Becoming Alright.

Saturday night. I have a glass of wine in my hand. Of course. I am in the dark outside my little room and am listening to Tank singing “I can’t make you love me if you don’t,” because this is what women do. We linger in brokenness. We’re never sure if it’s a cleansing process or ‘weak-ass-bitch’ nonsense. We think about people who have hurt us and when we drink, we want to call them and say we are sorry.

If I didn’t laugh at how impulsive I am, I would die from a heart attack. How did I end up convincing myself to jump the gun, quite a job in Cape Town and come to Joburg with not much of a plan? All alone – to a whole Joburg city. Twenty odd person.

Perhaps this is a post-Mr Seven Months and Whiskey syndrome – but I have accepted that there is absolutely nothing I can do to keep anyone in my life, and that I want someone who chooses me. Because, why do I have to fight even in the most intimate spaces? I choose love. But, I am also anti-rejection. I can’t handle another one.

Re-realizing all of this does not make it any easier. I still want a hug. Sex. Kisses. Hisses. I want things to work. I want to be enough, to have people that love me as much as I love them. I don’t belong in unmarked routes that aren’t going anywhere, nor do I belong in burning entrances.

So, instead of going over and over about all the things I don’t deserve – I pour myself another glass of wine and write down the things I want.

This is the last glass, I promise myself. Something about this night feels hybrid, like there’s a full moon on the one side, and the sun is rising on the other side. It feels like death and re-birth. I am satisfied, yet longing.

What were the good moments? I ask myself. With Mr, it was the dinner and entering a territory I could see never lets people in. I might have been intrigued. He deeply belonged to himself – I loved that. He is unforgettable, to me. And, I am okay with knowing that I don’t have to know why.

And, Whiskey wore his heart on his sleeve. His mind was a drug. And, the recognition of how elevating we could be to each other was instant. Like, where have you been all my life? Coming to terms with the fact that even such catastrophes, which come once in decades, are seasonal is bitter sweet.

Nothing great stays the same forever. And, when your purpose is greater than yourself, your soul aches when you allow it to be caged by undeserving fellows. It knows that the world waits – and your fire refuses to die.

What I now know for sure is that I scare the shit out of most people who know what I am capable of, especially potential lovers. I’m a bird; I will always fly no matter the weather conditions. I can never belong. If this doesn’t work out, there will always be something much greater waiting for me out there. Most people fear this.

I have my own skeletons to deal with. I am full of rage and love, both in abundance. I probably killed some men with my sharp words.

“What are you sitting there drowning your sorrows about?” My landlord asked me as she closed the window of her house that’s facing my room.

“Long story, ma!” I laughed.

I noticed that my wine was finished. All I had next to me were papers where I wrote the names of these men so that I can cut them into pieces before I start my new job.

Yes, after a long dreadful hard time, I finally got a job. I’ve been crossing my fingers for something to happen because if it doesn’t, I’m screwed. The women who sunk into Hillbrow’s streets also had enormous dreams like mine. My own grandmother came here and never returned long before I was born, meaning my mother never knew her mother. This city both excites and frightens me. And, I am glad I will finally be able to pay my way after this month. Can I tell you that I tried dating an old man when I couldn’t pay shit, and it didn’t last one week because when I had to kiss him, I knew I was going to throw up? So it ended just before the kiss.

“You left him, are you crazy? What the fuck do you think you are going to eat?”

“I don’t know. God works in mysterious ways.”

“Exactly. In sugar-daddy mysterious ways.”

“Friend, I couldn’t. I doubt he can even kiss. I just imagined it happening and all I could see was a flood in my mouth, or worse, that #OPW kiss that was trending all over.”

“But, you suck it up. At the end of the day, your bills will be taken care of. Look at you, you are such a waste of a light skin and big ass.”

“Okay, wow. Thanks. Anyway, his dinners were good while they lasted but I am not about this life. Also, I can’t pretend. He bores the shit out of me and he is married. He is so gross. This other day he wanted to sleep over. Imagine!”

“Oh, so you want your bills to be paid and never have to kiss and fuck with the guy?”


It’s been hard. I cut the papers in pieces. It’s been real hard. I collect the pieces and throw them in the trash. The uncertainties. I stand outside a bit. The late night wanders wondering if God has forgotten. Finally, I walk in. I come from hard times, really harsh times. I switch on the light. But, I’m going to make it. I change into my pyjamas. I will, I know it – I feel it. I switch the light off. I just need to keep doing my best. I get into bed. Quite frankly, I couldn’t give a shit about who doesn’t love me – I am an acquired taste; I have lots of grinding to worry about.

What should I wear tomorrow? Should I be formal? No, those people look very chilled and casual. Let’s go casual. Also, taking two taxis and walking in the CBD never goes down too smooth if you have played dress up.

Next day. A few minutes late. Meet and greet. Nice gestures. They never last forever, I know. Bereka mosadi. Grind. Weekends, Joburg Theatre. Social Media grind. Income. Food. Rent. Writing. Meet ups; business ideas. Busy Joburg. Finalize my script. My script reading. Wow! I’m going to win. I am going to keep doing my best. Drinks. Laughs. Dreams. A house. Money. Empire. Love. Write. Grind. Write. Grind. Bereka Mosadi. You’ll rest when you’re dead. It’s possible. Your mom prayed for you. What did she say? One day, you’ll see what she says when everything comes together.

I’m almost there.

“Hey hey friend, just checking on you – how are you doing?” my friend’s text comes through.

“You know . . . Out of all the men I have ever been with or loved, there is not a single one of them that I think I would have been able to grow with, whether financially, spiritually or emotionally. I know this by looking at most of my exes and how glad I am I am longer with all of them because I have grown in unthinkable ways. Friend, my mom was a domestic worker who had a one-room shack and my dad is an alcoholic. Girls like me who come from those complexities don’t always make it to where I am now with myself. All of these relationships failed because in just twenty-four years, I am one in a million. It gives me the chills to think about the evolution that is still to happen to me; I need the right people in my life. Most people want to stand in one place. Not everyone knows how to love in transit. I’m always in route. Ninety five percent of the time, I feel lonely. But, you know what, that’s fine. It hurts but I trust this process.”

“Friend, I’m alright.”

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