festival.  Calaloo is similar to spinach and Festival is a fried dumpling with a touch of sugary, cinnamon vibes…


I love my job….


I love my job.

Yes I’m a supply teacher. Yes I get bad attitude from staff and students. Yes I’m the bottom of the educational food chain.

So what? – to quote Miles Davis.

Coz I love teens-their intensity, apathy, anti establishment, honesty.  I love words, I love talking about themes, literary structures, philosophical concepts, emotional wrangles every single day…

I love Nikolas!

Everyman in the 80s…

I just love ‘The Smiths’. I’ve been rediscovering them recently…returning to the recurring theme of my teenage angst.

It’s just about average people… who feel invisible and insignificant…Getting through life… drowning in tragedy of insignificant proportions. Gasping in the banal and the mediocre

Love these-

Me and my true love will never meet again

Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me. No hope, no harm, just another false alarm

Loved and lost…. May the lines sag heavy and deep tonight.  From the one you left behind.

At the record company… On their hands a dead star.

But to you I was faceless I was fawning I was boring. A child from those ugly new houses.


This poetry speaks proudly and loudly of the victim-helpless child we all try to hide and cover up with adult ‘responsible’ behaviours.

It pronounces the pain of existing… the secret fears, wishes and fantasies most of us will never admit to.

It seems to me the more we admit and accept our pain… we can start from a place of honesty and enjoy life that bit more.