Unfiltered Thoughts

A significant number of people have been assuming things about me and its getting annoying. Random facts and statements to set some of the record straight. And then some... 1. Christian because Jesus 2. Feminist 3. Writer/blogger 4. Pro-LGTBI+ 5. I heart the color black 6. Attachment Style: dismissive avoidant 7. I love fruits 8. Cheese and avos are from the devil's workshop 9. Morality exists outside of religion 10. I hated law school, let's never talk about it again! 11. I know I'm beautiful, get over it! 12. I don't wear pants in the house 13. Three word vulgar vocab: fuck, bitch and damn. 14. Organised chaos and I like it that way 15. Two types of people in this world: The ones I love and idiots 16. Love is worth the risk, with the right person, who is a unicorn 17. Beach please! 18. Insomiac 19. Chronically clinically depressed 20. Insecure about my weight, sometimes 21. Almost always guaranteed to tell the truth. 22. Lemons give me

A decade ago I started down a path with a single question, does God really care? About me, He care about me? I wasn't asking about why the world is such a messed up place, my questions had nothing to do with the injustices in the world, starving children, wars or diseases, that came later, much later. My angst was very personal, does God care about me? If He does indeed care, why did He allow all the bad shit in my life to happen? What kind of sick game is He playing at? How could He allow me to be hurt in the various ways I was? And why did he appear deaf and dumb to my pleas and my existence. Where is this love that I faithfully told others about? This love that was supposed to sustain me? I began to think He didn't care, for a Being so powerful, He didn't offer much help. And I really wasn't asking for a lot, I was not looking for miracles, just  a sign that He cared, could He maybe  show Himself in a way I couldn't miss? It was and is impossible to

I knew love once, but he left, some 7 years ago. His name was Cecil but we called him CJ. Facebook deactivated his account, when, I don't know but I just found out an hour ago. He's now just "Facebook User" in my inbox and I can't even send him messages anymore. I haven't thought of contacting him in a long time but now that I can't, I want to, even knowing there will never be a response. I was browsing through my Facebook memories when I noticed that his responses to a status were deleted. I rushed to my inbox to look for his messages but they weren't there. I thought I was done mourning him, didn't think I had anything else to loose, boy was I wrong. I loved him but I didn't realise how much until after he was gone. The thing about him was that he was nothing like what I wanted, so it was easy to bury my head in the sand and repress my feelings. Plus, he was an alcoholic, I've lived that disaster growing up, I wasn't going to marr

Not so long ago I was told in not so many words that my blog is a cheap knock-off of western bloggers and I shouldn’t call it afroblogging by an African photojournalist. It doesn’t deal with socio-geo-political or environmental issues regarding Africa, therefore it should it not be called afroblogging but blogging by an African. And I understood where he was coming from. I mean I’m not an activist by any definition of the word. It has nothing to do with Afrofuturism, nor “African” fashion, culture or cuisine. The thing about twitter discussions is that they can go south very quickly, so I deflected by joking about feeling like I’ve been scolded and moved on. But that conversation has stayed with me and it’s been bothering me more and more. My question is what is the “ African narrative ”? A quick google search reveals that there is consensus that the narrative needs to change, we need to tell our own stories. The version of Africa the western media is portraying is poor, outdated and

It’s the little mercies, the little things that count, it’s the little moments that make life worth living. I’m grateful for the nights I can’t sleep because of the rabbit hole of YouTube videos I chase, I’m grateful for those nights because of the songs that I find, the theme songs to my life Hey Insomnia, thank you for keeping up most nights, I’d never have been able to read as much classic literature as I have. Dear persons in the Youtube comments who always who always posts the lyrics, thank you, I always look for this comment as I sing along to the songs, even when I know all the words. I’ll stop the rants about how much I hate morning shifts because it’s the only time I get up early enough to see the sun rise and what a sight it is to behold! I won’t waste this mind-numbing, soul crushing pain, I’ll channel it, use it as a driving force to make me a better person. Thank you for breaking my heart. My writer’s block can visit more often, it takes me on a jou

If depression transformed into a person the first thing I'd say to it is "FUCK YOU!!" and then promptly block it on all social media. I'd block and report it on every platform, block the network calls and texts, I'm not waiting for a response. Ain't no body got time to listen to those smooth lies.  I'd file for a protection order and press assault GBH and domestic abuse charges. If depression was a person, maybe it would be a woman, because that clinging and suffocating behaviour can only be equated to that of an insecure woman's. Or maybe it would be a man, nothing  quite compares to the mindfuck and games a man plays.. If depression was a person, I'd hire thugs to beat the crap out of her till she was comatose, she'd end up in the ICU and at night I'd taunt and traumatize her till she lost her mind and then smother her to death with a plastic bag while playing classic punk rock. There is no way I'm leaving the bitch alive, she

I hear music on a different wave length. Or so I tell people as a way of explanation for why I'm dancing off beat. I'll laugh and throw my head back and continue dancing. It doesn't matter if I'm three seconds off tune and making a fool of myself. I love to dance, it's in my blood, because black people and dad's pretty smooth on the dance floor. I love the feeling I experience when the music carries me off to a different plane, dictating my movement. That feeling, when the tune wraps itself around me taking complete control of my body. There's nothing quite like it. Dancing makes me happy, it has this way of lifting my mood even when the darkest of clouds loom overhead. In my darkest of days, I danced and it saw me through. I don't mind dancing on my own, I'll close my eyes and let the music take me away, whether I'm walking down Independence Avenue or at an establishment like a bar or a club. It doesn't matter if no one else is

I found myself in the words she wrote I saw myself in her revelations I read about my past in her art I saw my future in her musings The way she made me feel She made me feel things The struggles of a black woman The fight to self, to love self To be herself, myself. The warpath she blazed against misogyny The quiet steady trail she paved to love She made me feel things Deep things Her rant against God How can I believe in a God, who doesn’t believe in me? The fight to believe, a bloodbath for her faith I saw me in her I saw her in me We are one The things she made me feel Deep things She carved out my soul She told the world our story Held it up as a light for our sisters to follow This dark, dreary road Why? I wonder… Her fight for the love of a man She lost the battles; will she win the war? She craves love, longs to be held Yet she fights, she tires me Settle down THEY whisper You’ll be easier to love She fights, I fight! Come she beacons Fol

One of the things I look for in a spouse is the ability to cook and willingness to do so. I do not enjoy chores, never have, probably never will. Except laundry, I like washing and ironing. Imagine growing up in a world without gender norms, in a household of men where because of your gender (the only female among four males), you were exempt from doing what is traditionally women’s work. My Father raised feminists, he would cook, or make the boys cook, I’m not sure it ever crossed his mind that I do. Don’t get it twisted, I can, but I won’t. In very recent history, saying that kind of thing has turned away a guy who seemed pretty set on making me his "wife". It’s the kind of thing I say because 1, It’s true and 2, it weeds out the men with internalized sexist behaviour, the kind that are unwilling to unlearn. After a lengthy discussion, I asked him if he thinks he knows better than my father? “ Are you saying my father raised me wrong ?”  All the men in my life are femi

Petty is as petty does. I'm always wishing people well, praying they are happy. When you genuinely care about someone you want everything to go well for them, regardless of whether or not they're in your life. I'm going to be petty for a moment and wish them all misery. I'll repent later. It hurts to let go of people who I thought would be around forever. I'm nothing like Sam Smith, I goodbyes are difficult. I'm clingy asf, and letting go, is an extreme sport. Here's to everyone  who has walked away or I walked away from! [Him] I hope you miss me. I hope you never move on from me, ever! I hope you think of me often. [Her] I hope you never find someone who loves you like I did. I don't know if you'll find a friend more true than I was. I poured out my life for you and you took it all for granted. I pray karma does her worst. I hope you remember me when you need a friend, you'll want to pick up the phone and call but you won't.