Sex at 12?!

What happened to just being kids?

If you had asked me what a contraceptive was when I was 12, I would probably have told you that it was something you put on a wound to stop it from getting septic. Ah, but things have changed so much in the last few years that pre-pubescent girls can tell you the range of contraceptive options that they use to avoid getting pregnant.

What happened to just being kids?

What happened to high school crushes and all that teasing about being a ‘Sweet 16 and Never Kissed’?

In some countries, it is legal for people as young as 12 to gain access to contraception because hey, kids are having sex earlier and earlier.

I accept that. Fine. But at 12?!!

Surely that’s the lowering the bar too far.

Methinks that at 12 years old, one is just too young to understand what the consequences and meaning of a sexual relationship are.  At 12, you are going through all those pubescent changes and trying to form and assert your identity. Frankly speaking, I don’t see where sex fits into that equation.

I hear someone saying that’s when the hormones kick in.

Yes, I agree. But that’s still no excuse in my book.

Hormones are informed by our socialisation, the way we have formulated ideas about certain things.  So yes, your hormones might rage, but at the end of the day, it is your beliefs about sex and sexuality that will pause you from letting yourself get to the point of no return.

True, some people have greater powers of control than others but I still affirm that at 12 years of age, this all should not even be the topic of debate for anyone.

Sex will not run away, but youth is an expendable resource. So kids should be kids and adults should not give them rights to things that they aren’t ready for. Full stop.

I once watched an episode of Oprah in which she had some mothers who said that they allowed their daughters, who were about 13 years old, to have their boyfriends come for sleepovers and that they didn’t mind them having sex.

In fact, they had told them all about using condoms and contraception in preparation for sex. The reasons they gave were that it was better to teach their girl-children what to do than have them fall pregnant and have to suffer the trauma of either an abortion, or early motherhood.

Point taken. But at 13?

The only genuine fears I think that mothers should have at such a tender age is that their daughters might be raped or molested. It is unfortunate that there are so many paedophiles and rapists out there, but these should Concern Number 1.

Like I said, the way we perceive sex is all about socialisation. If parents teach their children that it is something sacred to be kept for the right time, with the right person, then that goes a way towards instilling some respect for an act which is more and more becoming a transactional process than an act of mutual love.

Admittedly, peer pressure and youthful adventure can play a role in influencing young people to have sex when they aren’t prepared for the consequences.

But seriously, no one at 12 or 13 should be bragging about having had sex and trying to get their mates to follow suit. That sounds a bit crazy to me.

Sweet Valley High novels: my daily bread at age 12

Maybe I am ‘old school’ but at 12, I still found boys to be gross (although I had an innocent crush on Leonardo Dicaprio). At that age, I enjoyed nothing more than reading Sweet Valley High novels and going out to movies with my gal pals.

Is that really so boring?

Pouting Tiger, Hidden Dragon

Nothing in his career has ever seemed to suggest that he is human. From his freakish streak of golfing wins to his impeccable manners, right down to his name – nothing has ever pointed to the fact Tiger Woods is a human being who does things we mere mortals do, like go to the toilet or swear when we stub our toes.

Tiger Woods: Too good to be true?

But all that has changed with the recent accident that caused not only a dent to his Cadillac, but more importantly, a dent to Woods’ snow-white reputation.

No one ever saw it coming.

To many, it's unbelievable to think that Woods, the epitome of a perfect gentleman, could actually stoop the levels of having THREE extra-marital affairs.

Which is why everyone is in shock. To many, it is simply unbelievable to think that Woods, the epitome of a perfect gentleman, playing the ultimate ‘gentlemen’s game’ could actually stoop the levels of having not one, not two, but THREE extra-marital affairs – and all with the help of some tablets to boost his libido.

I dare say that his reputation will never quite be the same again. No more the golden boy, Woods is now just another perverted two-timer (or should we say four-timer) in the eyes of many.

Personally, I am not too surprised by this whole Tiger saga. Not to be pessimistic or anything, but the law of averages dictates that something always eventually gives.

Human beings, though we try to seem so, will never be perfect.

Look at Bill Clinton, Reverend Jesse Jackson, John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jnr. – all noble men who upheld the tenets of democracy and equality. But also, all men who failed to keep their trouser zips closed and to respect their vows of monogamy to their wives!!!

The reason I am only giving American examples here is because there is no point in trying to do the same with my African brothers for whom having an affair is more the rule than the exception.

Before you call me biased, let’s be honest and frank here.

In Africa, a man might make the news more for never having cheated on his wife than actually having done so. It’s just that rare to find a man who won’t stray in his lifetime.

The best many women hope for is that when their mean cheats on them, he is discreet and ‘respectful’ enough to do it in such a way that she never has to find out or be ridiculed.

Some respect that is.

But let me be fair and say that it is also increasingly rare to find women of moral uprightness. These days, it’s all about tit for tat, what you can do, I can do better, etc. And so husband and wife are out cheating on each other.

Why do people get married then, I wonder?

For social status, security, to have legitimate children and yes, even in the hope that theirs might be the marriage that lasts, that is based on mutual trust and respect.

Something within me aches to believe in that ideal, because at 25, it’s natural to start thinking about where I want to be five years from now. Sure, I wouldn’t mind one day being someone’s wife, a mother even.

But I fear that breakdown of confidence and the realisation that the person you have invested all trust into is defective and that they can break your heart.

Tiger Woods has done what many men across the world do each day and night. He has reneged on a promise he made to God and to his wife. He has broken the fragile thread of trust that is sewn between two people who choose to become one flesh.

No one is asking the question, but I have to:

Did he use condoms, at least?

As our moral fabric continues to fray into a larger tangle of decadence, it seems the only hope that we can have is that during a betrayal, our sexual partners are at least mindful to not contract any viruses or infections.

Sigh.

And they call it love…

Major South African HIV policy changes signal dawn of new era

Zuma: Commitment to HIV and AIDS, at last

After years of denialism around HIV and AIDS, the new chorus ringing from South Africa’s government is one of responsibility.

For a few weeks, speculation had been rife that this World AIDS Day, South African President, Jacob Zuma, would announce significant policy changes in South Africa’s national response to HIV and AIDS.

The media had speculated about a national HIV testing campaign and about changes to the CD4 count threshold for initiation onto ARVs.

But no one had quite anticipated the magnitude of the changes that the South African government would announce before a 6000-strong congregation at the national WAD commemorations held in Tshwane.

Commemorated under the national theme, ‘I am responsible. We are responsible. South Africa is taking responsibility”, this year’s World AIDS Day was intended as a departure from veiled efforts and poor commitment to the national HIV and AIDS response – two features which coloured the era of the former president, Thabo Mbeki.

“Our message is simple,” said Jacob Zuma. “We have to stop the spread of HIV.”

And this is why radical measures are being taken in the response to an epidemic that has played a significant role in lowering South Africa’s life expectancy to just 51 years of age.

First among these policy changes is that all children under one year of age will get treatment if HIV positive. Previously, children’s enrolment onto ARVs had been determined by their CD4  count levels.

And for those babies who still have a hope that they might be born without HIV, Zuma announced that all pregnant HIV positive women with a CD4 count of 350, or symptoms of AIDS (regardless of CD4 count) would be initiated onto ARVs. In addition, all other pregnant women not in this category would be put onto ARVs at 14 weeks of pregnancy.

With TB and HIV co-infection rates standing at over 70%, the South African government  has lowered the CD4 count threshold level for initiation onto ARVs for people who are co-infected with HIV and TB to 350 (from the previous 200).

Also, in an effort to harmonise health services, all South African health institutions will be reformed to receive persons with HIV-related illness.

As the crowd clapped and cheered, calling out ‘Msholozi’ – Zuma’s nickname – the president still had yet one more announcement to make.

A national HIV counselling and testing campaign to get all South Africans to know their HIV status will be launched in March next year.

“Though I already know my status, I am making arrangements for another test as part of the campaign,” said Zuma.

In addition, Zuma called for an end to political debates about HIV and AIDS. Recently, there have been debates in the media about whether Thabo Mbeki should be charged for genocide for his government’s slow response to the urgency of HIV and AIDS, a deathly slowness that cost many their lives.

“Let today be the dawn of a new era,” he added. Let there be no more shame, blame, discrimination and stigma.”

Take Charge!

Take charge!

In commemoration of this year’s 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence

It was a sunny day, like many others in November. But on this particular morning, Chipo had decided to leave her young children at home and venture into the city centre, which was a fifteen minute’s drive away. As she sat in the kombi, waiting for the vehicle to fill up, she began to feel her thoughts and fears wage a battle within her mind.

And Tapiwa had been the cause of this war.

Why, wondered Chipo, was her son, Tapiwa, always so sick?

Just three months old, Tapiwa had not been healthy from the minute that he had been born, feeding poorly and struggling to put weight on to his already emaciated form.

Chipo’s other child, Anesu, an energetic six-year-old girl, had never given her such problems as a baby.

Why then, wondered Chipo, was Tapiwa always so sick?

Her husband, Thomas, didn’t do much to allay her worries. In fact, he only ever seemed ready to blame her for their son’s continuing poor health.

“What curse has your family put on my son?!” he would interrogate her as the little baby wailed throughout the night.

Unable to give a response to his hurtful question, Chipo would walk around their one-roomed house, singing soft songs to Tapiwa to try to make him fall asleep.

But no matter what she tried, nothing would help. Tapiwa only seemed to get thinner and cry even more.

“I am so worried, Mainini,” she sighed as she confided in her aunt who lived a few streets away.

Mainini Rosie had worked as a cook for a district hospital for many years and knew the look of a desperately sick child.

“This child is not well,” Mainini said, cradling the light mass that was Tapiwa. “He needs to be seen by a doctor.”

“But what could it be?” asked Chipo, the fear beginning to build in her voice.

“I don’t know,” responded Mainini. Although she already suspected what the cause of the baby’s discomfort was, she didn’t want to alarm Chipo with her thoughts.

That evening, as Chipo prepared supper, she decided that she would discuss the issue with Thomas. Thomas worked at one of the nearby bottle stores and often arrived home late, reeking of alcohol and nursing a horrendous temper.

In their three-year-long marriage, there had hardly been a time when Thomas had been sober.

In their courtship days, however, he had always been a gentleman, taking Chipo out to the city and spending lazy afternoons with her at the nearby lake. But those days, along with any moments of romance, were long gone.

Just as she was beginning to doze, Chipo heard a loud rap at the door. It was Thomas. Using her lit candle, she looked up at the old wall clock.  It read a quarter to midnight.

With her candle in hand, she slowly made her way to the door, unlocking it and allowing her drunken husband to stumble in.

“Where is my food?!” he demanded, giving her a pointed look with his blood-shot eyes.

He didn’t even bother to greet her.

“It is by the table, Baba,” she responded, shepherding him to the low table and pair of chairs that constituted their lounge.

Once he had sat down, she kneeled at his feet, offering him a bowl of water in which to wash his hands. She then opened up the two enamel bowls and served him the meal of sadza and boiled cabbage leaves.

He took in one mouthful, after which he proceeded to spit out and question,

“What is this?!”

“It’s your supper, Baba,” responded Chipo, timidly.

“Who told you I don’t want a warm meal tonight?”

“But.. but there was no electricity,” she stuttered. “I had to cook before it got too dark. And since that was a long time ago, the food has now gone cold.”

Thomas knew very well that there had been no electricity throughout the whole area for the whole day and had been drinking by an open fire the whole night.

“Shut up,” he scolded, pointing a finger at Chipo’s face.

Eventually, he began to eat the simple meal while the uneasy silence grew heavier between the two.

Then Chipo found the courage to speak.

“Baba,” she said softly. “Tapiwa is not well. I think he needs to see a doctor. No matter what I try, he won’t feed and he won’t gain weight.”

A long pause ensued.

And then, as though he hadn’t heard a word of what Chipo had just said, Thomas began to laugh. At first, it was a chuckle, but soon it rose to a roar, until he choked on some of his food and began to whoop and cough.

“A doctor?” he repeated, teary-eyed from the coughing.

“And who will pay for that? You don’t work, you don’t pay rent, you don’t buy the food here. You don’t do anything except live off what I work hard for. And now, you want a doctor?!”

“Mainini Rosie was saying …” began Chipo before her husband interrupted.

“Mainini Rosie,” echoed Thomas before letting out more laughter. “So you have been talking to your relatives and letting them fill you with ideas.”

He immediately stopped laughing.

“Let me tell you, your mainini is a witch! And she wants to see your children dead! That’s why she wants you to go to the doctor and get the white man’s medicine to kill your son! Your family has put a curse on my son!”

“That is not true, Baba,” Chipo responded.

“Shut up!” yelled Thomas. “Why is Anesu well while Tapiwa is so sick? It’s your family’s curse! They don’t want my family’s name to continue so they have cursed my son!”

At this, Thomas stood up and gripped Chipo by her throat, his enormous hand almost wrapping completely to the back of her neck.

Within a few moments, he had dragged her and shoved her against the wall. In the partial darkness, she felt his fist crush against her face. A warm burst of blood erupted from her lower lip. Though the pain was excruciating, she kept silent, knowing that a scream would awaken her children, sleeping on the bed on the opposite side of the room.

She felt another punch – this time to her side – and then another to her stomach. Soon, she was too weak to stand and slid down to the floor, where she quickly passed out.

For the next few days, she wouldn’t be seen outside. The hideous bruises and swelling to her body were sure to rouse gossip in the suburb. And so instead, she sent little Anesu on her errands to water the garden or buy the few groceries she could afford for the family.

It was on one of those days in self-confinement that she came across a radio programme on HIV testing and counselling. At first, she hadn’t been too interested, but then a woman began to share her own story about living with HIV.

“I found out I had HIV when I had my third child,” the woman recounted. “She was very thin and frail and always cried. So I went to the clinic to have an HIV test and found that I was positive. When my baby was tested, they found that she was also HIV positive.”

Chipo turned up to volume on the little wireless radio and listened as the presenter explained how a mother can transmit HIV to her baby during labour.

Chipo had not gone for ante-natal testing and so had never known her own HIV status. Maybe, she thought to herself, she was HIV positive, just like the woman on the show.

But how?

Thomas was the only man she had ever slept with. Could he have given her the virus? Though she knew Thomas liked to drink, she never thought that he might also sleep around. But then again, they had never gone for an HIV test, so it was possible that he had been HIV positive all along.

Is that why he blamed witchcraft for Tapiwa’s sickness?

But what about Anesu? She seemed healthy.

With these questions pulsing through her mind, Chipo decided that when she was better, she would visit an HIV testing centre to start trying to answer them. There was a testing centre next to the clinic in the area, but she was frightened that Thomas, or one of his friends, might spot her.

And so she resolved to visit the city centre instead.

The kombi filled up quickly, and soon the driver was revving up the engine to go. She felt her heart beat faster and faster as her thoughts continued their battle within her mind. She looked up at a sticker on the roof of the kombi.

“Take charge of your life.” it read, “Know your HIV status.”

She ran her sweaty palms against her skirt and looked out the window.

Would her world still look the same when she returned home just a few hours later, she wondered.

Enrolment in progress…

Enrolment in progress…

When someone is advising you about a bad character trait that you possess, do you take the defensive line and try to interject with justifications for your behaviour?

This is one doctorate that you won't have to slave to obtain!

Now, I am no psychology expert, but from my observation of people – and of myself – I have found that many of us have a real phobia about ever being wrong about anything and therefore defend our ‘valour’ to the end.

“The only reason I get worked up is because you work me up first!” comes the easy escape answer.

And suddenly, the blame is transferred onto somebody else.

“You are too sensitive to some of the things I do. C’mon grow a think skin!”

Yet another dismissive answer that can leave the advisor feeling foolish for having raised the issue.

But what does finding excuses for our behaviour really help us in the end?

I was once watching cricket with a relative who was oblivious to the fact that I actually understood the rules of the sport. As we sat there, he kept imposing his incorrect interpretation of the rules on me, until I could take no more.

“No,” I said politely. “I think the rule is that when the ball touches the ground before reaching the boundary rope, the batsman gets four runs.”

But he was certain that it was six runs.

“I have been watching this game forever,” he responded. “It’s six runs!”

What ensued was a tiring episode of exchanges as I tried to show him how the batting score increased by four runs each time the batsman hit the ball to the boundary, via the ground.

“They are cheating this player of runs,” he finally exclaimed. “He’s meant to get six runs but they are giving him four instead. How come the team hasn’t noticed this yet?!”

After that statement, I gave up. If he could believe that everyone – from the match officials and commentators to the scorekeepers – was wrong, then there was nothing that could convince him that I was any wiser.

At some point, though, I sensed that he knew he was wrong but just too proud to admit to it.

I know it’s hard to admit to being faulty, defective and wrong – and also, I  know that some people don’t approach us with genuine concern for us, but with the desire to bring us down or embarrass us.

But what if we were more humble more often and took into consideration what other people said or suggested?

After all, we are not islands. We live in community with other people; other people whose emotions we must take into consideration if we are to live in harmony. And we therefore have to be attuned to their sensitivities and their thoughts about us. Also, we have to be willing to accept that someone may know better than us about something. In short, we have to be open to learning new ways.

I remember how I used to feel offended whenever someone came up to me to say that something I had said or done was disrespectful or thoughtless.

“But you don’t get it,” I would retort. “You don’t know the bigger picture about how I was feeling when I said that!”

Sadly, some very good advice rendered over the years has crashed and rebounded against the firm wall of my resistance because I thought I knew better.

Now, with a more mature outlook, I realise that it’s better to be advised than to be left in ignorance.

They say ignorance is bliss but I beg to differ. Enlightenment gives you a broader perspective on things and empowers you to decide to continue as before, or to make changes to accommodate the thoughts and feelings of others.

These days, when I meet new people, I always ask myself,

“What can I learn from you?”

The lesson may be good and it may be bad. But make no mistake, everyone on this planet will teach you something if you are open enough.

We are all students in the school of life, which offers us a vast range of syllabi from which to learn and therefore grow.

More heart, less wallet!

More heart, less wallet!

Does anyone remember that 1980s hit called ‘Ain’t Nothin’ Goin’ But The Rent’? One of its famous lines states,“You got to have a J-O-B if you wanna be with me”.

Show me the money!

In the song, Gwen Guthrie (the singer) explains that there’s no romance without finance, and that a ‘fly girl’ like her needs financial security because she has rent and bills to think about.

I heard that song in a market stall recently, and a friend and I simultaneously burst into song, repeating Guthrie’s words while prompting the stall owner to laugh out loud.

Maybe it was because our singing was so bad, but I think the stall owner, who was male, was more taken by the words we were repeating as though giving a warning to jobless males to stay away from us!

Remember the song ‘No Scrubs’ by TLC? Now that feisty female trio had a serious definition of what a ‘scrub’ was – that is, a grown man who still lives at home, who doesn’t have a car and gets driven around by his friends, and so on. In the song, the girls say that they absolutely do not want to be associated with such males.

And really, what they are saying is exactly what the first song states, ie. that a man without material wealth is not worth a second look.

I tend to have a problem with that train of thought, especially among women who are waiting to be taken care of as though they do not have a pair of productive hands to do something with! Complete dependency upon anyone, from your parents to your friends to your man, isn’t right. A person always needs to have something going on for themselves, no matter how small, in order to feel that personal sense of fulfillment and self-pride.

But let’s look at a group of women like TLC – young, attractive, fearless and filthy rich at the time!!! Far from having a dependency syndrome, they were actually very independent women.

TLC: Young, attractive, fearless and filthy rich!!!

So could a relationship between such women and the so-called ‘scrub’ actually work out?

Mmm. Tricky one. Because, and I am sure we all know this, relationships aren’t all about love. Many couples fight continuously over their finances and some seemingly loving unions even come to an end because of cash issues.

Those who believe in evolution state that over the ages, our species has shown a constant drive towards survival which entails females and male seeking out partners who will bear them viable offspring. Before money came along, viability of the male was gauged by his physical strength, his ability to hunt and supply enough food, and other such factors.

Today, it would seem that the markers of  a male’s viability have changed significantly. If a man has enough money – as shown by the clothes he wears, the car he drives, the places he dines, the suburb he lives in, etc –  this will definitely work in his favour in getting a woman’s attention.

Why?

Because ultimately, we are all looking for suitors with whom we can be assured of security, not only in terms of affection, but also in terms of the finer things in life.

Marilyn Monroe did sing that diamonds were a girl’s best friend!

But hang on. I am not going to go with this argument all the way.

I believe there is a difference between wanting the best for your future and being a plain and shameless gold digger.

Kanye West and Jamie Foxx said it when they sang that a gold digger is a trifling friend who takes all a man’s money, even when he is need.

Yes, my brothers, beware of such as those!

Having a flashy Merc or a house on the hills will not guarantee happiness. Yes, it will guarantee comfort. But happiness is something more intimate, something about finding the right person and loving them regardless of what social standards dictate.

And who is to say that the guy you look at now – jobless and penniless – will not eventually make something of their financial life?

Look more at the heart, than the wallet, I say.

The latest i-Phone for a birthday gift      – $ 1 000

Shopping trip to Italy                              – $10 00

Finding your soul mate                           – PRICELESS!!!

Anyone for a wedding dress?

Anyone for a wedding dress?

It’s a question many young women have to ask themselves these days, given the prevailing environment of multiple sexual partnerships, and their consequences for the transmission of HIV and other sexual infections.

To wed or not to wed: that is the question

When, if at all, is the right time to get married?

It seems like taboo to even ask such a thing but it is undoubtedly a question for discussion within many conversations among women these days.

With the growing ‘acceptance’ of small houses (permanent mistresses, spare tyres, you name it!) as the norm within marriages in southern Africa, alongside the ever-lurking possibility of becoming infected with HIV, many women are caught in two minds at the thought of entering into so-called wedded bliss.

I am reminded of comments offered by one woman at a forum on multiple and concurrent partnerships (MCP) held in Harare.

Responding to the name of a Zimbabwean short film entitled ‘I want a wedding dress’, she stated,

“The marriage bed has been found to be a risk for us[women]. To have films with such titles is wrong. We don’t want a wedding dress!”

With the statistics around MCP showing that approximately 11% of the adult Zimbabwean population is said to be engaging in such relationships, with inconsistent use of condoms, it would seem that today, the marriage bed is becoming a hotspot not only for passion, but also for HIV.

Condoms: Should married people have to put it on to get it on?

Ordinarily, the simple equation states that marriage equals love.  And as an extension of love, marriage also equals trust.

But in this modern world of ours, we know that not all marriages are founded upon trust or love.

For some, marriage is a mere status symbol; a cultural rite of passage to adulthood. For some, marriage is about finding security from the fear of being alone in life. And then, for others, marriage is but a business transaction, with money and other material possessions being substituted for love.

And so usually, the alternative for women who don’t warm to the idea of marriage is to become involved in relationships wherein marriage is not the ultimate goal. These relationships range from the ‘no strings attached’ variety, based purely on booty calls for sex, to non-committal loving relationships – both of which tend to carry much stigma, particularly for the woman.

“What’s the point of a relationship if it doesn’t culminate in marriage?” ask the women’s puzzled friends and family. (In African cultures, marriage and motherhood are the ultimate markers of a woman’s success, remember).

But the truth of the matter is that even though these women may staunchly resist marriage, many more still continue to take that walk down the aisle.

Which is why – very often – the single women involved in these non-committal relationships find themselves becoming the very small houses that they so despise!

Let’s face it, as a woman grows older, the pool of single unattached men available to her decreases. After all, most men like their women younger. And therefore, what often ensues for these women is a ‘sharing game’ with married or attached men spreading their loyalties across various women to ‘meet the high demand for their affections’.

Sadly, that only seems to be a win-win situation for the man because neither the unmarried woman nor her married counterpart is actually involved in the exclusive union that she so yearns for.

So what to do?

It’s the conundrum of 21^st century life – a life that seemingly brings more problems than solutions with it; a life that is leading many to challenge a tradition that has been practiced for centuries, without much questioning.

Though we all know HIV to be a manageable disease, I doubt that if given the choice, any one of us would willingly accept infection with the virus.

And sadly, for many a woman without a voice to stand up for themselves, this is what marriage can mean for them.

Real life, unfortunately, is not always a Cinderella fairy tale of happily ever afters.

I live because…

I live because…

Death, I know, is a topic that many of us are not so comfortable with confronting. But sometimes, it just suddenly apprehends us, like the selfish thief that it is. Yesterday, I learnt with shock and pain that one of my former classmates in high school had died, just a few weeks shy of her 26^th birthday.

While I admit that I had lost contact with her over the last few years, hearing that she was no more was still

Gone too soon: Melanie Ncube

somehow too much for me to bear. Though there was a high likelihood that we might never have met again in our lives, just realising that that was the final and definitive truth sent a stabbing pain throughout me.

“Why did such a young and talented person die without need?” I found myself asking.

I have asked that question before and I am sure I will ask it again in the future. But still, an answer does not echo back to me from within the hollow tunnel of my pondering

Perhaps that’s because in order to answer the question of why people die, one must first address the most important question of all,

“Why do we live?”

Without an answer to that, we cannot question death.

So why do I live?

I live because over 25 years ago, a man and a woman came together to fuse their identities in order to form me; because that same woman, my mother, housed me in her womb for months on end, nurturing me and preparing me for the world to the come. I live, also, because each day, my lungs take in air, process it for life-sustaining oxygen, and then churn out the waste. I live because I eat and drink, inspire and expire.

And those are just the mechanics of it this mystery.

Besides that, I live because I am blessed beyond measure to laugh, love and loathe. I live because somehow, God has positioned me within His infinite life plan to be of use to His other creations, be it through lending a listening ear, a reassuring hug or just my presence.

I live because I can discern things – what is right and what is wrong, what I like and what I dislike. And I live because I have free will and the power to make choices for the good or the bad.

I live because I can perceive things, like the morning sun gleaming in my eyes as the world awakens, or the sound of cicadas screeching throughout the vastness of the bewitching night.

I live because I can perceive things, like the morning sun gleaming in my eyes

Also, I live because I am perceived. Because I am loved, cared about, spoken with and listened to.

And so since I have answered the question about why I live, perhaps I may now tackle the more difficult one,

“Why do we die?”

My response is that no, in fact we do not die at all.

Our bodies perish, wilt and wither, yes. But we are more than destructible bodies, for encased within these mortal homes are our spirits – ageless and deathless.

As spirits, we continue our sojourn into eternity perceiving new places, new emotions, new beings, perceiving even our Maker once more.

No, we do not die. We continue on in another guise and form within a new dimension of space and time.

We live anew.

Till we meet again, Melanie Ncube, and all others who are no longer with us, be at peace.

What should we do with rapists?

What should we do with rapists?

If anyone ever raped me, trust me, I would hunt that man down and personally cut off his dangly bits. I know that sounds harsh but just think of the physical, spiritual and emotional invasion that rapists execute and you won’t think that what I am saying is so crazy.

I hate to believe that human beings, given a higher order of sense and control than animals, can actually wish to inflict non-consensual bodily harm on another person. But if global incidences of rape are anything to go by, humankind is in really big trouble.

In  a recent South African survey, it was discovered that one in four South African men said they had raped someone, and nearly half of them admitted to more than one attack.

No means no!

And yesterday, a Zimbabwean newspaper carried a story that an HIV-positive social worker, working with a district AIDS council, raped three sisters – aged 10, 14 and 16 – and infected them with HIV. The man was initially sentenced to 53 years imprisonment but had 8 years suspended on condition he does not commit a similar offence in the next five years.

Someone posted a snippet from that story on Facebook and asked friends to suggest what ought to be done to the man. Some mentioned castration, while others felt that he should just be put to death because “a man without his private parts can’t survive”.

I second that argument. What right does the man have to his sexuality when he has refused that right to another person? If he ever rapes another woman, surely it will be blood on the justice system’s hands.

Now, I admit that my sentiments are premised on the whole “eye-for-an-eye” concept, which is not what we ought to subscribe to in this day and age. But, really, rape is about stealing a person’s body, ravaging it, devouring it and spitting it back out.

It’s not like petty crimes where stolen things can be replaced. It leaves emotional scars, fears and doubts.

I remember watching a TV programme in which a young woman, who had been saving her virginity for marriage, was raped on her way home by a stranger. Immediately afterwards, she began to engage in promiscuous sexual activity because she felt that the only reason she had been raped was because the rapist had seen a ‘slut’ in her. And so, in her efforts to come to terms with the act, she assumed the role that he had given to her.

These are the very real repercussions of a rape.

Maybe I am not a good enough person, but I would still go after that man with a gleaming knife and slice through his manhood.

Besides a death sentence, it’s the only foolproof measure that guarantees that a rapist will not rape another woman. And to be honest, a death sentence is the easy way out.

What nonsense!

What nonsense!

I derive a lot of satisfaction from listening to ANC youth league leader, Julius Malema speak. Not because he is erudite or knowledgeable, but because he has the knack of coming up with the most controversial statements about all things that affect South Africa’s politics.

At it: Julius Malema

In many ways, he is as good for South Africa’s media as Joseph Chinotimba, the Zimbabwean  war veteran leader is for us. Recently, Chinotimba – also known as ‘Chinos’ –  cooked up a storm for alleging that an MDC deputy minister, Thamsanqa Mahlangu, had stolen his cell phone, valued at less than USD 50. Mahlangu was arrested on the charge with Chinos suing him for USD 19 million for ‘loss of business’.

Yep, that’s our Chinos – so amusing are his actions that Zimbabweans have come up with a string of jokes about him!

With Malema too, there is never a dull moment and the media is always on the ready to slurp up more of his wacky comments.

Remember when he called Helen Zille a racist little girl, who kept male politicians as her concubines?

A low blow much like Chinos’ own remarks made in an interview with UK- based SW Radio Africa. When asked about the 2000 invasion of white-owned farms, Chinos responded to the interviewer, Violet Gonda,

“You are very foolish…Was your father’s land invaded? Did your father have any land when the land was seized? Did your own father not live up in a mountain? So if you father takes some land, will that be an invasion of land? Are you not ashamed of yourself?!”

Joseph Chinotimba, also known as Chinos

This month, Malema, who has openly called the handling of the Caster Semenya saga racist, gave us an insight into why he thinks the world is out to bring down the South African 800m champion.

“Hermaphrodite, what is that? Somebody tell me, what is hermaphrodite in Pedi? There’s no such thing, hermaphrodite in Pedi. So don’t impose your hermaphrodite concepts on us.

In other words, Malema believes that the leaked information that states that Semenya has both male and female sex organs cannot be correct because the concept of hermaphrodism does not exist within his own Pedi culture.

I gasped in exasperation as this only serves to further fuel the stigma that Semenya might suffer due to this saga.

Malema went on to say that one is definitively either a man or a woman, and that when a child is born, noone in the village ever goes about saying they have had a hermaphrodite.

So just because there is no word for it Pedi, hermaphrodites don’t exist?

Methinks such statements are counter-constructive as they only serve to make those who are hermaphrodites ashamed of something that they have no control over.

It’s one thing to be controversial, and therefore hilarious, but it’s another thing to peddle misinformation.

And as Chinos and Malema show, they very often tend to be misinformed and highly disrespectful.