I WANT IT … (Fantasies of a student)

Have you ever imagined having everything that you ever dreamed for?

Imagine it and take time to think about it. Picture after Graduating that job finds its way into your hands. That title that comes with a Personal assistant, Stylist and a Publicist calling you to tell you what is next on you dream list.

The job that allows you to stand on the podium, while the click sounds of the camera flash lights frequent its way to your face as you watch the pushing and shuffling of journalist battling to hear what your about to say.

Imagine the corner office on the 30^th floor that you always wanted. Yes, that office with the big window and with the best view to the city. Don’t you want all the invitations, the standing ovations at industry conferences and press conferences with magazines, newspapers giving you the best reviews?  Imagine Oprah to call and ask for an interview.

Can u already see that award in your hands and you hear the screams from groupies and fans in the crowd telling you that that they love you? You give a thank you speech and one of the groupies jumps on stage and being stopped by bouncers before he gets to you? Don’t you want the fame, the fortune, the success and all?

Go ahead and look at yourself in the mirror.

Think bigger and deeply about it.

Can you see that you want it all! - you deserve it!

It is healthy to take a ride on dream land once in a while; you can never know what it can manifest.

If I were the boss!

If I were the boss, I would give her a second chance at life. I would raise her from the dead and say; “wakeup my friends, and make sure you don’t do the same mistakes.” she was named after a certain family member, whose name was Julia.  She was a beautiful, wonderful and down to earth girl whose dream was to become an accountant, of which she only got a bite of the cake.

As i look out of the window, i recall all the moments we used to share. When we used to sit together in bus number 77 on our way to and back from Greenside. We would ignore the bullies as they performed their devious duties and we laughed at our own wicket ways. We shared the juiciest gossip and found a way to smile as the 35 min drive injected its way twice a day in our lives.



During the 4 years of her sickness, there was no cure to this disease. How could this be? There was no prayer that could be given to rid it. “It’s a mix connective tissue disease” the doctors would predict and at some cases the response would be “we have no idea what it is.” it killed her even more to now know what was killing her. "I’m dying! Face reality, one day you will come to my house and they will tell you that Julia has passed on" she kept reminding me. I did not know what to say.

2 years later, I sit in the same bus (J77) to Greenside. An old lady sat on the seat which used to be our favorite. I felt as if she stood there looking at me as i looked at the lady. I thought to myself that if I were the boss, if I were the boss of this world, if I had the power that god has. I would give her a second chance at life.

But I am not God, I am not the boss.

 

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Photo: by John Veerkamp
www.busexplorer.com/PHP/MidPage.php?id=1686

“Two people came out of a building and into a story”

Who said it was over? The skinny lady dramatically walked out the door of the school building with an apron wrapped around her figure and a wooden spoon on her hand. “Who said it’s over?” She repeated herself looking at the rest of the crowd that held a meeting under the dusty and windy weather. 

The building had several broken windows and terribly constructed. “Just because the fat lady has suffocated in her own high notes it doesn’t mean it’s over!” She justified with rhythm. The sounds of the drums in the back ground stated to gain momentum as she walked across the crowd. They followed the beat unconsciously playing the role of the backup singer. Suddenly a deep voice rose from the entrance of the building. A voice so deep, that it caught a pair of eyes and ears of the people who were seated at the far end of the theatre.

 “Umzabalazo mawu cubeke” he roared in Zulu” (Let the beats go on and the people shall dance…) it stroke around the theatre as if it was thunder.

The actors on stage recognized the old man and watched him as he came out of the building to add his view into this story that has is built on stage. The drumming changed tone and the stage light went slightly brighter as the crowd chanted and sang until they were stopped by their commander. It seemed as if they were a community waiting for someone to tell them something.

“It’s been six weeks! Something must be done” the old man through his opinion into the fire of the angry crowd. “Week after week our children disappear, and what are the police doing about it?” an opinion unexpectedly rose from the crowd- "we must take the matter into our own hands."

As I sat there watching the production take place, I thought of how real this could be. Leaving your child at that school building hoping that your offspring will be safe, yet he or she is actually not. How could this happen? How could children disappear from the eyes of educators and care takers?   

"The BroomStick"

Dressed in old fashioned clothing that her Madam has given her, she puts am abrupt silent smile on her face. She makes it a point that she is the first to wake up in the morning to prepare the Madams’ kids lunch, run a bath for the master and prepare breakfast for the whole family. "Emily" they call her. A single mother of two boys, of whom she gets to see only six times in a year.

Real name:                Mahlakala Rathokolo

Age:                            48

Academic:                 Standard 8

Occupation:               “the broomstick”

She consciously lies on her pillow in resistant, waiting for the alarm clock to go off. The reflections in her mind unfold the predicted experience of the day. The mop on the kitchen floor, the fork in the shower, the plate in the bathroom, the panties on the passage, and dog hair scattered around the house.

“Emily, Oh my God this woman!” “What do I pay you for?” “Don’t tell me about a raise, you eat my food” “You’re ungrateful” “prepare breakfast” "Why is my coffee not here when i need it?" “Your name is just difficult to say you’ll be Emily” the voices of her madam kept ringing in the background of her thoughts as the mocking bird made the irritating melodies on the window.

Knowing that she has a family to feed, she wakes up with faith and grabs the bible that lies under the old chest of drawers next to her bed. She opened it up and her knees she went.

picture is extracted from: http://www.verbal.co.za/ 

Public Relations Design

Four years into studying public Relations and I had no idea what is Designer PR. Right then and there at the internet café, I realised my ignorance and that there is so much that I am still to learn.  What is designer Public Relations? My search had begun. The quest to know this topic that sounded so artistic and filled with creativity.

I grabbed the key board and scanned through people blogs trying to find some sort of direction. Unfortunately, the blogs were equipped. I then Google searched it and the results were rather surprising too, there was no answer to stop this burning fire on my hands.

What is designer PR? My search is yet to still continue.

"Bones Of The Witch Doctor"

“I hear the winds of change blowing. She was told to face the demon not knowing that the demon was right under her nose, right under her heart beat. The demon was massaging her soul into confusion, confusion pilling up in her mind leading her to no conclusion.”

Bones we scattered on the floor as she prophesized the situation. The stormy weather gained momentum as the consultation progressed. The two rural women sat on the rug as they listened impatiently and carefully as the truth was about to be revealed. They looked at her as she pointed at the bones with the black stick that looked as if it were a black cows tail, making it fly across every direction of the room. While performing her rituals there was a strike of lightning and followed by an unexpected yelling and jumping.

 

The secret was out. The Sounds in their ears were like a 62 piece Orchestra. The feeling was incredibly difficult to explain. All that they knew was that at that moment they were falling out of Love. Everything was falling in to place and their lives were changed forever. No, it cannot be, my husband? It’s impossible! She questioned with shock and disappoint.

Sangoma- the witch doctor

image abstracred from: www.travelpod.com/.../tpod.html

Granmothers last words

The was only an hour left for the departure. An instruction was given for no one to leave the house that day.
on her hand was the black great book, the mood was so spiritual and intence. she looked me in the eye and said: "Faith, Love, Light, Happiness and joy are the elements i want u to live by when you leave this house".

Power of the Credit Card

While growing up, my mother used to take me for shopping. There were two kinds of clothes that one could buy Mom clothes and Fancy clothes. Mom clothes would last for ever and fancy shiny clothes would make u feel wonderful, beautiful and really good. To get the clothes she would take out this Magic Card.

I wanted that card; I dreamed and had fantasies about having that card.  Little did I know that I will find myself 15 years later walking the streets of Cape Town with it:

Occupation:  Student

The bag on my hand: Prada (R1200)

Shoes: Lacoste (R365)

Jeans: Mr. Price (R139)

Shirt: Jet- (R45) from kiddies section, no one will ever know

Last but no least, scarf (R600) - Vivian Westwood

BANK ACCOUNT: R45. 00

CREDIT CARD: - R3200

A card so powerful that it would buy you anything u dreamed or wished for, a card that had no limits to the world. The window displays would yell at me as I walk pass with confidence and excitement. "Buy me, buy me!!!" my mind would hear the echo. But the consequences of the feelings were not so great. Suddenly there was a vibration from my bag, I then quickly dig in my bag. A private number... it was the Bank...