»» The warning signals of the neglect of our boys has never been whistle clear as it is today. It is easy to blame someone but all this cold violence against women that we are witnessing begs a simple question. How do we raise our boys in comparison to girls? Have we evolved what it means to be a man in our contemporary society the same way we have evolved the idea of a woman as an identity and are continuing to do so in our effort to socially redress the role of women and parity thereof? No. Boys are neglected and are expected to grow into men who will love and protect our sisters, daughters and mothers as well as brother and fathers ««
|>>>/ There is something daring about art when it becomes a personal reflection; when it’s thematic considerations are meditations of its maker on themselves. This mode of working which is a tenant of contemporary art is a brave leap as the artist leads the viewer into a personal space both in imagery and a nuanced psychology of the self. If the body of work produced in this frame of mind sees the artist sharing personal anecdotes with the viewer through art making discourses then the viewer can be seen as accessing what can be akin to a memoir through a strewn body of a work that represents a ‘particular period’ in the artist’s life and career. The reader should note that I am saying that the memoir access that they will be subjected to with regard to the artist only represents a ‘particular period’ in the artist’s life because surely the artist focus, if they are constantly searching for new forms of artistic expressions, will shift in time and come to bare on something else \<<<|
OUR City of Tshwane’ Honorable Mayor Kgosientso Ramogkopa together with his entourage responsible for Finance, Policing, Health Care and Human Settlement were featured on Power FM’s Power Perspective hosted by Onkgopotse JJ Tabane on the evening of 25 April around 22:00. Although the round table was an opportunity for the listeners to hear reflections on our leaders successes and challenges that they have faced whilst carrying our their mandate of moving our city forward as per their portfolios, I waited in bated breath to hear about the fate of the city’s employees who face being homeless by 30 June 2016. There was no mention of this issue in the lively conversation that ensued as listeners called in to comment or twittered on the various issues tackled through the live ‘round table discussion’. As an employee of the City of Tshwane and directly affected by the selling of its properties I wondered how my other colleagues who occupy houses and flats of this beautiful city felt at the end of the discussion as they wrestled for sleep∇
As South African political parties diverge in different directions this weekend across our country to launch their political manifestoes sandwiched with promises and posturing ahead of the oncoming local government elections on 3 August 2016 an uneasiness pervades the employees of the City of Tshwane and their families who have been renting apartments and houses from the municipality.
*a deadlock between two equally matched opponents
I actually was contemplating doing a piece on the vandalism of the sculptures that represent our colonial past as well as the apartheid regime, however the recent Xenophobic1 violence that have awaken our country from it’s a stupor takes my pen’s attention towards its contemplation. The sculptures and the old regime’s memorabilia will have to wait; I suspect though, with the current rate of tension here and there in our country that before long that issue will re-occupy our national agenda just as xenophobia takes it turn again presently. But even as I respond in the present jotting I must confess to the reader that I am not best suited to offer a voice on the matter at hand. I am not confident. I am a writer enthusiast and writers write. May I press this point further by highlighting to the reader that what follows is my own observation of the situation that is unfolding in front of us; a meditation by all accounts. These scribbling can be seen in the final analysis as a subjective reaction of a South African¶
This is not an exhaustive exposition, it is a comment. There is so much that is going on in our country at the moment that gets one’s tongue wagging about the possibility of a bleak prospect as far as our future is concerned even if it is done in the safe haven of our closed doors. South Africans find themselves at a point whereby either fully acknowledge the problem that’s facing them or wait for a full scale implosion as far as race is concerned. For lack of space in the present article I do not want to focus on particulars of incidents that point to us that race continues to be a problem in our country neither do I have a fully fledged arsenal that can assist us in this regard as much as I desire to delve into an informed analysis, which might of course take time to be finished and whenever when that happens I might risk speaking above the reader. So I will shoot from the hip.¶
In the land of the Bunched Hunched up people
Ï watched my smartphone fall a short distance from the study table one evening during its charging ritual. A few seconds before, wanting to check messages, I’d sort of pulled it by the charging cord and, as the law of gravity would have it, its weight pulled it off the connecting point. It ceremoniously met with the ceramic tiled floor and the Lumia 800 hurdled towards permanent lights out. Heartbroken and instantly sore to the core from the thud sound I heard when the phone hit the floor I expected the worst damage as I picked it up. I could make out a few things on the screen for the screen was damaged but surprisingly not cracked… but the main buttons of Home, Confirm and Return were not responsive to my frantic fingerings. Something more in this harsh ordeal was that I could swear the screen was dying out for a dark purplish lava lamp like goo moved in slomo to blot out the screen. Bought for novelty’s sake than to fit in with the populace, this was a phone whose battery was non-removable; it possessed only two slots, one for charging and the other for the micro-sim. And now jammed into its spacious memory were important keys to my daily activities by way of a calendar, social media networking platforms, private documents, photos of where I have been or what interest me as well as an extensive address book of my contacts. A sad thought loomed in the background of this specter, I was being blurred out towards an erasure as the dark lava spread throughout the screen signaling the death of the device.
ßY the time you read this, Generations will be back on your screen. That is if you care about what’s on television. I am happy to report that it now boasts a subtitle nog al – it’s now called Generations ‘The Legacy’, which makes it sound hip and akin to some video game sequel or action movie flick of some sort; you just have to add an x or y to the title to heighten the tension of great expectations the title alone carries. Mara akere Generations is a soap opera, so the action you are bound to see will be limited to the scheming of character so and so to take down character so and so or z kissing with k or d was born an orphan or is an illegitimate child of q and p and has evil brewing within him and it will soon spew out in a feast of vengeance. I doubt though that this new Generations will have the same charm that it had before it went POOFoff for a spell following a hiatus with the previous actors who demanded higher wages in addition to an array of assortment bounty basket of employment conditions. The actors who ai-ai, ha, ai-ai, ha! – toi toiyingly flexed their muscles were subsequently fired. But besides the solidarity that some viewers showed to those axed actors, latterly the soapy lacked something. Deniably this fact groped at the back of our skulls like a shadowy problem masquerading as a tiny rock in our shoe, bugging us with each step and draining us of all amusement, Hao. We knew this even as we migrated to other channels in order to prove to Mfundi et al that we needed those actors back on our screen! We knew that something was wrong.
*The official service or system that delivers letters and parcels
I have been waiting ages for some items I have ordered oversee. Actually for special effects purposes this opening line stretches the period immensely. But it does feel like a long time ago compared to the previous times when I had ordered books or electronics devises from oversee and used my post box address. Usually the items will reach me in or within a month’s time. The whole waiting period back then had been normalized. What is a month if you know for sure that you will receive your items? And you find solace in the thought that your nosy neighbors won’t have an opportunity to claw and sniff at your parcel with curiosity at your apartment block before you marvel at it with bated breath prior to its ceremonious unwrapping.
*not known or familiar.*an unknown person or thing.
IN a world where it is easy to make new friends without meeting people in person, where business cards, at the brink of their extinction, are given out for their novelty’s sake to people who may never call you; In a world where the mobile phone has grown smarter from its former self wherein during its evolutionary journey to where it is today it had been used as a prop of multifarious progress, of which one of those uses was as a mirror, then quite recently evolving into a device capable of not only immortalizing its owner through a selfie situation quirky of indulgence but also to be a buffet sandwich of personal prime intel (psst, titbit – we ought to be jovial that there are undeniable signs that size-wise the device, having undergone loss of buttons, is taking a cul-de-sac to pay homage to its hefty ancestor). Now in this intricate plot of un-calculated fortunes – there lurks a dark force between people who know each other and perfect strangers, an in-between world, a world of the chippers blessed with the power to annoy all and sundry. Out of this quagmire rises persistent people whose main goal is to walk into our world and offer, without an invitation, an all out assault of stuff you don’t want.