everything will be okay

Somehow, I know everything will be okay…

On Christmas, I was robbed, while I giving food hampers to homeless people. (story for another day) but later that evening I had to drive to Pretoria and back to Randburg. On the drive back on the freeway, it started raining. actually no, the heavens burst and it was a storm.
I remember being very afraid, worried that I could hardly see anything, worried about other cars smashing into me, worried about all the things that COULD happen and feeling so out of control and at the mercy of the universe. Then, somehow this relief came over me. I don’t know how it happened. In the middle of my frantic prayer and panic i suddenly became calm. (Mind you, I’m having a bit of a crisis of faith, so I guess God or whatever was trying to tell me something)
Anyway this calm gave me clarity. Not just to see the road, but also myself. It was as though I was yanked out myself and I got out of my own way. I was seeing the storm as a cleansing. The harder it beat down on my car and the slower I had to drive I imagined that my being, my universe were being cleansed of the worry, the panic, the constant need to know what will happen, the drama of my life, the pain I seemed to live with.
The second and most important part of that drive was how I gave myself a kind of analogy – You know how when you’re driving on the highway in rain, when you pass under the bridges, this silence happens because you are sheltered momentarily from the downpour by this huge structure. I saw that as life…
Sometimes it feels like the world is just so heavy and seems to be on a mission to break or bend you – then these moments of silence happen. Sometimes we pay attention to them, sometimes we don’t, but they happen nonetheless. In those moments we are offered a kind reprise from what we deem bad. We are offered a certain solace to see, to feel, to breathe. Those bridges made me realise that even though the storm may not have passed. there are moments of this silence that help us be grateful for everything.
Then finally, with me showing gratitude I started to see the storm not as a terrible thing, but a refresh. I started to see that I was allowing this scary thing help me be stronger. I’m not saying that everything is perfect, I am saying that even though it may seem like shit is hitting the fan – use the opportunity to fortify yourself and know that you are strong and that you can make it. Sometimes life gets so damn tragic it’s hard to see clearly, but teach yourself to feel hope, to see the positive and not live out of fear.
Life happens. No need to give up…

…at the Braamfontein store opening event – #PumaDigsEgoli

I remember this night concluding at Kitcheners, at about 4am. SMH


Hello there…

Once I’d moved this lovely blog over to WordPress, thanks to web wizard Clekzo, I had promised myself to try and blog at least once every two days. I have failed miserably at this exercise. I could blame it on the fact that I’m not yet wordpress savvy (coming from Blogger), or that I haven’t had anything to say, or had pretty pictures to post. I won’t. I’ll just say, I will try harder.

The past few weeks haven’t felt very inspired. August and September aren’t really my months. I usually feel anxious, have existential crises and question what on this wonderful earth I am doing with my life. Sometimes the answers come, sometimes they don’t.

Oh well, we walk on, question more, try harder and mission to find and create inspiration. There might be a plan ahead, there might be some light at the end of tunnel. We never know. Just got to keep it moving.

Have a lovely week. Thanks for visiting





I’ve realized we don’t dance.

When or where this particular realization happened, I can’t be sure. I can’t even explain why the thought crossed my mind,  but it was clear as day. We don’t dance.  Or do we?

Yes, I’ve seen the kwasa, twasa, twalatsa, and many other Arthur creations in clubs. I’ve seen arms raised in the air as Vinny, Fresh, Kenzhero or Blackcoffee bring it on the one’s and two’s.

 I know right after you put on that hot outfit you look at yourself in the mirror and test it out by doing a move or three, but ultimately when you get into the dance halls, be it back in the day and now defunct Electric Workshop and reggae famed Horror Café or nower day somewhat classy Moloko, trendy Capitol,  underground Berlin, Crazy 88 and Taboo etc = the majority of the crowd isn’t actually shakin what their momma gave em.

Once in a while someone will raise their hand to the roof and shout ‘yhooo, that’s my song yall’ and maybe sing a few lines, bounce here and there  – depending on the music ofcourse. But in essence, breaking out a sweat and having sore muscles the next day is not quite the norm in my experience. Why is that?

I know that many a time I have called myself one of those black women born without rhythm  – so by standing at the bar sipping it up, enjoying either a vodka and lime or my newly favoured creation made up of Double creamy Baileys drizzled over crushed ice and topped off with a single shot of Amaretto, my modus operandi would be to sway a little to the music, give the DJ a nod while gliding around the venue, chat to so and so, but most of the time is spent observing the self proclaimed dancing queens and kings, putting a show for their subjects.

I remember the days of vula circle, with fellow observers cheering on the brave ones who have entered the firy circle to have the rest of us in awe. I see some of the said fellow watchers growing with glee as their own confidence is being built up to the climax of entering and showing off their own skills, but I find that out of twenty people gyrating, only a handful will actually jump in there, no holds barred and perform that famous cliché about dancing like no one is watching.  (someone is watching though and it’s hard to forget their critical eyes playing a game on your body)  

Anytime I see someone sweating it out to the beat I am filled with so much joy (read envy) and I’m rendered speechless (read motionless) by their vigor. I’ve seen the break-dancers on the streets of New York, the half naked Brazilians doing the age-old Angolan muscle-toning passionate conversation of capoiera. I’ve seen the party animals pulling out their best in the dark smoky mall sized clubs of Ibiza, the retro kids bringing it back at Gogo Bar in downtown Jozi, the sweat covered Spaniards in open terrace clubs of Barcelona,  and the youngsters and golden oldies championing the art of the tango in the market places and abandoned warehouses of Argentina. That’s all good and well, but not what I’m getting at.

What I am talking about is just living the music through your body; the moves that cannot be named, moves that cannot be repeated by open-mouthed bystanders such as myself; the motions that belong only to the performer feeling the music. Why is there not enough of this?

Or am I missing something?