I’m glad that my father stuck around to raise me. Realising that he is one of the many who understood the responsibility of being present in his child’s life, I can’t help but appreciate that on a daily basis. This week, I reflect on the kind of father he was.

1. Provider- My dad has always and will forever be a provider. For the past 4 years, he has been taking care of me as he would a 18-year-old university student, I’m in my 30s. He pays my tuition, accommodation, I get to drive cars I have no idea of how much gas is. He provides food and I get an allowance. He does that with all his children. Up until this year, he was paying college tuition for my two siblings and I. It is worth mentioning that he is retired. For as long as I have known him, he has always made sure that he provides as best as he can. This is not limited to his nuclear family as his extended family and friends can count on him too. Amazing.
2. Respect- He has always been respectful to my mother. I have never witnessed a heated conversation. No children popping out every now and again. He never uses words  or language that is derogatory to her. That instilled in me the importance of getting along with the fathers of my children, no matter how much we don’t like each other. Many children are scarred by seeing their fathers treat their mothers with disdain. It teaches them that women are only good for as long as they are desired by themself (story for another day). I hold that belief that parents should work together for the good of the child. I learned that from dad.
3. Protective- Fathers are supposed to set boundaries. My dad did that, and those boundaries were always very clear. What my dad failed to do was to speak gently to me about those boundaries. It  was always in a harsh tone. Never a conversation but orders. I wish he had spent more time explaining those boundaries to me, hearing my input, and explain consequences. The threats worked for the some part but  most times, they didn’t. Threats just created a child who learned how to lie and cover things up, even though those lies would harm me. When I got raped by someone I was dating, I wanted to my dad but I couldn’t. I told no one at home because, I thought his first response would be “What did I say about privately interacting with men?” That would make it difficult for the rest of the family to support me.
4. Presence- This is a tricky one. My dad sleeps at home every day and when he doesn’t we know exactly where he is and how to reach him. That way, he is always present. His presence at home did not exactly translate to outside the home. In Kindergarten, Primary and High school, I was always involved in extra curriculum activities like ummiso (traditional dance for maidens), drum majorettes, singing, martial arts etc. I was also a star student in Primary, always winning prizes, I don’t have memories of him being present for those. I would get jealous when I saw other dads on competition day. Now, he did attend some of those events but most of my memories are filled with my mom. She would just give him an account of what happened. I didn’t feel encouraged by him yet I always sort his approval. My dad dropped me off at school on graduation morning, and never came back for the ceremony. He instead picked up his friend and went to check on their livestock as they did every weekend for the past 8 years. I had no family member present for my first university graduation.
5. Having fun- I don’t remember spending time leisurely with my dad. That is why I loved it when we visited granny’s place. I would get to see him play card games with my cousins. In our house we weren’t even allowed to have playing cards. He seemed so relaxed and genuinely had fun. It always fascinated me how good he was with other people’s kids and not with me. He was always talking down to me, it made me feel silly. Because we didn’t get to spend time together, we didn’t get to build trust between us. We were strangers to each other. I think that is why he wasn’t there for me when I needed him the most. I never know when he will abandon me (purely based on trust issues between us).
6. Teacher- My poor way of handling negative emotions is something I learned from my dad. My dad will cancel you so fast and hold on to that if you move a step out of line. In many ways, I’m like him. But the thing about that is that we both don’t handle failure or disappointment well, personally or of the ones closest to us. My dad threatened to pull me out of school twice for talking to a boy (non-romantically, hey), and kicked me out for being pregnant (I was young and broke), the list is endless. Did I mention, that he doesn’t know how to say sorry. He has never apologised to me, not even once. I am an avoidant, I will choose not to face failure head-on, the more I ignore it, the further it will disappear from memory, or so I think.

Parenting is hard on anyone and I think my parents made many mistakes with me. I am happy to have him as my father. It is such a blessing to wake up every day and he is there, smiling and looking out for us. My dad has changed in many ways which makes him an awesome human being. I can’t help but be grateful for many of the lessons that we have both learned. It may have not been easy to raise children especially when he himself was abandoned by his own father. I have learned to forgive many of the mistakes that he made, I was his prototype. I hope to have him around for twenty more years. I love my father.

Have you ever had an experience and thought nahhhh, man, I must be crazy because this doesn’t happen to normal people. That was my experience growing up. Now that I am older and have access to therapy services, I wish that was available to me as a child.

I grew up in a family full of males. My father has 7 siblings of which 6 are male. My mother has 2 siblings all male. Most of my paternal family is men. My mum has 3 nephews and a niece. When we went to Nkambeni to visit Gogo Ndwandwe, there would be twenty-five grandchildren and only five of them were girls, myself included. So, you see, I was surrounded by men.

Ata some point in my life, I wanted to be a boy. It wasn’t a sexuality thing but how they were treated. Boys were preferred by society. They were  valued higher than their mothers even. I wanted to be important. I wanted to be recognised as an important member of the family. I didn’t understand why I was inferior. 

I had the highest marks in school, I could sing and act, was the model Christian child, was the most helpful one. Why was i not important?

The boys could do whatever they wanted and we were mostly stuck with the responsibility of making sure that things functioned well at home. It didn’t matter that we would all go herd goats, the girls still needed to make sure that firewood was gathered, water for cooking, bathing and washing was available. All the boys did was livestock related and play.

I wanted to be a boy so badly. To be carefree. The whole thing that girls mature faster than boys is a lie, girls are given way more responsibility too early in life. Boys have it easy.

Alongside wanting to be a boy, I had serious body dysmorphia. I got teased a lot about my body. My bum and hips were too big. I hated that.

Because I wanted to be a boy so badly, it made sense to be slightly attracted to girls, yah. It wasn’t really the case. I doubt I had any interest in people then. If I did, I don’t remember much of it. 

When I got to high school and got my first crush on a girl, I didn’t know where that came from. I could have used someone to talk to around that time. At first, I thought it was because I had wanted to be a boy for so long. It was not normal to feel that way.

This is where a therapist comes in. someone who will remind you that your feelings are valid. It isn’t any kind of therapist that would work though. One that is queer-friendly is what is needed. Thing is, many professionals in the mental health space have been used to advance conversion therapy. A practice dangerous to queer folk and those they live among.

Thinking queerness can be cured is extremely harmful.

Imagine trying to figure life out as a teenager and add same-sex attraction to that. At times I felt crazy. Seriously thought I was losing my mind. The best way I could continue as a functioning teenager was to suppress my feelings. Very unhealthy. I could have avoided many mistakes that I made in relationships including dating men. God bless them but they really aren’t my portion.

June, June, June, the month where “the gays” come out to play. Pride month is supposed to be about celebrating sexual diversity, milestones, and planning the future. Is there something to celebrate as a queer Swazi?

Every June since 2018, there is always an article in the media about institutions attempting to stop a gay parade. In spite of those attempts, the parade has always gone on successfully. There were many fears that the rest of the public would attack the marchers during the first pride parade, which is why they sought police ‘protection’. It is however, normal for the police to be present during a march. This helps with directing traffic and keeping order. Crowds do have a tendency of doing the most ridiculous things, making it go out of hand. If you know what I mean.

Sexual and gender minorities in Eswatini  still have a lot that they have to deal with. They fight every day for access to rights that are denied. Institutions do not have policies that clearly support sexual diversity. That results in the discrimination of this minority group. 

Many corporates have a tendency to just slap on the rainbow on their products or logos and life goes on as usual. Those same corporations support anti-LGBT campaigns on a normal basis. Churches are the main anti-LGBT organisation. Preachers teach a lot of homophobia and members of the church seldom call that out. 

The church and businesses have a mutually beneficial relationship, which is why they support each other. So a  lot of the “support of LGBT” is just a terrible public relations stunt.

Because queer people are loudly celebrating themselves, homophobes also get a chance to shine. This is annoying as they get to do that all year round. They really should rest in June and hopefully more days after.

Pride month is also an opportunity for those who are trying to figure out their sexuality. They get to see others who live diverse lives like them. It gives a sense of comfort and community. Everyone likes the feeling of belonging. To be around people that know what you go through.

June is a time to learn as well.  The learning process is not just for those outside the community but for those within as well. LGBTQIA+ is not a monolithic group that is homogenous in nature. There are always very interesting stories that one gets to hear. 

Sharing of cultures also happens during this time. The cultural exchange happens between those living in rural, peri-urban and urban areas. For those who have access to the international world, there is an exchange of culture between tribes in other countries.

All in all. June is a good month for queer people because, it affirms that they too are important. They are seen and they matter. It gives hope that things will get better, one step at a time.

With a background like mine, I never thought I would ever do sex work. I was raised by staunch Christian parents who would have disowned me the minute they heard what I was doing.

It started off when a client of the office asked me out. His office was a regular advertiser where I worked.  I was working strictly on commission, and the money he was bringing in was a lot. I mean a whole lot. At 23, it really was too much money. 

Only thing was, he wasn’t working directly with me, another lady I worked with was his agent. My colleague was afraid to lose her client so she made me promise not to anything underhanded. I remember laughing and saying to him, if I date you, you will need to pay me the money that she’s getting. Its crazy that as his potential girlfriend I would watch him line up another’s pocket.

I was the newest member of the team and was thousands behind on commission compared to them. To my surprise he took me up on my Ts n Cs. I couldn’t believe it was real. So now I had two sources of money supply. It was party time. Indirectly, that was my introduction to sex work, I just didn’t know it yet. 

The relationship lasted a few months. I was not aware that he was getting married. He just disappeared and his friends told me what was up.

Fast forward to a few weeks later. A person I had known for a while told me he was interested in me. I knew he was already in a relationship, so I was not interested in pursuing anything with him. I jokingly told him, “Man, if you want me to have sex with you, it’ll cost you.” My colleague laughed and asked how much and I said the first figure that came to my mind. “E800,” I said. He sighed and said that was expensive.

To give you a little perspective, that isn’t really a lot of money but right now, here in Eswatini, many sex workers charge between E30-E200. I mean in 2022. I have asked, I know a couple of them. That value is that in the streets. 

Back to my story. 

My colleague surprised me as he called me later and told me he had the money and was ready to pay for my services. That took me aback. My intention had been to scare him off. It hadn’t worked. Now I felt obligated to deliver on my end of the bargain.

It’s funny how one gets into things without thinking ahead. My new client was pleased with my services and thus we began a mutually beneficial relationship. No one ever knew, no one would have thought we were friendly with each other even. We kept both businesses separate.

From then onwards, I started to grow my business. I didn’t want too many clients, so I kept it at 3 at a time. All of them were by referral.  

I charged them way more than E800. They had no problem whatsoever. We had an understanding, the higher you pay, the less the need to have too many clients. And so my business went on for a while. Served me well until I met a man and fell in love. I think men are enemies of progress.

When I think about how ‘safe’ my environment was, I can’t help but think about other sex workers who were in the field before and after me.

For me, what I was doing was sexual liberation. I could regulate my commodification and I had multiple ways out. Many women involved in sex work do not have this luxury. What had been a liberation for me was a dangerous prison for them. It still is. 

Sex workers  are at a high risk of sexual assault with little to no assistance from the law. I wonder why the world’s oldest profession is criminalised. This results in unsafe working conditions, low compensation, being stripped of dignity etc.

 Sex workers have a right to earn a living with laws that protect them. 

Parenting, what a scam. No one ever told me how hard this would be. Raising humans is such a nightmare, people. I mean, those little people are looking up to me for guidance. Are they serious? And the universe saw it fit to give me 3? For real? What am I supposed to do with them.

When I first found out I was pregnant. I laughed. I laugh every time. It’s not the happy kind. It’s the nervous one where, it’s either you laugh or cry. 

 Children are so cute but are absolute monsters. Have you heard the things that come out of their little mouths? The hell? When my daughter was 2, she came up to me, poked into my belly and said, “Mum, you should stop eating pap now. Your stomach is so big.” Don’t laugh, she scarred me. The fact that I remember that incident that happened in 2017 should tell you a lot.

Those little things are mean, but they are so cute.

One of the hardest things to do for me is being a full time student. And I will say this to women, if you cannot take care of that baby by yourself, you aren’t ready to be a mum. Don’t let the world fool you with talks of biological clocks. Babies are bloody expensive. oh, and it gets worse. Imagine me at my big age, my dada pays for my tuition, food, entertainment, clothes, petrol, basically my entire life. 

You may want to rethink that baby you’re planning this winter. LMAO

So, the last time I went to see my son, we went to the Music Garden Festival in Mbombela. Yes, part of modern parenting means going to groove with  your teen child. 

I was a bit skeptical about it, we have never hung out like that before. Not knowing where to draw the line was my biggest fear. I want us to have trust between us without overstepping the parent-child line. It’s very thin believe me.

If he asks me to buy him alcohol, a cigarette or a joint, will I get it for him? If I do, does that mean I am giving him permission to drink? And does this drinking happen in my presence only? I laughed at myself, that is delusional.

Eventually, I decided, I will not buy any alcohol for anyone below the age of 18. He understood and actually agreed with me. So while we were enjoying the music, he decides to tell me how he once went to a party and ate muffins because he had gone there hungry. Later discovered they were space cakes. Surprise, surprise.

So here was my precious innocent boy telling me that he tried weed. I wanted to cry and scream at the same time. But I had to remind myself that this is an independent human who will experiment and experience life differently from me.

Instead of going off at him, I asked him about his experience. We had a good conversation about it. I took it a step further and asked him if he had tried other drugs. Thankfully, he said no. That was a relief. Our conversation didn’t end there.

I realised that my easy gentle parenting works with him. We do have trust, and he is open to having conversations with me.

He still runs away every time I want to talk about sex. He’ll even go offline to avoid the subject. Claims, that his father and I are tag-teaming him. I’m glad his dad is handling that on that side.

Honestly speaking though. I am grateful to have the fathers of my children be fully present in their lives. They are doing a great job.

I still think my having babies was an error. Some sensible mum out there is a few babies short. I hope you enjoyed reading this. Do share some tips on how you do gentle parenting with your kids and how your parents were gentle with you. Toodles

I haven’t thought about cutting since I was in high school. I haven’t had to worry about that since the last day of December 2002. School was done and I thought “Yes, this teenage nightmare is over.” For the past few hours, I’ve wanted to cut. Just a little cut. Maybe if I bleed then my heart won’t hurt so bad. Just one cut, a little blood. I just need all this pain to go away. Even if it’s just a few minutes. A little rest. I want to die but death is so permanent. I don’t want to be gone for the rest of my life. I just need my heart to rest for the day. I’m in so much pain. So much pain. This is hell, I can’t seem to get out of my own head. 

I looked for a blade throughout the house and there is none. I’m cursing Celi internally because she bloody decluttered dad’s bedroom last weekend. I know there were some there. I used to feel a wave of relief when I cut. The self-inflicted pain felt better than the one caused by others. Although the relief didn’t last very long, it is what I used to get by. I don’t know if it’s the same feeling drug users have. I’ve never cared to find out. Drugs are something I have never wanted to try. I lived a troubled life, I knew that if I tried even a tiny bit, it would be my end. So, I stay far away, so much that I avoid forming friendships with users.

I slept a little before 10 PM and was up by 1 AM, my mind was hard at work. I could hear them talking non-stop. These voices in my head. They are becoming louder, giving me zero peace. On a normal day, I struggle with sleep because, wow, my brain doesn’t stop. I have a lot of school work that I need to complete but I can’t. Concentration for more than 3 minutes is really hard. I zone out of a conversation, I can’t keep a thought straight for too long. Writing this is hard but it seems to be working because I have stopped crying and the words are just pouring out. Maybe writing is my way out.

My heart needs to rest. Just a day of not feeling any pain. I swear the whole world doesn’t care that I have feelings too. I AM HUMAN for goodness’ sake, I have a heart and it bleeds. It hurts, hurts so bad. No one in my life right now knows my secret. The only person who ever knew noticed my cuts right near my left armpit when I was from swimming in high school. I had cut that week and the redness hadn’t disappeared, making the cut stick out (I knew to never wear sleeveless clothes, I didn’t even own a vest, just t-shirts). 

She didn’t ask too many questions. She wasn’t my friend you see. What she did do was advise me to use Bio oil as it helps heal scars. That was the first time I heard about it. Google wasn’t really a thing for us then. Yahoo was but we didn’t use it for searching for anything. 

When I came back from school, I asked my mum to buy some for me, she asked if I had stretch marks and I replied to the affirmative. I lied. I didn’t have stretch marks until years after my first child was born. So I used that oil and kept cutting for about 3 or 4 years. I never got caught. I’m a bubbly personality, no one ever thinks anything is wrong with me. It’s so bad that I hardly get to ask for help from others. I have learned that no one is coming to rescue me. Rescuing is for Disney princesses and the gorgeous girls on k-dramas. I guess that’s why I like them so much, “Someone always comes for them. There is always that one person that never gives up on them.”

I know I’m not alone, but it feels like I have no one. I did have someone once with whom I confided in but that person’s gone. They know the darker version of me. But they also … Maybe their absence is also a place I don’t want to go to. I get betrayed at every turn because people truly believe others deserve better handling than me. I always have to be the strong one, the understanding one.

I have a hard outer shell, inside I’m not just jelly, I’m a marshmallow. I carry pain like no other.

I have a date this afternoon. I was asked out on a date last evening. I’m excited by it but freaking out because, what if I can’t keep myself together. I don’t want them to find out that I’m weird and have some deep mental health issues.

I don’t want to die, I swear. I just want my heart to rest. For an hour even. Any rest will be appreciated by this weary heart of mine. I long for peace, smiles, laughter. What kills me is hope. Hope that things will get better. For now, I will crawl back into bed and close my eyes.

But death is so permanent man, when they say it’s sleep that’s a lie. I’ve been waiting for granddad to wake up for 18 years. He would know what I should do. Or maybe I’m overestimating his wisdom, he died an alcoholic. So maybe I’m like him. In too much pain he drowned in alcohol.

I need help. My heart wants to rest. My mind wants to switch off. I want to be still, unbothered. Going through life like a zombie is enough to make me want to end it all.