AN OUTCAST..... FOR NOT HAVING CHILDREN

Having children is a life changing decision that needs, two, if not one strong-headed  couple, or individuals to jump into. Like marriage, having children can alter one’s outlook  on life and decision-making process because, when you have children , they most likely will come first in whatever move or decision you make. Having children is a life changing decision.

Can an individual be an outcast for deciding ‘not to have children’? 

Well, it seems that a number of individuals who choose not to have children are subjected to some form of abuse, one way or another. This abuse can come from a family member, a friend or friends, work colleagues, your peers and in some cases, neighbours.

 It is true that when you don’t have children, you have time in your hands to do whatever your heart desires during your leisure times. It is equally true that, when you don’t have children you can actually have more money to spend towards anything you want or need because you can afford it. Conversely,  some couples or individuals cannot, cannot afford to have their own children.

Individuals who feel the struggle of bearing children, and the  humongous responsibility that comes with “having children” , can be shrew towards those who can’t bear children, towards those who will  be financially incapable to provide for their own children, if they had them.

Some ill-hearted individuals feel that it is socially unacceptable if a couple or an individual doesn’t have children, when they themselves are fully fledged, and can take care of themselves.        

  

It is a well-known fact that some babies are conceived, without any formative plan, and are branded a ‘problem’  and in some cases are left on the side of the road to be picked up by a drifter motorist or pedestrian, then taken to a Children’s Home - the worst scenario: these ‘problem’ babies are left to die and do die because, no one saves them.

Personally, I don’t have children because, I feel that having children is a very significant  arrangement  between two individuals, that can alter their progress in life, for the worst or for the good, taking into cognisance, the little person or little people that you are bringing into this world.

I personally feel , one needs to have children with an individual that is prepared to compromise; prepared to be willingly be  a mother or father; prepared to provide for their child (ren) ; prepared to strive to be emotionally and physically available. Be prepared to love and protect no matter what happens.       

When you have children doesn’t mean that the next individual that doesn’t is no human being and is an outcast. Labelling those who don’t have children as outcasts,  creates a bias social cohesion – a social cohesion which is initially base on choice.

WORD TO THE LET’S HAVE CHILDREN REVOLUTION

Linda Sakazi Thwala

Contact: 0719727764
e-mail: lindasakazithwala@gmail.com 

GOD IS THE MOST HIGH

A VICTIM OF EXTREME MISANDRY

I am facing  a disturbing predicament in my own family – and this is,’ hatred for men’. Not just any hatred for any men, but men that are an umbilical habitual connection and bloodline in our family.

This started years ago, when my mother was physical abused by my father, which is one of the issues I dealt with in my previous writings. This hatred has since spilt over to all men in our maternal-and-paternal families, respectively. Even the little boys feel it.

The premise of this hatred has since been ignored, without affirmation, introspection, retrospection, counseling-sessions, emotional compensation and ownership from the initial abuser . A more formative defence mechanism has since been erected, which places all men in a discriminatory boxed environment – ‘All men are abusers and all men must suffer.’  

The seed was planted by a male figure in my life, and now,  misandry has manifested its self – ‘the sins of the father will visit upon the son’ , so the saying goes.  

It came gradually, over the years. I did not pay too much attention to it, because I saw my mother as source of nurture, emotional protection and a room of wisdom. Only to discover later on in life that I am blamed for what my father did years ago, turning her into a punching bag,  which resulted in their unconditional divorce.

Unconditional  because,  growing up as a youngster there was no financial, emotional,  physical implications and reproach given towards my parents’ divorce conditions. Hence, this  clouded blame shifting that has shrouded my family’s existence – now, spilling over to younger women and men that had nothing to do with it in the first place.

I always wondered why my mother blamed me for every little thing that went wrong in our home, why she chastised me for things I did not do, and why she believed people that accused me of things I did not have any faintest idea about. I first saw it as personality enhancement, don’t talk to your mother about anything,  however, continuous replications made me change my outlook. And now, I see it as it is – plain, emotional abuse.  

Coupled to that, I am constantly reminded  that I am ‘useless, baggage and a good for nothing soon to be a street sweeper’ which is, verbal abuse.

On top of that, I am also told that I’m not allowed to talk to anyone, tell anyone of the things that are untowardly uttered towards me, as man. Why? Because, I am a man and must take it as a man, just keep quiet. Why? Because, it’s what men do. Take it and analyse yourself man!  

It all comes to the point where one cannot ignore the hash, degrading words that verbally rain towards you, and ones verbal reaction is taken as ‘women abuse’ – cycling reaction of abuse. Who is the real abuser here!

It’s allowed for a man to be called “Shit!”  by his sister, and the man must just take it, like that, as a man. Why? Because, if a man retaliates, that is not manly of him.

I don’t blame my mother for what she’s doing,  for the reason that, she did not deal with her pain. A pain that came as a by-product of physical abuse, in the hands of man she loved.  

As people we reflect upon our own lives and how we are brought up.

It takes great courage, and emotional strength not to replicate the sins of our fathers. Even in the face of women that are reverse-abusers*

Yes, say 'No to Women and Children Abuse.' Reversely, say 'No to Men Abuse.'

I love women*

THIS IS NOT A REVOLUTION!

Linda Sakazi Thwala

WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE BLACK?

The narrative of what it means to be black is a consciousness that was embedded by the Father of Consciousness, Steve Bantu Biko: In  the book, I Write What I Like “THE DEFINITION OF BLACK CONCIOUSNESS”  , in 1971, Biko defines blacks as ‘those who are by law or tradition politically, economically and socially discriminated against as a group in the South African society and identifying themselves as a unit in the struggle towards the realisation of their aspirations.’

South Africa’s social and political standing has since been transformed  into a Democratic State. However,  twenty years into our young Democracy, black people are starting to rise up against the notion of being white and treated as whites.    

Prominent  black people are starting to revolt against the notion of being white, of being taught in a Whiteman’s language, living in a Whiteman’s world.

Traditionally black people were not given a choice to assimilate their cultures with the Eurocentric and Westernise styles of living. Black people were forcefully attributed  to the Whiteman’s world as subservience to the Whiteman’s style of living, and only as  second-class-citizens – which was and still is a human rights violation.

This infringement on  black people, as dark beacons of prejudice, inequality and lesser-class-beings has been recorded through history, wide-reaching, as a gross-negligence, inhuman and racist injustice by white people upon the black population. Taking away their inborn identity, as part of the human race.   

Inside today’s South Africa, a Social Economic Transformation is needed  to restore the pride and identity, that was taken away by the white colonisers, to erase the far-reaching abuse that has clouded the black mentality for centuries.    

Steve Bantu Biko states that firstly: ‘Being black is not a matter of pigmentation – being black is a reflection of a mental attitude.’ Secondly: ‘ Merely by describing yourself as black you have started on a road towards emancipation, you have committed yourself to fight against all forces that seek to use your blackness as a stamp that marks you out as a subservient being.’    

In seeking the true black identity, we as South African black people have to be vigilant of mitigating old Whiteman’s racist tendencies with our own superfluous racist approach.

We cannot deny that our pigmentation has been a source of ridicule, to help guide the way of life for white people. Justly, we also cannot deny that black people are proud, multilingual, multi-coloured, non-racial , non-violent, non-segregating nation. Even through the extremities of neo-Nazi  racist white lefties. The black nation remains strong and connect as one.

In our connectedness many polarizing adversaries on what it means to be black: i.e. the Foreign Element in our neighbourhoods, Economic Emancipation, Land Repatriation, the true South African identity,  greedy Politians and Political parties, and our own ignorant corrupt government  - stand to degradingly pull away our democratic right, black identity and pride, that our elders stood for and fought for, for decades. 

A neo-black revolution on black mentality and black pride has commenced* 

The debate goes on!

WORD TO THE BLACK PRIDE REVOLUTION

Linda Sakazi Thwala

A MISHMASH, MEETING OF SITUATIONS

Into my subconscious, my thoughts, the relevance of what  has been, what is and what will be. A frisson awakens my soul, death before life, blubbers of hunger, unspoken truths, unexplored desires, expectations , dark truths, white lies. 

It took shape in that murky mysterious place – a rushed, fumbled  grumble. It became what it became. An unintentional emotional phenomenon, shaping in slapping stomping roughness  sweat. A force, unto a much needed surrender. An emulation of a thing that is progression, that can never be termination. A rushed, fumbled  grumble – a  thought that could be what you make it to be.  

An instinctive realism, a mishmash meeting of situations –  an anticlimax in that film of a huge disruption. Bang! Bang! A peak. An explosion! A climatic climax coiling over-and-beyond, thundering like the mysterious drums that echo at dawn. An echo of progression. A spiritual sequence. You have to care!

 “Somebody has to care.”  You have to care, or you are not going to go anywhere. It’s a preface to everything you put your mind and soul to. You have to care! Whether you are drunk or sober, standing or falling, sleeping or awake. You have to care! Be clear-headed like your subconscious, for those that try to escape their sobriety , are always trying to escape their reality, their subconscious is biting deep into their soul. You have to care for those lips you put your kiss on. Care for those thighs you warm with your hands. Care in the dark and care in the light.

The revolution of the soul is becoming but, can only be realised by the flourishing body. It is the root of a progressive persona. A blubber of hunger, unspoken truths, unexplored desires, expectations , dark truths, white lies. It cannot be a rush, it cannot be a fumble, it cannot be a grumble.

It is a mishmash, meeting of situations. It is life that knows that death is to be expected, ‘for where there is life there is death’. Every smooth road has its humps and bumps -  as life has affections, amusements, extreme dislikes and mourning.   

 Into my consciousness, my reality, my relevance of what  has been, what is and what will be.

The future is coming*                                   

WORD TO THE MISHMASH REVOLUTION

Linda Sakazi Thwala  

Tyler Perry's LETTER: "DO YOU KNOW YOUR WORTH"

Hey Sakazi,

Yes, this is a long one but don’t act like you don’t have two minutes to read it. LOL.

I remember being a very young little boy going to visit my Grandmother. Everybody called her Aunt May. It was always a trip I enjoyed because she had the most interesting things around her house. She had things I had never seen before, like an old washing machine on the back porch where you fed clothes through the wringer. I got my hand caught in it one time; not a good feeling, lol. I also remember her wood stove and her outhouse. She didn’t have indoor plumbing at the time. When I would arrive there with my parents I would jump out of the car, run past the chickens, and up the old wooden steps into the old rundown 4 room house. It looked to be leaning from the outside, and on the inside, there was newspaper stuffed in the cracks of the wall. I loved the faces on the black and white comics hanging out of the walls. It made my heart happy, but my hands would get slapped if I pulled them out, especially in the winter. I didn’t know that was the insulation. The house had no heat. In the front room of the house there was this very old man in a bed. His skin was like bronze, and to my little boy eyes, it looked like a million wrinkles ran through it. When he would open his eyes, I’d see that they were grey and faint. His name was Papa Rod. That’s all I knew about him until I was told that he was born a slave. Of course, I didn’t know what that meant at the time. I was too busy studying the quilt that was covering his body to pay attention, to tell you the truth. This quilt looked as if it had millions of colors and millions of patches to my little boy eyes. I thought to myself, “that is an ugly quilt? Why didn’t my Grandmother go to Kent’s or TG&Y (if you know these stores you’re telling your age, lol) and get a good quilt like my mamma had? What is this raggedy thing?” Later on that night, when we would go to bed, my Grandmother would bring lots of these homemade quilts that she had made from her old dresses and scraps and put them on the bed for us. I thought to myself, “all these quilts are ugly, they smell like mothballs, but my it sure is warm.”  

When I was about 21 I decided to move away, and guess what, here came my mother giving me one of my Grandmother’s quilts. By then, I had an appreciation for the hard work that went into making it. So, I appreciated it, but I was still a bit embarrassed by it. I took the quilt with me to Atlanta. I not only used that quilt to keep me warm at night, especially when I was sleeping in my car, but I used it when I had to get on the ground to work on my car. Now don’t get me wrong, it was special to me because my Grandmother had made it, but when you’re in a struggle nothing has much value. So, I would use it for whatever and whenever I needed it. Most of the time it was thrown in the trunk for wrapping tools or thrown in the closet until I needed it.  

Not long after I moved to Atlanta things got really bad. I remember coming home from work one day. I was behind on my rent, and the sheriff had evicted me and set all my things out on the street in the rain. I drove up shocked, and I got out of the car trying to get all the things of value that were left that my neighbors hadn’t picked through. In my mind, they had taken everything of value, but there on the ground was my Grandmother’s quilt. I used it as a bag. I put as many of my clothes in it that I could and stuffed it into the car and left. I went to a storage company and put what few things I had left in storage and started trying to find a place to live. 

Stay with me. I’m going somewhere with this. A few months later, I couldn’t afford to pay the storage bill. So, I just let it go, losing everything in storage including the quilt.

Now, let me take you to my deeper point. A few years ago, I saw a familiar looking quilt. It looked just like the ones that my Grandmother had handmade. It brought back so many memories. I knew it wasn’t the same quilt, but I also knew that somebody’s grandmother or great-grandmother had made that quilt and I was embarrassed that they had taken such good care of it. As I was studying the lines and the stitching I got a lump in my throat. It looked so much like my Grandmother’s work. What was so surprising to me was that the very quilt I thought was so ugly through my little boy eyes, as a man, I realized that I was looking at a masterpiece. I asked the curator about the quilt, and she started telling me the story. This woman, who no doubt didn’t know anything about my Grandmother, was telling me my history. She was describing my Grandmother’s quilt. She said it was made by an African American woman and that her family had kept it for years. All of the fabrics dated back to different times in history. There were patches from dresses and her rags from the civil war to the civil rights era. As I was taking it in, I had to ask her what it was worth. She told me that this quilt wasn’t for sale because the family didn’t want to sell it. They knew the value, but she said you could get a few of these limited and rare quilts with this kind of history for around twelve thousand to one hundred thousand dollars each. My jaw hit the floor. I was so embarrassed that I had this treasure in my house, in my possession, in my life, and I had treated it like a rag. What a lesson for us all.

It made me think about us as humans. We are so much more valuable than a material thing, but sometimes in life we have people in our lives that should be treated like treasures. Instead, we discard them and treat them like rags, like my Grandmother’s quilt. We only use them when we need to be warm or comforted. Like that quilt, we think they’re worthless until we need them, and like that quilt, it takes somebody else to point out their value to us after they are gone.  

If you are like that quilt, and you are being treated like you don’t matter or being pushed aside and used only when you are needed, stop letting that happen to you. You are worth more than the people that created you know. My Grandmother had no idea that one day her quilts would be worth millions. She had lots of them. She created it and didn’t know, which tells me that it’s possible for your parents not to know that you are a treasure. Like that quilt, you are beautiful in your patches, and it took all of those patches to make you whole and who you are. Each one of them represents something in your life that you’ve been through. Wear them with pride. Like that quilt and its thread, something held you together through it all. Like that quilt, even if the people that you give warmth to are not giving you the care you need, you still have value beyond what they know. Like that quilt, you are made from fabrics that have endured and seen more than most people could imagine and you’re still here. Like that quilt, if someone who is immature can’t appreciate your beauty, I’m sure a grown up will. Like that quilt, you are a treasure. Your story matters. I wish my Grandmother’s quilt would have come with a label telling me how special and valuable it was and would be. Then the young foolish man that I was would have known how to handle it, to treat it with care. But unlike that quilt, you have a voice. Use it. Start demanding that you are treated like the treasure that you are!

I love you,

God bless.

Tyler Perry*