Feeling a lot lost

Smiles, tired eyes frozen in time on fading photographs. Hazy looks and dried grass; forced smiles and fidgeting kids frozen in moments in time. Silently telling half a story, no evidence to fill in the gaps.

Behaved children, neatly dressed in their best. A crying toddler unhappy with sitting still, a soothing grandma and annoyed mom carrying a drool stain failing to feign the moment of joy that ought to be remembered for as long as the photograph lives.

A middle aged woman, recognises herself in a photo of a wedding she didn’t attend. Only to realise it’s her mother who looks exactly like her, happy to see the marriage of her middle daughter.

Moments in time, frozen with the emotions; real or feigned. A reminder of a past so far out of reach. A reminder of people, love, kisses and hugs that can barely be correctly imagined; distorted by time and age, pain and darkness, fears and adulting.

A time when time seemed to stand still, where cares were a far fetched idea. Where tomorrow was a lifetime away and the moment seemed too unimportant to dwell on. The people in the photograph seemed like they would be there forever; but their forever has come and gone. And all that is left is moments frozen in time of half truths and unfilled blanks. Half baked memories and threadbare stories.

Photographs, a reminder of those we have lost along the way. Photographs, making me feel a lot lost today.

Bridging the rift

Sometimes we say things that we mean but they hurt. They create barriers between those we love. When time passes by, these barriers grow to become rifts between us. It’s easy to hurt but harder to forgive. Yet the first step to forgiveness is simple: one must desire to forgive. The act of forgiveness isn’t based on the person who was hurtful but on the person that was hurt.

Forgiveness doesn’t need to be sought by the offender for it to bestowed. Forgiveness starts in the offended and thus its effects are far reaching; it heals the hurt and works to mend the broken bond.

We are not perfect but may the rift that has grown between us stop growing and may I extend my hand to you and you grasp it with yours to create a bridge.

Ever heard of EQ?

A young man aged about 12/13 hunched over on a counter focuses his gaze at the counter. He has been fidgeting in that position for almost 5 minutes. When I finish my sentence, he looks at me and says: ‘I like how you speak’. I smile at him and say thank you. He turns and leaves as someone who has accomplished exactly what he had set out to do. What he does not know is that he has won me over. Even before he paid me the compliment, my heart somehow wanted to embrace him and let him know that he would be alright. Not because of anything I had done but because of the woman he speaks to with such ease, his principal who is affectionately known as “mom”.

The majority of us are accustomed to walking into schools that have huge billboards announcing the school name, foyers that slowly usher you into the reception area and a cordoned off office reserved for the principal. Such offices are often decorated with accolades on the wall, pictures of students, teachers and unknown events. A huge desk showcasing just how busy they are as they are ‘running a school’. Not this school. It is conjoined to another building with 3 classrooms and 24 learners. No receptionist, no huge parking lot, no well-manicured gardens and definitely no huge office for the principal.

Today, I met a real principal – Richelle. One who is not just known for running a school but for actively being a part of the lives schools are meant for, students. She walks me through the small classrooms explaining the grades and the manner in which the curriculum works. Over a kitchen counter sitting on barstools, she explains to me her teaching ethic – EQ [Emotional Quotient]. As she explains it I quickly am reminded of my cousin Hailey who for a good 4 years of her primary school was in remedial class as she was classified as a slow learner.

Richelle explains that children are labelled as being below the standard level of reading, and writing; identified as being slow learners, being overly active and put on meds, talking too much, and other colourful descriptives; painting the picture that the problem lies with the child. She does not believe that is the problem. To her, the problem is the learning structure, its environment; its failure to adapt to the child and trying to fit each child into a tight, archaic mould. Even the problem of being bullied somehow leads to the victim being yet again pegged as the one having the problem. In her school, while the school adheres to the CAPS education system, they strive to enhance not just a child’s IQ but their EQ. Her eyes light up as she speaks to me and I immediately relate to this.

I sat down to think about what emotional intelligence development could entail and she enlightened me:–

To the little boy who comes from a home where he witnesses his mom and dad fighting, she walks with him, listens as he talks and reassures him that their fighting is not because of something he has done.

To the non-verbal little girl with Downs Syndrome, they have empowered her to express herself in art and share it unafraid with her classmates.

To the boy who “loved how I speak”, they have empowered him with the support of refusing to be defined by his educational assessment as one who will never read and write as he reads, writes and speaks eloquently.

To the wheelchair-bound little boy, they have empowered him to use sentences that start with I am able: I am able to wheel myself down to the playground. I am able to lift myself off my wheelchair. I am able to sit myself down on a swing. I am able to swing all by myself. I am able!

So what is the point of this? Richelle has created a safe haven for the side-lined, the underdogs, the black horses, the ones who definitely will not make it. She has changed the narrative and not because she has a rich benefactor or is rich; because with 15 years of teaching under her belt and an Honours degree in Education, an ill-equipped playground, 12 students she funds and 5 teachers on her side; she is making a difference.

This is to shine a spotlight on Richelle Ramella and the Labyrinth Prep School. They do not focus on the numbers but on the child and his or her needs and developing his or her emotional intelligence.

Send Help

Sometimes I look in the mirror and see no one. Or I walk into a crowded room and feel invisible. Sometimes, time seems to stand still and I somehow fade into the backdrop. I have taken to bouts of sadness, instead of shooing them away I revel in them until I feel immersed in my sorrow that I can’t breathe. But I forget the pain at times and bathe in the sunlight shone by others, taking it in; hoping that this is the life line that will draw me out of my deep dive into sorrow and bring me back to equilibrium.

I remember the first time I saw the sea. It was after a 13 hour drive in a rickety minibus, sat uncomfortably in a folding seat hinged on one side. Slowly trekking on a pothole filled road. The journey was similar to the movement of peanuts in a pan over a fire, with the shifting and flexing of a wrist they are shoved from one end to the other while slowly marinating in the heat of the fire. After 23 years of living in a landlocked country, I stood at the beach drained of physical strength and yet in awe to the point of despair while watching what looked like an unending blanket of unsettled water swing back and forth on the sandy beach I stood at. My being stirred with a mix of being overwhelmed, fearful and awestruck by what my brain tried to make sense of – water that touched the sky but did not envelope me where I stood. This is nowhere near where my sadness gets me.

A simple song on surrendering, drifting and simply wanting to know a person’s location launches me headfirst into the bottomless canyon of sadness. All the while I am physically sat in a vehicle on autopilot, barely holding onto the steering wheel; failing to account for my actions. 

Yet the world keeps turning, barely noticing me or my emotions. Can you see my pain? Do you hear my cry while I laugh? Can you see the tear lines on my face? Can a loss like mine call for a moment’s silence and bended knee? I know you can’t relate but do you at least see it? The pain? The sadness? The sorrow? Or am I that good at hiding it? Or just invisible?

I stood in a hall full of people hoping for a warm embrace, a reassuring touch, any wordless acknowledgement but instead conversations, greetings, laughter and confused stares flooded my surrounds. Like the eye of a hurricane, I stood untouched by the goings on around me. Like a stranger at a party, friendless and out of place; hoping and wishing to get away and yet yearning to be seen. 

And so I embrace the dark to wallow in my sorrow, I coddle the emotions that draw me to the depths of despair, I walk on the ice barefoot grimacing at the pain but happy for the comfort of feeling. I walk alone with sadness as my closest confidante, because between us we know the truth that no one can know. The truth that sets these emotions free, the truth that without surrendering to these that flame that went out will haunt me for the rest of my days. And the mud of sadness will slowly turn into a quagmire which will suck me in without a rope of light to rescue me.

So here I lay on a cold floor huddled up with a block of ice covered in a wet blanket in the rain, slowly suffering from hyperthermia. 

Send help.

Missing the carriage

In the English language when you add ‘mis’ to a word it negates the word that is added. It speaks of a failure to the verb that ought to have been carried out or done. There are many of these: miscommunication, misconception, misunderstanding, misinformation, mistake, miscalculate. But out of all of these the one with the most impact is miscarriage.

Any woman with ovaries and a womb would quite easily assume they have the ability of carrying a child. Being able to do what ought to be a natural part of being a woman. Women’s bodies are designed for the carriage of a foetus from it being conceived to it being born. It’s the beauty of reproduction; bringing forth life from oneself, creating a replica of oneself and another.

Miscarriage has the connotation of failure just in the word itself. A failure to carry, when carriage is exactly what you ought to have done or be doing.

Some rationalise that when it happens at an early stage it hurts less, while at later stages of pregnancy it hurts the most. Unfortunately, none can accurately generalise pain for anyone. However, the feeling of failure to do what one is designed to do is overwhelming. It’s not failing a test, it’s failing to keep alive your own creation and such failure is immeasurable.

What does it feel like? You’ll only know when it happens to you. And even then you will not be able to measure how you feel with how others feel. Because as with all failures, they’re not a group effort but fall squarely on an individual’s shoulders.

May no woman ever miss the carriage…

Losing You Permanently

You would think after all we have been through you would be a little bit gentle with me. We have shown each other scars that no one else has seen. We have shared the most intimate secrets that only parts of our brain have been privy to. We spoke of things we shelved in hidden places for fear of indulging in them and losing our way. And yet here you are sucker-punching me dead between the eyes with no forewarning.

My tummy churns as your well-sharpened filleting knife meticulously flutters on my heart; leaving equal-sized ribbons dancing in the gush of blood. The sheer intellect of your maneuvers is so impressive it takes a moment to grasp what is happening. I watch as my eyes take in each word and translate their meaning in my brain. A process that would take a split second to complete takes longer. I process it and receive the information but part of me refuses to comprehend it and requests a review from the advisory panel. Only to receive that exact same message relayed again. I stare in horror at the implication of the information and take a few deep breaths to calm myself.

How is this possible that the one I trusted with my deepest darkest vulnerabilities has armed themselves with a sword and taken a jab at my tenderlings? The worst part of it all is I never saw it coming. We slayed our demons, reveled in our desires, and held hands in our embarrassments together; and now you are the arrow in my Achilles heel. I stand on a forced bent knee bleeding from the ankle, tears streaming down my face, and a blurred image of you in a follow-through stance after shooting an arrow.

I try to comprehend it, your excuses are threadbare and all I see is another one. Another problem I brought upon myself. Another sore I allowed to fester unattended. Another needle I allowed to prick me. Another snake I coddled for warmth only to be bitten and left cold.

You win, I will not fight this one. You win, may the applause ring on for as long as you require their satisfaction. You win, may this award be a gold plaque with a mirror finish. You win, may your requested silence go undisturbed. I bow out gracelessly, bruised, battered, and beaten, bleeding out on the battlefield; watching the vultures close in as the little life left in me drains out. May you have a long life and may mine be as peaceful and silent as the dead.

Toying with human nature

A man fell while walking past our complex gate. At the time my husband was playing with our 3 year old daughter. He shouted for me to bring the remote for the gate and a stick. I was unsure of the instructions but noted the urgency in his voice, so I assumed something had happened to our daughter.

As I ran to the gate, the remote and a broom in hand, I found a thin young man with spiky, black and ginger locks of hair, sparse, short unshaven beard. He was wearing black faded jeans that were torn on multiple areas exposing parts of his thighs, knees and shins, unmatched secret socks and a thin dark grey shirt. He was jerking slowly while lying face up on the pavement. My husband used the broom and eventually his hands to turn him onto his side and tilt his head. He was foaming at the mouth. At some point he stopped moving with his eyes were wide open. I assumed he was dead, but he started jerking again and then gradually stopped. I had my daughter stand inside the gate area so he was out of her view.

I asked him what was wrong with him. He said he had epilepsy. I asked if he had taken any drugs, to which he said no and stated again that he had epilepsy. A woman walking to her car asked if we had called the police or an ambulance and my husband quickly got out his phone and called the emergency number. He was informed that he should call the ambulance service on a different number, which he did. After explaining what had happened, who he was, the street address, providing his name and cell number he was informed that there was no available ambulance to come and assist. While on the phone the man spoke in Shona saying, ‘musafonera maporisa, handina mapepa’ – ‘don’t call the police, I’m undocumented’. The man hadn’t fully recovered from his seizure, was barely conscious and the only thing he was worried about was deportation! When I asked where he lived he said in a shelter. My heart sank; it sank so deep it probably hit the floor. I was done my questioning.

My daughter, reading the gravity and tension in the air, wanted to be with her dad and not standing alone on the inside of the gate. And started crying, so I took her home. At the door I called for my brother in law to go and stay with my husband. After calming my daughter down, I systematically ensured that every other door besides the front one was locked and windows were secure. Up to this point I’m still unsure why. I even hid the car keys under a book. At the back of my mind I reasoned that it could be an elaborate ruse to gain entry into our house and steal. 🤷‍♀️

All these emotions and thoughts were flying through my head. Anger, that a young man’s life amounts to nothing in a foreign land. Fear, that our empathy will be our downfall in a world of scheming, manipulative beings who prey on what makes us human; feelings. Dread, that this is the world my daughter will need to navigate and for the most part she may have to do it alone. Pain, for the young man on the pavement who values his stay in this country more than his life. 🥺

We got him an Uber destined for the shelter he said he lives at and where his medication was. After a few hours my brother in law received an email from Uber stating that his account was in arrears for his last cash transaction as the destination was altered and inadequately paid for! My emotions? A word – NAIVE. The English definition of naive “showing a lack of judgement”. The one time we put our guard down; BAM 💥 a strong punch square between the eyes!

A Poem to Momma

Am I really the shadow of the woman I used to be?

Am I so loathsome in sight that you can barely look at me?

Has my new self threatened our once undying love for each other?

Look, please. Look at the love of your life

Yes it’s true I’m not the flat bellied, round breasted twenty something year old I was.

But you did say you fell in love with my smile and laugh,

Can these not redeem me now

Can they not redeem and refurbish your love for me?

Was it not our plan to create life together

Is it not by nature that such life lives in a woman

And like any battle, can this new me not be my battle scars?

How dare you look at me with disgust

And yet melt at the fruit of my belly

How dare you downplay my worth

And still expect my self esteem to be on point

How dare you shy away from my affection

And yet want the blushes of another

Do you not know that from these hips a nation is born

From these breast a nation is fed

From this tummy kings, queens, leaders lay

And from within it life was borne

Lift your head up mom, you are a miracle

Face the sun, without your temple none would come forth

Stand up, for your worth precedes his comprehension

Walk tall for your fruit adore you

A tribute to women whose bodies have taken on a new shape from childbirth. You are Momma 💞💞

My random thoughts on cheerleading

I’ve just finished watching a movie on cheerleading. It has the usual twist of the cheerleading captain being very nasty and doing all sorts of things to ensure she remains in the limelight. From unheard of initiations to working her way into the social lives of her cheerleading team.

Now, I was born, educated and raised in Africa. My age demographic is between 35 and 40. At both primary/junior school and high/senior school there was no such thing as cheerleaders. I shudder to think that as Africans we found no place for youths dancing, jumping and doing air summersaults being solely put to use as the break time entertainment. (Disclaimer: I am subject to correction as to the role of cheerleaders)

Such feats as shown on most cheerleading movies are nothing short of amazing and those kids deserve to be at the Olympics not squabbling or grinning and bearing the almost lunatic rule of a captain. To be fair, I must say that I am not the best educated on cheerleading, but I believe the sporting coaches in my day would have put these young men and women to good use in one sporting area or another.

Please don’t consider that there were no supporters at these sporting events. But their role was to support the team during play. The break time was kept for the purpose of taking a break for both players and supporters.

As a former hockey player, there is no place I’d have rather been than playing on the pitch rather than supporting the hockey team.

I’m not trying to start a debate, let alone figure out the basic appropriateness of the little skirts worn, I’m just wondering if my African country was somehow left behind on the cheerleading train.

After writing this piece, I think we did quite alright focusing more on the actual game than the entertainment. Just my shallow thoughts on break time entertainment.

Where, oh where are you?

Where, oh, where are you? I sit here alone doodling and mulling over our previous engagements. Wondering when you will make an appearance. It surely has been a while.

I have never taken your presence for granted. You jolt me from the deepest of sleep and I answer your call. Besides, it’s not like I have a choice; the sheer jolts are so intense that failure to respond only hurts me. Oh dear, where are you?

I feel trapped here in the land of the normal! Filled with words that have no sequence, emotions that are unstirred, thoughts that have no continuity. I’m tumbling in a sea of words, in waves of phrases that bash onto the the wordsmith’s barrier (writer’s block). I wash up to shore, marooned from what I love the most – words and emoting. I stare at the unforgiving sea and feel the looming presence of land lovers; persons who have never experienced the word call.

If this is what ‘normal’ people live with I don’t want this. It feels like wading in quick sand, slowly sinking to one’s demise with no rescue in view. I feel empty and useless, like a sailor stuck on land with no way back to their beloved sea. My days are full of longing for the one thing that cannot be ordered on UberEats, that cannot be bought by no amount of money, that cannot be achieved by any amount of education.

All I have now are trickles like that from a small stream, little odd moments that amount to almost nothing. Just a course reminder of what was and could be. Somehow these trickles feel like a slow fade from glory. That last dim light of sunset, a sad reminder of those sun filled days where words flowed like uncontrollable sunlight penetrating every crevice and hole, sending those rays of light on a quest to reach the unreachable. Like a torrential rain from a summer storm, unforgiving in its let down; excitable in its release, so much so it turns to flooding. Yet now I’m left with light showers designed to tease and not nourish, a flattery of what can be but isn’t. A distant call of a lover, reminding you of what was but is not.

I stand here waiting and watching, wondering and longing. Where, oh, where are you, oh inspiration? Come to me now. Please, grace me with your presence. How I long to go back to my wordy ways and live the dream of any wordsmith of writing to one’s content. Sailing the tide of unending words. Crashing into phrase waves like a skilled surfer; taking in every expression and emotion and laying it bare on a page. And wowing the masses of readers with what only comes naturally. But is illusive without inspiration.

Where, oh where are you inspiration?! Find me please as I am lost in the wordless dessert. This is my SOS; save me please from my word drought. Inspire me once more and forever.