Those three little words…

On Friday afternoon, as I toiled at my desk to complete work on an urgent report, one of my workmates sauntered into my office and lazily stated, “I love you.” 

“No, you don’t,” I answered him, without taking my eyes off the computer screen. 

Flabbergasted by my response, but determined to make the statement again, he repeated, “I love you!” 

How do I love thee - let me count the ways...

And still convinced that he didn’t mean it, I simply told him that he didn’t know what he was talking about and needed to get back to his desk and do something more constructive, like check his emails. 

Only when he gave me an obvious look of disappointment did I realise that perhaps he wasn’t joking and that perhaps, I had just hurt his feelings. 

Now, don’t get excited – it’s not that kind of love. This workmate is not into women that way and frankly, I don’t think anyone with a romantic strand in their DNA would use a hot and busy late Friday afternoon to let you know that you had stolen their heart! 

So from the start, I knew he was referring to a more friendship-based kind of love, the fuzzy warm stuff that grows between people over time. 

But I have only known the guy for two months. And while we talk and joke a lot, I just didn’t reckon there was a love element to all of it. 

Realising that it would be better to listen to his reasons than to dismiss him, I asked him to tell me why he loved me. 

“I love your character and who you are,” he explained. “You’re a cool girl.” 

And then I felt so very bad for having doubted his sincerity because he had obviously meant those three words the first time he said them. 

The reason why I had acted so defensively towards him is that the concept of love is so commonly abused in our culture that I have started to place little, if any, significance in being told ‘I love you’ by people who I haven’t known for a long enough time. 

People claim to love people for many reasons that are beneficial only to themselves. Money, sex, favours and social acceptance are some of the exchange values attached to the concept of love. 

And it’s sad that that is how things work. 

But this shouldn’t blind us to the reality of love, that is, the genuine stuff that separates the roses from the weeds. 

This type of love is beautiful, fragrant, substantive. 

And to think that just because you have known someone for a few weeks or months, love can’t possibly blossom, is a very pessimistic way of looking at things. 

Perhaps you are more loveable that you think you are! 

But just remember one thing. 

Whether it’s between friends, siblings, parent and child or lovers – all love is shown, nourished and replenished through DEEDS. 

Don’t just say the words. Act them out.

My final thought: February is the month for love. And so yes, sales of roses, romantic cards and chocolates will soar. But love isn’t just about that, don’t you think?

A bit on the side…

On Monday, I had a very interesting lunch-time chat with some free-minded women about that topic that so many women discuss with their girlfriends – men.

Now, I know that my last entry was also about the male species but I can’t help it if they make for a really interesting topic for discussion.

So anyway, four women – of varying ages, nationalities, and marital and relationship status – sat down around a table and tore into the topic of men.

We only got into the subject because someone asked whether South African President Jacob Zuma’s latest wife, whose clan name is Madiba, is related to the former President, Nelson Mandela.

None of us was 100% sure of the answer. But as you can imagine, the discussion soon moved away from conjecture about the betrothed’s lineage to the fact that she is Zuma’s fifth wife.

Five times the joy!

“But what does a man need so many wives for?” asked the obviously perplexed American woman among us.

And that’s when I stepped in with my research-based response.

Because quite a few men have been honest enough to let me know why they cheat on their wives or partners, I have developed a list of the reasons they have given most often:

1. Having one women for life is like eating the same meal for breakfast, lunch and supper for the rest of my life. Just like I need a varied food diet, I need some sugar and spice in my love life.

2. I want to do ‘kinky’ stuff between the sheets which either my wife/ partner refuses to do, or which -  if she did do – would make me respect her a little less as someone who I see as Godly, etc.

3. Global population statistics show that the world is constituted of more females (52%) than males (48%), so we men have an obligation to take up the slack for all those women who would otherwise be manless.

4.  I can’t help it! It’s a weakness in all men. We all cheat.

5. Women can’t be trusted so I must have insurance in case she decides to leave me.

I will stop at five points because five’s a nice number, and I want to know what other reasons you might know of so I can update my list.

Don’t be shy to share, okay?

And also, if you have any reasons why women cheat, please share.

The only reason I ever get from my sisters is that they ‘cross the fence’ as revenge for their partner having cheated on them first.

Pay back, tit-for-tat, even stevens, etc.

The rest of the women I speak to either claim to be far too saintly to ever perceive another man with sexual interest, or say they have powers of self-control that stop them from cheating even in moments of fierce temptation.

Some ketchup, or mustard, on the side perhaps?

That’s except one feisty and open sister I know who claims that even though she loves her boyfriend madly, her male best friend is just too hot to resist. So she has him on the side, like ketchup squirted next to her main dish!

Needless to say, that lunchtime chat was out of this world! But I’m waiting to hear what you think:

Can men and women have monogamous relationships that last a life time? Or should we all just get into polygamy rather than sneak around stealthily behind each other’s backs?

The black man’s burden

Being a black person, I am privy to much of the negative stereotyping, racial profiling and satirical jokes that befall people of my colour.

Lazy, dumb, savage are just but a few of the unfortunate connotations that stir within people, non-white and even black, when they think of brown-folk people.

And while the whole race is subjected to these stereotypes, it is particularly the black man who suffers most.

In the mass media, he is often depicted as the thief, the drug addict, the absent father, the wife batterer and everything else that represents delinquent behaviour within a society.

Well, obviously, there is no smoke without fire. For a reason are these deductions of the black male made, ie. there must be a high (although I am not always convinced higher proportion than among other race groups)  proportion of such negative behaviours being manifested among them.

But at the same time as all of this, there is an almost universal ‘positive’ attribute that is ascribed to them. I am sure that you have heard it mentioned in jokes and in gossip whenever you see a black man with his non-black partner.

I won’t be graphic here but let’s just say it has much to do with sexual anatomy.

Myth or fact, I don’t know, but black men are thought to be much better endowed for bedroom work than any other group of men.

Which leads me to where I am going with this whole discussion.

Over Christmas, I had a very heated debate with two of my seemingly upright (socially, financially and morally) black male peers about the very title of this article – the black man’s burden.

The fodder for our conversation was the ongoing scandal that is Tiger Woods’ sex life.

Now, Tiger Woods does not refer to himself as a black man, but he is (or was) undoubtedly an icon for many a black man trying to overcome the negative social construction that comes with the colour.

After a few jokes at Tiger’s expense, one of my peers went on to say something which left me reeling.

“This is the workings of racists’ whites,” he said. He went on to explain that the whole Tiger affair was a conspiracy, orchestrated by the white ‘anti-black’ machinery to “bring a brother down”.

“Just you wait,” he continued. “Very soon, it will be Obama’s affairs all over the newspapers.”

OK, I thought. So what are these men saying?

Firstly, they were implying that because Tiger Woods didn’t have the ‘courtesy’ to cheat with a black woman, he must have been framed by a group of white folk who introduced him to a posse of ladies just to soil his reputation and score a point against black men.

Second up, and ironically so, they implied that Barack Obama – as another prominent black man – would be next in for some seriously embarrassing publicity about his, as yet unknown, infidelity.

This was truly astonishing.

I mean, are men going to stand in solidarity with their ‘brothers’ at all costs just to use racism as an excuse?

Tiger Woods is a man over 30 who, if he wanted to, could have willed himself to keep away from extra-marital sex and not started one of the biggest scandals of the last decade.

Did someone – that is, a white racist, unzip his trousers for him and do all the rest that followed?

And would he have been exempted from wrongdoing had he added a Thai or black girl to his list of infidelities?

Oh, and to imply that Barack Obama is next. Is that not buying into the idea that black men are just not trustworthy and incapable of sustaining wholesome relationships?

There is an element of self-efficacy that my two peers neglected to acknowledge, much like people who steal will justify the act by blaming the person who left the goods unattended, or in full view.

If you don’t want to do or be something, even if the environment seems to dictate that you can’t be anything else, there are always alternatives.

Black men don’t have to be cheats or thugs. But they have to decide that they don’t want to be.

And my fear is that the institutionalisation of negative racial constructs has become so deep that black men don’t see that they can overcome them – or worse still, don’t even want to try.

Sigh.

Maybe the greatest burden the black man is balancing on his back is the acceptance and internalisation of what he thinks society believes about him.

The dead legends’ society

A Steve Biko T-shirt going for about 200 Rand in South Africa

So I have a problem with making fashion out of dead legends. I am sure you have all seen bags and T –shirts bearing the images of greats like Steve Biko and Martin Luther King Jnr. I often cringe to think that these men, who fought for the emancipation of their people, now find themselves pasted onto brightly coloured garb, forming a part of popular culture.

Okay, so I think it’s important for young people to be conscious of the past, to be able to identify with the efforts of predecessors who have paved the way for a better today. But I am not so sure if a T-shirt will achieve this. What about a visit to a museum or a look through a history book?

Oh, but you will tell me that young people don’t have time for that, that between Face Book and their i-pods, there is simply no time for that. So how exactly does regalia ensure that these people are conscious of who these heroes are? I

tend to feel that all these artefacts are commercial gimmicks that ensure that ordinary people feed into the capitalist machine. In a world where everything and everyone famous is patented, it’s not hard to see how all these products largely serve the interests of a few. So we think its cool and conscious to buy something that says Kenyatta on it, or to cruise around wearing something emblazoned with Saartie Baartman’s derriere when all it usually is some company churning out mass-produced goods for the health of their pockets and not history.

I do agree that these products make young people more curious about the past, but it’s saying something if they are not made aware of history within the school setting, or at home.

I remember that when I was in high school – at a private school – we were never taught

And then some just wear their own regalia!

Zimbabwean liberation war history because our school believed it was time to bury the hatchet between blacks and whites, the two main race groups in our school. And so instead, we learnt about Chinese feudalism, the Egyptian pyramids, 18th Century England and everything else that took us away from the gory details of Rhodesian history. I believe that was the wrong way to go about things.

Imagine if German kids weren’t taught about Nazism. It’s an ugly horrible shameful past, but one that must be confronted and accepted. It is what happened, and this can never change.

And it still saddens me to think that many young people, like I once did, go to school in Zimbabwe and know zip about their own culture and history. Sadly, T-shirts, caps and bags aren’t the real solution to unlocking one’s history.

It is a far more intricate process of unravelling the hidden layers of self.

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!!!