Random Shit, relate, Uncategorized

Time for change

This piece was inspired by a classmate’s response to the question posed by our radio lecturer: “do you think South Africa is really ready for a female president?” the girl responded “no!”, she went on further to say “women are too emotional and we need less emotional people running this country…”

Now, I’m not one who has much political interest further than equipping myself with knowledge that will give me an informed decision come voting time, but I found her point of view interesting in its irony… South Africa is an emotional country that is trying to move passed emotionally trying times (aparthied). You may disagree but if you look closely, a lot, if not most of the decisions made in this country, for this country, are emotional driven. It’s part of the reason our politicians behave in the manner that they do… unruly in debate situations, less than straight forward when asked direct questions etc. It also forms part of why people remain “loyal” to our current ruling party, the ANC… There is an emotional attachment passed down from generation to generation to those who never even saw the horror of the former regime… born into “the new world.”

So, would it be the worst thing to have an emotional and intelligent woman, with emotional intelligence (which is one of the better qualities that I feel more women have than men), run our country and take it to the next level? I really don’t think so, in fact a part of me believes that it is exactly what we need.

Imagine how easy it would be to change your vote if elections were held each year, giving opportunity to all political parties who feel they can make a difference. Unfortunately a year doesn’t give enough time to hear what a political party has to offer, witness it being implemented, reap what is sown and give feedback as a nation.

My vote this year is not going to be cast because I’m in anyway pissed-off or annoyed and the current standings of the country under the rule of the ANC, my vote will be cast as part of the vision that our late father Nelson Mandela had which is a country that is not afraid to demand better and do what they can to get it. It’s time for someone else to take the reigns, in the global scheme of things it’s trial and error that will move this country to where it wants to be as a whole.

Another classmate of mine commented that “a vote for ANC is like being in an abusive relationship, complaining about it, and still going back”.

At some point something has got to give.

Happy voting…

-Call me Dizzle

Random Shit

Love letter to Mondays

 Today I wanted to take the opportunity to rant about a topic that is very near and dear to my heart. I want to start by saying that what I’m about to share with you almost brings a tear to my eye every time I think about it. I’m pretty sure some of you will be able to relate when I tell you about my utterly unequivocal hatred I have for Monday’s!!

Waking up on a Monday is like… having had the last bite of your favourite chocolate; stuck in the limbo of when next you will indulge; the pause between the question and the answer. It is waking up to the beginning of what makes it necessary to have a weekend.  And for those who might disagree by saying “it’s all in the mind…” my only response to you is simply that; if that holds true for all facets of your life, then I am at your mercy, teach me! If not, then allow me to enjoy for a moment, my blissful ignorance.  

I struggle to see anything good about a Monday other than that there is another weekend on the horizon.

The office environment, especially, can be so morbid that I sometimes find myself only having said “good morning”,  “what’s for lunch” and “goodbye, see you tomorrow”, throughout the entire day. The responses are equally uninspiring. Sometimes, I walk through the office having greeted everyone, and feel like I have done something wrong and am being given the silent treatment. Alternatively I get the soft rumble of random vowels and the head nod. I don’t blame them though, its Monday!!  

(And, personally, unless you are my close friend, my boss or that quiet person at work that kinda looks like is a freak on the weekends, I don’t want to hear about it until Tuesday.)

My hope though, is that one day I will have a new respect for Monday’s.  One day when I have found something were my mind, body and soul meet destiny’s hand and the excitement for a new day is a constant.

But, until that happens I have decided to write you a letter, Monday…


Dear Monday

I hate you! May I never see you walking down the street because I will hurt you! There is no greater feeling then having you behind me. In fact, I wrote this letter to you today because I was so angered and depressed just being a part of you that I wasn’t even productive enough to put pen to paper and express how much you make me sick! Your name sucks! If Sunday and Tuesday were bouncers, they would have your big ass head squeezed between their broad shoulder, denying you entry into the party of the week!!

Your very presence can shut down at least half the night life in Jozi. If I were to ask people that I know to go out when you are here, most of them, with that “eeeuuw” face,  will probably respond,  “on a Monday?!”  


I am writing you this letter because you and I will bump into each other once in a while… in a non random pattern… once a week. So you either come up with something that makes you great or I will find a way to remove you off of every calendar, watch, laptop, phone, diary, book, data collector… EVERYTHING!! Do you understand what I’m saying to you, I WILL ERASE YOU!!!

But look, in all fairness I will do my part for harmonious living. Just don’t fuck it up for me.


Dizzle 🙂


Call me Dizzle

Random Shit

Death note

This time around I decided to go a little darker. I’m always afraid to explore the darker side of my inner self but here goes… 

Have you ever lightly brushed a sharp knife over your wrists? Or stood on a balcony calculating the exact angle at which you would have to hit the ground for the quickest and most painless outcome? Or caught yourself staring at a cabinet of assorted pills, powders and syrups and started formulating concoctions? Or looked at a bottle of shampoo and thought of downing it; which by the way I think is one of the dumbest ways to try and kill yourself (I saw it in some B grade movie starring the most C grade actor I know, Mr Freddy Prince jr. And he did it over a girl.). Or even have the after thought that if I lock myself in my flat, by the time they find me it would be too late to save me. If these were questions being asked in the classroom I would have my hand raised high, “I have ma’am”.

I, like many people have contemplated taking my own life. I mean, it is my life right? I should be the only one to be consulted if I want to end this never ending cycle of disapproval, disappointment and depression. Trust me it isn’t hard to get to a point of no return, after that all you need it the right push.

You wouldn’t believe the collective number of hours I have thought about the impact of my death and actually got excited. The people who would miss me dearly and almost die of a broken heart, the people who would be forever angry at me for choosing this way out, screaming “whhhhhyyyyy!” The people who would cry at my funeral but have never had the thought of me present in their minds enough to make them want to give me a call or send me a message just to say “hey, I’m thinking about you”.  Then there is all the people that I would purposely want to hurt for one thing or another. Like not being there when I needed them. Or to my parents for screwing my child hood up so badly that I’m an incomplete adult who neither knows himself nor is able to commit to adapt to the world around him. To the girlfriends that never saw what a catch they had even though I make mistakes and am still on my journey of self discovery. “I’m looking a guy, who has his shit together and knows what he wants”.  – Then you were not looking for me.  And of course the BIG middle finger that would go to the world society that found me inadequate.

(I’m one of those people who wants to attend his own funeral. I swear, even if some people decide embellish on the truth, the amount of praise, love and appreciation that comes out at funerals is quite the adrenalin rush)

The funny thing about contemplating suicide is that a lot of people’s reaction is something like “no, don’t you dare!” Most people, in my experience say that selfishly. Not many people recognise that right now it’s only a thought. I know this because they don’t even want to hear the reason. And the thing is it doesn’t even have to seem to be a good reason, but the fact that there is a reason and it is being brought to your attention is in itself a cry for help and not one for judgement.

 Death is easy and having said that I don’t even think I have the courage to take my own life, there is also no hole deep enough that would make me want to be that selfish.  Beside that I have a lot to lose; a lovely woman that I get to call my own and have beside for as long as time allows. A BIG family that keeps growing with every year that goes by. Loving parents, who by the way didn’t screw me up as dramatically as I expressed, we have our problems but we deal and learn… most of the time. I have a sister who is as awesome as she is beautiful!  Great friends that would lend an ear or support in all forms at the drop of a hat.  A great job where I get to enjoy from time to time the pleasure of doing business, and express myself to a certain acceptable degree.  

I am the only one of my kind. My uniqueness is unrivalled. I am neither a mistake nor an accident. And as much as I have a great mass of people who are here for me, I am here for a great mass of people.

Call me Dizzle

Random Shit

High-five to the New Year






So, i saw this car parked outside my home in Cape Town on New Year’s day 2012.  I started imagining what kind of craziness happened the night before that led to this hand print; liquid courage flowing with no end in sight, and there is always that one friend who wants one more with you and you alone. Electronic music bumping from car to club and back again, maybe even a few drinks at the beach with the group of girls who were as eager to throw caution to the wind (…girls who would later be traded in for drunker “models”).

Then there is that one friend, lets call him Simon, who probably just got dumped this holiday after a long and serious relationship. Depressing everybody with his stories of “the good times”; angry at the world but didn’t know what to do about it. This is the guy that needed serious convincing from his buddies to even go out that night. I’m sure they dangled promises of it being the best night he would ever have, with girls of the widest variety and oceans of alcohol to help him get over “that bitch” and under a new one. So after the efforts of his friends he picked himself up and uttered the words that would eventually bite him in the ass,

“fuck it! Lets go”.

It probably started out great, with testosterone pumping hard, the party playlist getting every one excited, heads sticking out of  car windows; “woooohoooo!!”.  OH YES!! Then it was one shot… two shots… three shots… more!! I bet the women could smell the desperation seeping through Simon’s cologne and made it a point to stay clear.

(No woman wants a desperate man Simon.)

And just when he decides that he was done with this whole charade, he takes out his phone; still displaying a picture of him and his ex-girlfriend out on a picnic date on their third anniversary. After staring at the picture with intense emotional confusion and getting angry at the sight of her happy face, he turned to the bar thinking “fuck it, lets party”; only to spot his ex… with the new guy.

Now, if Simon was an iPhone 4 this new guy was the iPhone 4 S with all the extras!! What made it even worse was that she looked Simon dead in the eye and didn’t even flinch as she grabbed the new guy’s ass and planting a fat kiss on his bronze neck, never breaking eye contact.

(That bitch!!)

I’m sure the evening was a blur for Simon after that; shades of different coloured drinks, clubs and crazy New Year’s outfits passed him as he stumbled down the road to the next spot. His friends probably found him just as he was about to lay down in the street out of a drunken surrender; got him to his feet and managed to get him in the car. At some point during all of this madness, Simon’s alcohol threshold is pushed too far.

“Stop the car!”, Simon yelped,

the tipsy drivers ears rang as he brought the car to a  screeching halt. Stumbling hastily, Simon made his way to the back of the car, planting hind just above the petrol tank, holding himself up while he regurgitated bad decisions, unfortunate happenstance and copious amounts of liquid amnesia.


Call me Dizzle

Random Shit

Sleeping Beauty

 If sleep was a sport, I would be the number one contender. It’s not that I’m particularly proud of my close to extreme resting skills but it is what it is. Just picture, an arena filled with thousands of fans, silently cheering the sleeping contestants on, placing bets on who they think can sleep the longest. Each contestant’s profile being displayed on the jumbotron next to a full body shot of them in deep sleep; name, age, country, mattress size, mattress type, longest recorded sleep etc.

My profile picture would be of me sleeping on my stomach, faced away from the wall, one arm underneath the pillow, sort of like extra support for my head, leg dangling at the edge of the bed just outside the covers, with my backside in a slight upward direction… to help with my… releases? You know what I mean. To date my longest recorded unnatural sleep was for three days, it was more like a coma. It was unnatural because some friends and I decided to try, for the first time, cookies of the “space” variety. The type of fun and laughter we had that Friday night was, for lack of a better phrase, out of this world. The sleep I had from that night was AMAZING!! I don’t remember the dreams I had but I’m sure it was like having a movie access pass to watch back-to-back favourites for all eternity. IT WAS EPIC!!! I later woke up on Monday night knowing that it couldn’t be Saturday morning, but damn… Monday!?

Anyway, back to the story.

I can picture being hooked up to a machine that monitors your sleep, to of course make sure that there are no irregularities. Competing with hopefuls from across the globe claiming that they are the world’s best. I would have my little fan club consisting of my mom, dad, sister, my lady, aunt and anybody who has witnessed my awesome.

As they announce each of us we would all politely yet deliberately give each other the stare down that says, very simply, “You’re going down, punk!” Then we would all take our places on a bed that is to each of our specifications and assume the position. Once the monitor indicates that we are asleep the timer would then activate. As each contestant falls asleep the crowd would cheer, but obviously in a golf type of silence that has to be commanded every 2 minutes and the type of clap that can only be executed by a queen; you know, elbows never leaving her side, hands meeting in the middle of the chest very softly, very delicately.

The commentary from the floor would go something like… “We are in the 11th hour of our International Last Man Sleeping final, and our last three finalists are still at a dead lock. Though we had some action a bit earlier in the fourth hour when America’s Billy “the dead man” Wallace scratched his crack and turned over to the other side of his bed. And in hour 9, France’s Jacques “le sommeil” (the sleep) Cailloux was twitching and moaning, I think he was experiencing a horrible nightmare but has since calmed down. South Africa’s Wanda “the knocked-out king” Sokutu seems to be going strong; a bit of flatulence here and there but nothing to be alarmed about. That’s all the news I have from the floor, back to you John.”

I mean, apart from South Africans being among the laziest people in the world, I love sleep more than I love eating, which is more than I can say for the Americans. And France is not really known for coming out tops in head to head battles ;-). All I’m saying is that I would kill it if it were a sport.

Sometimes I think I sleep to escape the world around me. To, for those moments, have my mind, body and spirit at peace. Then other times I remember the joys of that type of rest. I remember the dreams and endless possibilities.

It is probably bad for me, but so is everything not taken in the recommended doses.

– Call Me Dizzle

Random Shit

Testosterone Tuesday

So I woke up today after having stolen a few more minutes of sleep, to a flat tire.  A screw had been wedged in the right-rear tire some weeks earlier and I had decided to leave it since it hadn’t done much deflating.  All I knew is that if I continued taking it easy it should last until I really needed a patch job done.

It was only this past weekend, the 27th of November that I started noticing the drop in tire pressure, but again I told myself, “Take it easy”.  And by the grace of “Cindy”, the name I had decided to give to her some years back when we were still getting acquainted; all was good… that is, until this morning.

As I was calling to the security guard to come and open the gate for me, he informed me, with a slight grin on his face that my tire was flat. He was not grinning because of the tire, he was more relieved that I didn’t have to take him away from the conversation he seemed to be enjoying. Adding to that, I had lost my tag for the gate about a month ago and ever since had to ask whichever guard was there to open and close the gate for me. This was becoming a bother… for them.

It was a matter of time before this happened, and lucky for me it didn’t happen while I was on the road, travelling at 100 km/h, typing on my blackberry as a taxi driver forcefully squeezed his way in between myself and a car that had a baby in the back seat. A bit dramatic I know, but like I said, lucky for me. So with a calm strut, I walked over to my car.

First things first, find the “jack” and the tools that come with it.  Next, figure out the best place to put it so that nothing is bent or broken. At which point it occurred to me that I had better change my shirt for this, I was going to work after all. So I went back to my flat after having assessed the situation. I changed into my black sleeveless vest which revealed the wolf tattoo on my left shoulder that is accompanied by the claw-like scar I got a year or so after, that looks like was given to me by the wolf in an attempt to outrun it. And on the other side, the tribal dragon tattoo on my right shoulder-blade. Afterwards I tied my hair back, put on my shades and grabbed my toolbox; it was action time.  My walk had never been so tall; though it did help that there a few people outside, mostly women, giving the more than occasional glance at what I was about to do.

After I began jacking up the car I knew exactly what had to be done and in what order of events. I knew which tools were in the toolbox and which one I would use next. With every turn of the wheel spanner my exposed muscles would bulge; and the longer I was out there, the thicker the glaze of sweat on my face, chest and arms became.  Oh yeah!! I was feeling REAL manly now!  I set down the car after about 20 minutes of unscrewing, lifting and screwing back on again, only to lift my head to see that the huge imaginary crowd I had built up in my head was non-existent, but after my half a second of reaction which could not be seen through my sunglasses, it didn’t matter. I dusted off my hands, and packed my tools away with a great sense of accomplishment. If it was an advert the tagline would simply read, “It’s good to be a man.”

– Call me Dizzle