I’ve never had a really bad case of Jungle Fever but sometimes I feel I tend to display certain symptoms. I love my black women, don’t get me wrong, I seriously do.
Nowadays, though, I find myself walking through a shopping mall, wondering when white girls became so pretty. Damn! Blame it on the media or pop culture or whatever you want but this democracy has borne some fruit, in my opinion. I would date a white girl. In fact, I’m curious to the extent that I can say with conviction that I’ll grab the first opportunity that would present itself – forgive me, Mama – but I’d even marry a white girl (as long as she’s willing to learn isiXhosa).
Yet some conservative types have said that it’s improper, it’s unnatural; “The children will have an identity crisis”. This confuses me somewhat. Unnatural? As improper as a woman copulating with a horse, maybe? Perhaps ethnic cleansing is a little more natural. Anyway, who says that there must be a line drawn? I don’t think that ‘mix-breed’ offspring should have any confusion. They’d have just as much black blood as white. The choice would be theirs as to which race they belong to (or would benefit by belonging to). I’m the product of a Xhosa gent and a Zulu lady. I see myself as a Xhosa man, largely due to my upbringing but I acknowledge Zulu culture as a part of my heritage. Yes, I know you’d say it’s not the same thing but think about this carefully. Where do you draw the line? Look at the closest white person to you. How white are they really? Is there a barometer to measure a person’s ‘whiteness’ or ‘blackness’? How thin are their lips and nose? How flat is his or her arse? Are they blond, ginger or brunette? Would Hitler have thought they were white (not to say he was a knowledgeable source on this subject)? All this time I thought that we all descended from a common ancestor.
Over a couple of smoothies or so, a coloured friend of mine proposed that each race has its own distinct odour. I can be a sensitive soul – at least I try to be. I don’t believe in classifying people according to stereotypes, skin colour, religion, sex etc. So one would understand why it is that I found this proposal so repulsive. Alas, my friend is my friend because he’s of common interest, commonly good stock and has opinions I respect so I humoured him.
Apparently – I’m still in the process of researching this – the human being has a set of ‘glands’ in their backs. Now these glands are developed differently for each race, secreting various hormones that turn into odours exuded from the pores – especially in times of stress. These odours can be disguised by your ordinary eau du toilettes and body lotions but only temporarily due to the bodily processes of sweating and skin absorption.
So, according to my friend, white people have a “rubbery” smell, Indians have a “herbal” smell and black folk have a slightly “pungent” smell. He’s still working on the Chinese elements of his theory. But, of course, he neglected to describe the coloured smell. I can deduce, though, that it’d be something between rubbery and pungent. Unfortunately, I cannot take this opinion which sounds like it may be scientifically sound but lacking in facts seriously.
Why would it be more acceptable for an Indian individual to date a white individual than if I was dating a white girl? Is it because the product would be a solution that isn’t as diluted? How much closer to white are they, than us? Just because they weren’t previously as disadvantaged as we were does this make them whiter?
Who then says I can’t marry and reproduce with a white woman and have offspring who’d be more South African than we both are?
Maybe I’m insane. Maybe I’m an Uncle Tom. I don’t know. I don’t think I’m the only one who shares this sentiment. Businessman/Politician Tokyo Sexwale shares my sentiment and, as a result, he made an astute career move by marrying Judy. Look at the former Botswana president Sir Seretse Khama.
I find Afrikaner women most attractive out of all these beautiful Caucasians. Mostly because they resemble black women with their physiques – the big thighs, waist sizes that are inversely proportional to their hips and usually big booties. It’s like getting the best from both worlds, only different. On the flip-side, I would find it difficult to be content with black women who have traditionally ‘white’ physiques. Which would you prefer?
I also like Afrikaner women because of their generally confrontational demeanor. I am always certain of where I stand with them – they either like me or hate me or are indifferent.
If this all seems somewhat superficial and maybe slightly judgmental then perhaps I am fickle. I know it’s all about who we are inside as people, that’s why I wouldn’t marry an airhead of a white woman who thinks that Zuma is a brand of shower gel.
Yet, even as our society still frowns upon the vanilla/chocolate combination we still have the pioneers who brave the waters and blaze trails for us who have the fever and, also, our descendants. I salute you guys and girls. Have your porkchop and eat it!
Word is bond.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Fits Of Mirth
dimples and laugh lines - evidence of the journey i embarked upon for a particular kind of madness that i created on your skin, hair and teeth. you collapsed,
twitching, clutching at your seams venting all your colliding thoughts as if you were consummating seismic encounters with the earth and erupted, effervescent tears, in fits of joyous mirth.i watched you giving birth to vibrations of euphoria as i spoke on, giving you the tiniest details of those rose petals that once popped out of my eye...
to this day,
you still describe to me how it felt when i ejaculated into you those sweet and sour seeds of humour and, with a pensive face, i tickled your sole with a moist, wiggling tongue.
how you struggled for breath in between my descriptions of that one Tuesday night when i fed myself love with a teaspoon through my belly button and felt the guilt of a glutton...
that, my dear, is one of my joys of livingthe gift of receiving and the sanctity of giving...
twitching, clutching at your seams venting all your colliding thoughts as if you were consummating seismic encounters with the earth and erupted, effervescent tears, in fits of joyous mirth.i watched you giving birth to vibrations of euphoria as i spoke on, giving you the tiniest details of those rose petals that once popped out of my eye...
to this day,
you still describe to me how it felt when i ejaculated into you those sweet and sour seeds of humour and, with a pensive face, i tickled your sole with a moist, wiggling tongue.
how you struggled for breath in between my descriptions of that one Tuesday night when i fed myself love with a teaspoon through my belly button and felt the guilt of a glutton...
that, my dear, is one of my joys of livingthe gift of receiving and the sanctity of giving...
Notes on self-homicide
Suicide. A word that has now been equated with other words like ‘incest’ or ‘bestiality’, words that carry a particularly unpleasant stench where morality nose it all.
Not many a man would admit to having have contemplated or entertained the idea of ‘self homicide’. More people would probably admit to having had sexual desires or intentions towards close relatives or household pets.
Sylvia Plath, a famous 20th century poet wrote about her incomprehensibly intimate relationship with suicide. How that relationship had grown with her from adolescence to her 30-odd years of living. The growth in complexity and the development of her maturing reasoning behind her 4 or five attempted suicides in her life and how she wished so much she would, one day, succeed. In some of her poetry she expressed her sadness upon realization that yet another attempt had failed and the hate she felt towards those people who, she felt, were responsible for her ‘coming back’ like the doctors, the paramedics, those people who prayed for her survival and such.
Eric Miyeni in his book, “O’Mandingo: The Only Black at a Dinner Party”, writes of how, in apartheid South Africa, there were just so many reasons for a black man to commit suicide – well, more reasons to than in Mr Mbeki’s South Africa, at least. Yet he speaks of his contemplations and dissatisfied curiosity on suicide; the euphoria he’d feel when he thought about it, the “warm glow” all over his body. He would be encountering these feelings and thoughts at good times in his life, when everything is going well. Maybe on his way to a book launch, sitting in a plane seat and looking out the window. But for some like Plath, though, suicide came as a result of clinical depression. One of my favourite authors - K Sello Duiker - killed himself during a time when he was just about to become a household name and his career was on an upward spiral.
Not many a man would admit to having have contemplated or entertained the idea of ‘self homicide’. More people would probably admit to having had sexual desires or intentions towards close relatives or household pets.
Sylvia Plath, a famous 20th century poet wrote about her incomprehensibly intimate relationship with suicide. How that relationship had grown with her from adolescence to her 30-odd years of living. The growth in complexity and the development of her maturing reasoning behind her 4 or five attempted suicides in her life and how she wished so much she would, one day, succeed. In some of her poetry she expressed her sadness upon realization that yet another attempt had failed and the hate she felt towards those people who, she felt, were responsible for her ‘coming back’ like the doctors, the paramedics, those people who prayed for her survival and such.
Eric Miyeni in his book, “O’Mandingo: The Only Black at a Dinner Party”, writes of how, in apartheid South Africa, there were just so many reasons for a black man to commit suicide – well, more reasons to than in Mr Mbeki’s South Africa, at least. Yet he speaks of his contemplations and dissatisfied curiosity on suicide; the euphoria he’d feel when he thought about it, the “warm glow” all over his body. He would be encountering these feelings and thoughts at good times in his life, when everything is going well. Maybe on his way to a book launch, sitting in a plane seat and looking out the window. But for some like Plath, though, suicide came as a result of clinical depression. One of my favourite authors - K Sello Duiker - killed himself during a time when he was just about to become a household name and his career was on an upward spiral.
I will not be going to into the intricacies of clinical depression, polar disorders and anxiety right now but suffice it to say that I know enough about it.
I used to wonder, when I still interpreted Bible school teachings literally, if God could create such unholy people well aware that they would one day commit murder on themselves. Would he create someone and then lead his life to hell? We were all taught that a person who takes his own life goes straight to hell, with no trial. All major religions see suicide as something weak people do and deserving of punishment.
Maybe one would have to make his peace with God first. Maybe he’d have to be a firm believer in reincarnation. Perhaps only atheists could kill themselves with a clear conscience, so to speak.
I suppose the real question who’s fat I should chew is this: Am I in that minority that has had the gall to entertain such vile and abominable thoughts?
The answer is yes. Many times, in fact. Even though I must point out that I still adhere to the principles of Stoicism when I can – but these two elements of my personality are totally unrelated.
I’ve sometimes wondered what it would be like to be dead. What a bullet entering the cranium feels like. What would go through my mind whilst my body accelerates towards the earth from the 54th storey of a building. Is the transition from life to death a sensual experience; is it painful; is it aphrodisia?
Whatever the answer might be, it doesn’t do much to quell my curiosity.
There are a couple of things that stop me from going all the way.
Firstly, I have an insatiable desire to leave an immortal legacy on this planet. So maybe I’d have to wait until that’s been accomplished. When I know that the next ten generations of scholars, wannabe intellectuals and academics will be reading about Mjambaism as a school of metaphysical thought in textbooks, or knowing my descendants are attending school in a building named after me.
Secondly, I believe that living and dying can be interpreted by a mathematical equation: 1 + (-1) = 0, where 1 = living and -1 = dying. Add 1 here and its 1 less elsewhere. 1 there is 1 less here. So what I’m trying to say is that I believe that from the very moment a person is born, he starts dying. So, in fact, we’re all dying right now. Of course some are dying at a slower pace than others. I don’t feel I will accomplish anything by taking a shortcut toward the inevitable.
The very same idealism that Shakespeare’s Brutus represented and eventually betrayed in Julius Caesar is also residing in my psyche; the best kind of sufferer is the silent one. Grit your teeth and bear the pain is the way towards enlightenment. There is no louder statement of the experience of intolerable suffering than suicide. The Japanese call it Seppuku or Harakiri - from when one of the samurai had suffered some sort of shame and dishonor, he would disembowel himself as a method of preserving that honour, subtle references to Brutus's reasons. So culturally, suicide has an honourable but somehow dramatic appeal to it. That's maybe why it is so common amongst those of the creative fraternities: it's so expressive.
I used to wonder, when I still interpreted Bible school teachings literally, if God could create such unholy people well aware that they would one day commit murder on themselves. Would he create someone and then lead his life to hell? We were all taught that a person who takes his own life goes straight to hell, with no trial. All major religions see suicide as something weak people do and deserving of punishment.
Maybe one would have to make his peace with God first. Maybe he’d have to be a firm believer in reincarnation. Perhaps only atheists could kill themselves with a clear conscience, so to speak.
I suppose the real question who’s fat I should chew is this: Am I in that minority that has had the gall to entertain such vile and abominable thoughts?
The answer is yes. Many times, in fact. Even though I must point out that I still adhere to the principles of Stoicism when I can – but these two elements of my personality are totally unrelated.
I’ve sometimes wondered what it would be like to be dead. What a bullet entering the cranium feels like. What would go through my mind whilst my body accelerates towards the earth from the 54th storey of a building. Is the transition from life to death a sensual experience; is it painful; is it aphrodisia?
Whatever the answer might be, it doesn’t do much to quell my curiosity.
There are a couple of things that stop me from going all the way.
Firstly, I have an insatiable desire to leave an immortal legacy on this planet. So maybe I’d have to wait until that’s been accomplished. When I know that the next ten generations of scholars, wannabe intellectuals and academics will be reading about Mjambaism as a school of metaphysical thought in textbooks, or knowing my descendants are attending school in a building named after me.
Secondly, I believe that living and dying can be interpreted by a mathematical equation: 1 + (-1) = 0, where 1 = living and -1 = dying. Add 1 here and its 1 less elsewhere. 1 there is 1 less here. So what I’m trying to say is that I believe that from the very moment a person is born, he starts dying. So, in fact, we’re all dying right now. Of course some are dying at a slower pace than others. I don’t feel I will accomplish anything by taking a shortcut toward the inevitable.
The very same idealism that Shakespeare’s Brutus represented and eventually betrayed in Julius Caesar is also residing in my psyche; the best kind of sufferer is the silent one. Grit your teeth and bear the pain is the way towards enlightenment. There is no louder statement of the experience of intolerable suffering than suicide. The Japanese call it Seppuku or Harakiri - from when one of the samurai had suffered some sort of shame and dishonor, he would disembowel himself as a method of preserving that honour, subtle references to Brutus's reasons. So culturally, suicide has an honourable but somehow dramatic appeal to it. That's maybe why it is so common amongst those of the creative fraternities: it's so expressive.
Well, I guess some of us are being chased by demons or by the past. I don't judge the suicidal. I'm pretty certain there's always a good enough reason to take one's own life but I just don't understand why a person would take a shortcut to the inevitable. It just reeks of cowardice.
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