So, I managed to pull my finger out and got myself to Hong Kong for the rugby (the promise of firm male flesh on abundant display being the main draw) and as an eager student,[…]
Once there was an esteemed leader in a small country in the south of the African continent. This leader loved his people so very much that it almost caused him physical pain (although that could[…]
Life really isn’t like a box of chocolates at all. It’s more like a pair of shoes.
Japan; two years on
An important lesson was cemented for me this week: never pass judgement on â€˜clear and shut casesâ€™ because there are always material facts that have been omitted. So Pius has finally come out and admitted to his shenanigans and getting down with some OPP.
Given that I am always complaining, I decided to give myself a break and think of 10 things I am actually happy about and give thanks for:
You gird your loins and take a deep breath as you prepare to answer “I’m from Zimbabwe”. You see your inquisitor’s eyes dart around in consternation or fear. Consternation as they have no idea where that is, but know that itâ€™s somewhere dark and uncivilised. Fear that any moment now the African in you is going to bring out the begging bowl. A view supported by decades of media misrepresentation.
I finally did it. Deactivated my Facebook account.
5 myths about black people
You embark on what you believe to be a life-altering experience in the Orient, untainted by hallucinogens or any other mind-altering substances. Landing on the hot humid shores, you find the climes to be nothing less than frosty from the natives. Eventually you get used to people moving away when you sit next to them on the trains, unsure whether itâ€™s because you are fat. Or black. As one South African eloquently phrased it â€˜Our blacks smell differentâ€™.
I donâ€™t know which sign I currently have emblazoned on my forehead which gives random people the incredibly misguided impression that I care about their tepidly vapid existences. Because I am not sure how the menacing scowl permanently etched on my face can be translated into a come-hither -and-unburden-thyself look. (p.s. There isn’t even the excuse of alcohol!)
I mean seriously, a brotha should know when to lay the shovel aside and just stop digging . How many more periods of this brand of idiocy should the masses have to suffer? Has he not done enough already to get
himself a serious beat down? This would be on par with another kid being found in Michael’s bed. Or yet another middle class white kid disappearing from some villa in Portugal.