The Joy Scribbles

when I was 13 or so I knew that I wanted to live alone and work long hours. I never knew why. But then suddenly I was fourteen and in love and I wanted to be married. Then I wanted to be alone again. Point is this is silly. I'm not trying to be anything. Just taking this daily.

"You are so brave and so quiet I forget you are suffering" Some people are stronger than others. I learnt this when I realised that you wake up everyday and face your days without the person you love the most. You inspire me. That is rare, but you inspire me to remember who I am and why I am here. That there are things bigger than me. Stronger than me. You remind me that I am just another grain in the sand but that does not make me any less important.  You are my oldest friend. But this is not a friendship measured in years but in tears, hugs, fears, joys, dreams, achievements, and a celebration of one another. It is one dose admiration, two shots of faith, a dash of trust, mixed with respect. That is how we have made it. By remembering that we are people with places to go and things to do. :)  P. S congratulations on the new car. Keep it going my love. I am praying for you. 

Hi Tlamzie, Thandie and Thuto, It seems everyone is home but you guys. But here is the thing. I know you're feeling a little tired. I know you're missing my hugs. I know you'd like a yummy home cooked meal. I miss your laughs. I miss your voices. I can barely remember them but I also know you chose this path for a reason. Go forth and prosper. I love you.

Dear Nyakallo, I wish God had given us both a little bit more strength to hold each other a little bit longer and a little bit harder. I love you. Terribly. and strongly. and I miss your face. Text me bish. :)

Dear you, "She was blushing. She was laughing. He was the reason why. But he was in love with another girl. She knew what love was. It wasn’t a tie that was broken by walking away. Love was love. No one walked away unscarred. She wanted to love him. She wanted to turn his hands over and tattoo I love you in his arms, to teach him to draw her face with his eyes closed. She wanted to trace kisses on his body, and teach him the contours of her own. But he was already in love. She didn’t want to compete but she still laughs and blushes and tells him all her dreams and fears. He still listens." You should have stopped listening and I should have stopped talking. But even perfect people have weaknesses. Now look at us. Me.

I am sorry. I was stubborn and young and broken hearted. Nothing good ever came from loving a broken soul. Nothing good ever came from trying to put together shattered glass. I am sorry I left pieces of myself lodged in your hands. I am sorry that I tried to wash the blood but only hurt you. I am sorry that when I could not remove myself from you I tried to sooth you with my poetry. I am sorry that he was still in every poem that I wrote. I am sorry that you met me when I was nothing but shreds of myself. ' I am sorry that my love for him suffocated you. That it wrapped itself so tightly around your throat that you felt his hands crack your neck. And you walk up from bed wondering if I would ever love anything else. If you were enough? I am sorry for all the times you tried to reach beyond my lips and I cried. And you did not know whether to hold me or leave me. Because my skin has began to burn itself in you. ' And you're realising I'm too hot to touch an

Dear boy who left She stared at him in the rear view mirror. They were acting like friends again. They were always acting like friends. Nobody knew, not even her best friends that she had been sleeping with him for a year. She was in love with him. She knew it for sure. Staring at him and that rear view mirror knowing he wouldn’t see her again for 77days. Exactly 77. She had counted; he had said she should think of it as weeks. He kissed her. She held back tears. “I’m going to miss you she said. He said you don’t understand that I’m going to miss you four times more. She knew it now that when she said she loved him she did. And he was leaving. And she was staying. And she loved him. But she knew he didn’t love her. Even when he said he did, she knew.

I have never been one to be flattered by anyone who called me their everything.  I have always wanted a man who could say to me "you deserve everything"... There is a certain emptiness with being someone's everything. The idea that they are nothing without you is the least bit romantic. Just incredibly scary.   In the words of Toni Morrison  “You think because he doesn't love you that you are worthless. You think that because he doesn't want you anymore that he is right -- that his judgement and opinion of you are correct. If he throws you out, then you are garbage. You think he belongs to you because you want to belong to him. Don't. It's a bad word, 'belong.' Especially when you put it with somebody you love. Love shouldn't be like that. Did you ever see the way the clouds love a mountain? They circle all around it; sometimes you can't even see the mountain for the clouds. But you know what? You go up top and what do you see?

You guys are probably expecting someone else but here goes.... Dear Rihanna, I genuinely do not understand why people giggle a little when I list you as people I want to meet. I mean how else will i learn to live like nobody is watching even with 36.5 million twitter followers,  89,226,606 facebook fans and well.... the rest of the world and their mothers watching. How else will I learn to be myself even when a billion people are watching me, judging me and desperately begging me to be someone else?  How else will I learn to watch my world crumble while everyone watches but still wake up to get my job done. Honestly there is only one way to say it... Rihanna if you do not meet me who will teach me to be unapologetic about who I am? Or to own my body? Or how to love my family unconditionally? You have shared bits of yourself with every person who has learnt to love you. You have shared your friends, your family, your home.  Also who will teach me how to dutty wind? How will show

I am sorry that your parents are too absorbed in healing their broken hearts to notice that you are falling through the cracks. I am sorry that it took noticing scars on your arms to realize that I was too consumed in trying to get my degree to notice that you needed a hug. Or a laugh. Or somewhere safe to cry. But you are young and that is an incredible thing to be. An incredible place to be. It is a place of fluidity. Nothing about you is defined. Except that you are a bubbly girl with big bright eyes. I wish I had remembered to teach you early in life that you would never have to seek for love beyond the walls of my purple room. That you did not need to ask for it, or beg for it, that it came unrequited, unwanted but still enveloped you in its embrace. Someone should have told you. Or showed you.  It should have bee me.  You should not have had to seek it at the bottom of vodka bottles at thirteen. Or in slits in your arms. I am sorry I did not teach you. 

Dear Angel, If someone had told me that on your 18 th birthday I would have to remind myself not to call you out or tell you you’re wrong thirteen years ago I would’ve laughed. We would have laughed. I would have told them that you have cried in my arms way too many times for pretences. That we have shared too many diary pages for lies. If someone had told me years ago that I needed to “get you” I would have “got them”. If they said “she will crumble if you do not save her” I would have showed them your straight As, your trophies and asked you to ask them wtf in two different languages. But here we are... and I’m watching you fall. Too scared to save you Or tell you. 

You’re an old soft warm bad habit Like the way my sister sucks her lips And the way i squint my eyes. You remind me of my mama’s oxtail Sweet and inviting Filled with laughter and joys. And smells of familiarity. Something about you says welcome home You’re an old soft warm bad habit. Somewhere in between my favorite boxers and frail blankie. My favorite tea cup and favorite dish You’re the place i cuddle in comfort and sob in pain You’re the laughter in between shots And the sickness in the morning You are my beginning and ending. And my knees have gathered dust from kneeling prayers That echo in the loneliness of my rooms offering no answers or sense of comfort. Where is my GOD?? And I've been carving your name unto unlit skies hoping that with every letter some kind of light will shine on me. And I've been walking down memory lane but the path is riddled with thorns and broken glass so it hurts when I walk. And dear, between my

This letter is difficult because I do not forgive. so sorry to dissapoint you but it won't be happening.

I found a poem I wrote that gets this.... It's called Home Let's get our own place. And cook and drink wine. We'll pick recipes of the internet.   Our house will smell of yummy things we haven't eaten yet. We'll sit on the floor and eat of each other's plates. Or share a plate because we're not done packing yet. Then we'll make love on our bed.   I'll make sure we start with that room. With pretty sheets I picked. Then we'll lie in each other’s arms. And I’ll scream eek at your sweat glistened skin that turned me on just a moment before.   You'll laugh. And we'll talk. You'll fall asleep. Fall into a snore. I'll get up and write in the study you built for me. And I’ll fall asleep, books open, laptop on.   Will you buy me a type writer so I don't deal with the glare on the screen? I hope you're not mad when you wake up and realise I don't sleep that much.                 

Dear Angel, or princess or rock star or cowgirl or president or whatever else you want to be when you grow up. Here is something that everyone but your mother will say "You do not belong to yourself" . They will consume you in bits and pieces. They will attempt to own you. sometimes they will swallow you whole but remember than that your mama birthed a fighter. That you come from a family of women with a fire in their eyes. You my darling belong to yourself. I am doing horribly aren't I? I just don't know what to tell you. I don't want to be the one who tells you that because you are a black woman you will work ten times harder than most people. I do not want to be the one to tell you that sometimes you will break yourself on men or women. That 1 in 3 women experience gender based violence at least one in their life. God! I hope you're not number 1. I do not know how to tell you what kind of woman to be. Maybe an open minded one. Or maybe I'll show you.

Dear Saleem, I named you after my father because of the day he told me he once beat his convicted pedophile uncle for making a sexual comment about a twelve year old walking past him. Also for the time my uncle called his wife a whore and he kicked him out. For the time he planted roses for my mother because she deserves roses everyday. I named you for a man I never saw mistreat a woman. For a man who treated me as a human and not a girl. I named you for a man who in a time where all I heard was " so and so is beating his girlfriend or wife" I never saw raise a hand to a woman. I named you for him in the hope that he will rub off on you. They are many things I will teach you, like to live fearlessly and be yourself but only one is important today. Darling I birthed you because they are not enough men that know that women are human beings. They are not human because they are someone's mother, sister, daughter or wife, they are human because they are real. The world wil

Dear TJ, Here is a list of 10 things to remember when you're forty;  No one is too young to fall in love and You are not too old to forget to love. Tequila shots are messy as fuck. But messy nights are worth trying to remember.  Sex in a car will never be comfortable.  "Writer, poet, and superhero"  You can say No.  You can quit jobs you don't like.  We're going to greece.   Island girls have more fun.  Nothing your children do is about you.  If no one else does, Simba Snow Sebina loves you.  and also I love you.... xoxo

So a fan ( nah more like an avid reader) of my blog said he was disspaointed that I stopped the letter challenge. We therefore came to an agreement that I would try my hand at it except He would give me a few letters to write to replace the ones I had already written. So can we call this the July letter challenge? Yall can thank @AtangManyeaula for this one. A letter to 12 year old TJ Dear Tshepo,  No one but your mom calls you TJ now but by next year even your childhood friends will and after six or so years you will wish people remembered Tshepo. But they won't. You will become TJ. You will love her. She will be your favourite thing about Tshepo and you will be proud. You will still wish she was Tshepo.  Next year you will be thirteen. It seems inconceivable now but I promise you it isn't as difficult as it looks. I know you feel awkward. No one says you're cute except your family. All the boys think you're one of the boys but do not bother yourself. They