amadiwriteslife

[amadiwriteslife]

If there’s anything I’ve learned about being on this earth in the past year, it’s that It’s not as simple as a garlic butter chicken roast, but it’s always just as delicately beautiful. 

[amadiwriteslife]

Body goals are officially cancelled. All I want is this French toast forever and ever. Thanks Father Coffee (Rosebank) 🌺💕❤️

[amadiwriteslife]

“A ripe submergence of the highest order, no borders”- Nai Palm

The feeling of the sun over the quietly serene view from a pocket on Northcliff hill was a jarring contrast to the busy morning she had. Her attempt to move from the parked car and onto the rocky embankment lacked the grace she tried so hard to wear, so he held his hand out and their palms met.

This was the first time she took a look at them. His clean nails, though slightly overgrown, were very well shaped.

Feminine.

Strong.

Beautiful.

Everything about his nature was essentially captured in the way his hands looked, felt and worked like art. The pair perched on a rock shaded by a canopy of vines dressed in wildflowers. Slowly, they scanned the land spanning from the west on their left, over to the north ahead and finally, their eyes resting upon the high rise buildings of town on the right.

Time tapers off into an interstellar stillness.

A deafening silence settles,

Rendering her bare,

To feel everything with the intensity of a thousand suns

And all at once.

Her heart pounds,

And so returns

The sound.

He rummaged in his bag for the book he’d been fawning over since dawn- The Prophet, by a Khalil Gibran fellow she’d never heard of before. With a childlike energy, he raced through the aged pages in search of a piece to read, and before she knew it, his voice- much like pure butter, smoothed over everything else in earshot. She was lost in the lack of gravity once more.

“… Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.”                              

And in that moment, she felt a conviction in her being, a mound of lead as heavy as words unsaid. This man beside her, this being of light would bring her to the love that would descend to her roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

[amadiwriteslife]

My yearly Valentine’s Day reminder because I tend to forget that self-care isn’t our default setting as humans. It takes endless discipline to develop healthy habits. Here’s to loving ourselves first.

[amadiwriteslife]

When it comes to online connections that materialised in real life, one moment I’ll remember forever was when I met Bakang- the most badass bitch I know. Her piece, featured in The Mail & Guardian, is an element of African motherhood we need to speak openly about way more often if we hope to undo all the practices that are breaking us. 

Also, I’ll write about this another time, but she might have saved me from myself. (Thank you, forever)

[amadiwriteslife]

This article is like the official marriage of my personal and professional writing. 

And the greatest irony? I was actually fighting off the worst bout of writer’s block I’ve ever had.

Enjoy x

[amadiwriteslife]

Simmie's Soliloquies: Fear

I did not expect my motivation to fully commit and write for the first time in over 6 months would come as a result of reading through my old rehab file. At this very moment, it feels as though there is one of those… those weird balls made up of a crazy number of elastic bands lodged in the part between my breasts. It extends almost into my throat but only makes its presence there known when I try to swallow spit. I’m sad. I am very, very sad. I’m no stranger to the colour of sadness, though this shade is different. It is unlike the wet blanket of depression draped over your shoulders, weighing you down beyond belief. This is the melancholy manufactured amidst demons in hell; it punctuates my every breath, my every thought, my very being. It is cold in my chest. My first love told me he is in love with someone else. He can no longer be with me because he loves someone else. See, the break-up wasn’t so unbearable when I initiated it a fortnight ago, But I missed him.And he missed me.And we got back together.And then we broke apart. This pill has been lodged in my oesophagus and no amount of water is washing it down. And then tonight I found my rehab file. I have not laid eyes on this since February last year. And now it lays open across my shins while I type this. It took reading through my step-work to write my first honest piece of writing. The exact part that triggered this frenzied verbal diarrhoea goes : “4. Fear of commitment·         I’m really scared of committing to something and then having it blow up in my face after investing so much into it.·         It stops me from putting in the req “ And that’s how it ends; could I not even commit to finishing off the damn word? Everything I wrote in my fear section of my step-work manifested in my reality a year and seven months later.  Everything. All in one go. I can’t be certain whether it’s because I unconsciously ruminate on these fears which in turn gives them power and that’s the vibration I carry with myself and yadi yadi yada.  (By the way this is how I generally see the world unless the situation is bad and I am trying to avoid accountability) However, I am certain that every single time these fears manifested in my life previously, I dealt with the reality in a very specific way. I did not do very well when it came to deciding what my defence mechanisms would be, hence the file from rehab and the scars that decorate my arms.And each time I react this way to things, I sink deeper into my doom and gloom. It gets worse in the end, I usually end up in a psyche ward. So maybe this time instead of narcotics and novice artwork on my arms via razors, I’ll just write. And write. And write.

Author: Simmie Mhlungu

[amadiwriteslife]

A good spicy, milky Chai is always my favourite, but I don’t like that annoying feeling caffeine leaves on my teeth- the bane of my entire existence really, so THANK GOODNESS for this Rooibos Chai I impulsively bought from Woolworths. Also, I’m really big on branding & packaging, so over and above the great taste of this tea, the box was just too pretty to pass up.

I’ve had to really tighten my belt when it comes to my spending, but I think I deserve this for all the 3am messy, green travelling poop nappy changes I’ve had to endure alone.

[sidenote]: Guys. Stop saying “Chai tea”. Chai means tea. What is “tea tea” pls?! Thnx. Mgmt.

[amadiwriteslife]

Okay Wasabi: A National Treasure.

Alright, I know I haven’t written on here since before I gave birth (I’ll post about that someday soon, I promise) but let’s have a little appreciation session shall we? 

If you’re on the right sect of South African Black Twitter, it’s safe to assume you follow, or at the least have heard of George Mnguni, aka Okay Wasabi. For the longest time I’d see everyone make such a huge fuss over his skits and to be honest, I made my own (very stupid) pre-judgements about the guy. I think a little part of me is always inclined to detest anything that’s popular with the people because most of the content I’m really into never is- I’m not trying to be an edgy hipster, I swear. I have this very weird sense of humour, anything that’s *supposed* to be funny usually leaves me with a foul taste in my mouth- I’m that person who laughs at funerals by mistake (a nervous reaction... Kind of).

But one thing I will never forget was a day or two before I gave birth. I, a nervous wreck (understatement) in between tears and a panic attack I failed at trying to downplay, found myself in my bed, scared- and even more scared to show it, with a blinding headache from crying so hard. I resorted to the streets of twitter to vent as I usually do, and for some reason, was led to George’s twitter page. So the stalking began. Needless to say the night ended with me, 9 months pregnant, laughing so hard that it’s a miracle my waters didn’t break. 

I don’t even need to harp on about his skits because really and truly, they speak for themselves, but the point of this rant is this:

George has something so special, a thing no one can deny. He invites us to escape just for a while, into a world where all the things that weigh us down on the daily, no longer exist. A world purely made for laughter. His style of parody is raw, rough around the edges and that’s what makes it as the perfection it is. He brings us all together around the fireplace of his talent, he warms us, tells our own stories back to us in that deep, rich voice we’ve all come to grow fond of. He heals us (well, me at least) and brings us back home, even if just for a little while. George, if you’re reading this (which I really hope you are), thank you bhuti. Thank you for using your gift and sharing it with us, we are not worthy. Thank you for the time, effort and love you put into your craft, it shows. Thank you for working with the great team you do that assist in bringing this all together. Thank you for who you are. I hope you get every single coin you deserve. 

Bathong.

Follow the thread on twitter to catch Episode 1, Season 2 of All You Need Is Love https://twitter.com/Okay_Wasabi/status/877980290634862592 

(Image cred: Okay Wasabi)