JewelsintheRough

made entirely of flaws^stitched together with good intentions

[internallyunrefined]

‘Boys will be Boys’

My nephew just turned one and recently his tantrums and violent behaviour has led to family members declaring that he’s “just being a boy”, or that “that’s what boys do.” 

We often question how we get to such a gendered society where men can’t cry and women only dream of their weddings and yet we so easily bypass these instrumental moments in our young ones lives. 

My little man expressing himself by throwing the broom halfway across the kitchen floor doesn’t make him any more of a boy than it would had my niece done the same. And yet with one simple act he is affirmed boy enough, rough enough, man enough. And so thrown brooms become stifled tears, stifled tears become mute emotions, and mute emotions reaffirmed by encouragements to “be a Man.”

Little man, I write to your future self from a compassionate Aunty-- you are no more of a boy by throwing that broom, than you were when you helped your mama clean up the dishes. You are no more a boy when you threw yourself from the couch in courage than when you squealed in delight at Dora the Explorer show. You are no more a boy when you roared in a tantrum than when you fell asleep whimpering against my chest. 

There is no “boy” enough for me, or “man” enough for me. You are just you. No actions you do make you less or more of what society demands of you. You are my little man, with your love for singing, your picky eating and your gorgeous dimpled smile. 

& I won’t let anyone deny that of you. 

[internallyunrefined]

Saga of the Missing tooth

When I was just getting into the 11th grade my one tooth was being a pain in the ass. It would not. stop. throbbing. So seeing as it was the normal thing to do, I went for my yearly visit to the dentist as soon as I got back home (Malawi) from boarding school.

Now if there’s ever any prime advice I can give someone about Malawi, it’s never go to the dentist there. Ever. They told me they needed to drill my tooth and essentially cut off a part of it which essentially fucked me in the ass for the future. 

My mouth was still in immense pain for the year to come, waking me up mid-night at times only to be consoled back to sleep by a frozen pack of peas that eventually melted and gave quite the off=putting smell by morning. Safe to say it was not a sexy time in my life.

When I did eat, it would have to be on the right side, like the literal right side of my mouth for fear of food getting stuck in my lame (literal sense of the word) tooth and giving me a taste of annoying pain for the next few days.

So I returned to South Africa and was confronted with the news that the dentist in Malawi had fucked up the tooth (no surprise) and I would need braces. First I was horrified. My highschool dance was approaching, I was about to graduate and I was to be known as brace face for my near future? The Horror. Then--- came elation. Braces just seemed to look So Cool and I couldn’t help but believe the good dentist’s words that they would be taken off soon.  Unfortunately I found it around the same time that I needed glasses (which would end in eye tests diagnosing me with Keratoconus but that’s another story). So I was to be both four-eyes and brace-face at the same time. My sister laughed for a good 30 minutes to the point of tears at this news. Good to know you have supportive family at these times, am I right?

Owing to various reasons, most financial, I never ended up getting braces. Glasses came unfortunately and then blessings on blessings bestowed the gift of contact lenses on me (although at times I’d just like to return to the comfort of glasses). But the toothache continued without notes of it ending anytime soon.

And so again I returned to Malawi only this time my mother suggested her own dentist (which had me wonder where this news was 3 years before?) Anyway, tests were done and it came down to a root canal removal. Whatever made the pain go, I was cool for. It warranted a few days away from solids and a possible guarantee of a lifetime free of toothaches. Or so I thought. 

By the end of my 2nd year I had had enough. I came to terms with the fact that it was time to say goodbye to the old friend. I returned to the dentist ready and motivated to lose the bugger. Promised novacane for the pain, the day came when the tooth was to be removed. My Heart Will Go On played on the speakers as the dentist drilled away. Ironically the anesthesia wore off and I felt most of the procedure, little mofo wouldn’t go down without a kick it seems.

It was finished faster than I thought it would be, but man it didn’t let me forget it in the nights to come. My gum bled profusely, and my mouth throbbed. It didn’t help that my mouth swelled to twice it’s size (or felt like it) and sleeping was an absolute mission. My sister humored me, or rather I humored her with my  company as we watched tv shows endlessly for the next few days mostly in silence on my part. 

It’s been weird getting used to that empty space, and I know that it’s ridiculous that I’m getting sentimental over something no one can see is missing. Sometimes I get scared I’ll kiss someone and they’ll notice. These fears I real mates, I shit you not.

And so, reminiscent of the experience in the office as Celine sang in the background, I bid my dear tooth, farewell.

Near, far, wherever you are

I believe that the heart does go on

Once more you open the door

And you're here in my heart

And my heart will go on and on

[internallyunrefined]

Daddy Issues

I realize the subsequent posts make me appear more broken than I actually am. Or maybe they don’t, maybe it’s me and I just don’t know it. 

D’you have those days where you’re just angry at Daddy? (I have a thing for rhetorical questions it seems).

“Daddy” isn’t a palatable word for me. It doesn’t roll off my tongue easily. Neither does Papa, Dad, or Father. If I must choose a title however, the default would be father. “Daddy” has me expecting a man aging well in his years that’s moneyed up and still waiting for me to give him that sugar. 

Before you think I’m a pubescent girl whose father told her she couldn’t date the guy she’s in love with because she’s too young despite my response of “But Daddy I love him!”..sorry, scripting The Little Mermaid *clears throat* Anyway, if that’s where you were going slow your roll. 

My Father doesn’t exist. Or rather he exists just not in my life, cause best believe he’s very much alive. Alive and well, I’d even add. And if I’m gonna be honest I’ve never really known how I feel about my Father not wanting to be a part of my life. Even as I type this it’s not in raging anger, or uncontrollable sobs. Tbh my relationship/or lack thereof with my father has never really hit home. It’s just been there. Or rather, it hasn’t lol. 

I’m not angry at him. I think I was before. I think I hated that he woke me up in the dark hours of the night and had my mum pretty me up just so he could toss irrelevant advice at me and have me pour him a drink, or sit on his lap so he could play Daddy for two seconds.

This is not to say that he didn’t have the opportunity to role play in real life, as the mister has three other kids you see. I’m told they look like me but i’d like to believe I’m unique and fucking fabulous so no one does. 

So he played house, with mummy and daddy and at times he was even so kind to bring a gift along. If I’m gonna be perfectly honest his gifts were horrid. Or maybe I’m just an unthankful hoe. Who knows. But there’s something about a pink princess dress with tiny bells that jingle when you move that doesn’t quite scream my name. I was a tomboy, and he gave me dresses. I loved to read, and he bought me a picture encyclopedia. I was eleven and had read through the bible three times, I didn’t really know what I was mean’t to do with “A is for apple.” But my mum insisted I always be thankful, she wanted so badly for me to have that relationship. I remember once she jokingly said I liked my dad better than her cause I always smiled when he spoke as if he was handing out handfuls of gold. I think she was happy to add a ‘jealous’ remark. She had us take a family picture for me to keep. I don’t know where that went, but probably to the same place that memories of little girls wishing they had a full family went.

Anyway at that point I wasn’t angry at him. I adored him, as any daddy’s little girl would. I tried to skip around “dad” because “daddy” seemed a tad too familiar but father seemed too far when he seemed so close. 

He’s visited three times in my life, from what I remember. I remember the last time I saw him was when I got angry. My mum prodded me to ask him questions and when I did he added that i could just Google him. In reality, I could Google anyone. Shit, I could Facebook anyone if i really wanted to. I am expert at stalking, but I don’t wanna fill gaps through Google. So impersonal. I feel like I’d be researching a speaker I’m introducing at a school function rather than figuring out what half my biological makeup did in his past.

Hate is a strong word. But I began to strongly dislike him. Him and his children that he said I resembled so much, but that he seemed to care about so much more despite the similarities he was quick to point out. I began to dislike his petty gifts that never once fit my personality or offers of money for an ice-cream when he was never there to give me lunch, or take me out, or buy my first car--I dunno, what do Dads even do?

Whatever they do, he didn’t. That much I knew. I was the product of “no glove, no love” being lost in translation. I was a great night out, and a shitty morning after. I was a gift in as much as Christianity forbade getting rid of me. I was a beautiful mistake. 

Man I hated that for awhile. I hated that someone out there hated me once. No, not my mother, bless her soul. His wife. Or maybe she didn’t hate me. ^insert hysterical laughter^ but then again she probably did. 

When my mum fought with me when I was 17 and she screamed at me to leave the house she told me nobody ever wanted me. She told me that my Dad never wanted me and neither did she and it should have remained like that. I should have remained unknown, obsolete. My mum broke my heart that day. 

She apologized but there’s something about words being said in moments of high emotional intensity that sometimes still ring truth in them. Man, my mum broke my fucking heart that day. I think she forgot, I still remember.

She’s not a bad mother, she’s a single, hardworking mother learning to love again and again as each child comes along and I love her more than a fat kid loves cake. My dad never broke my heart. He never had a place in it in the first place. 

Sometimes, I picture what my life would look like if he stayed. But I wouldn’t be where I am now if he had, so I’m quite content. I do wish, he supported me financially. Cause life wouldn’t be such a struggle. But if wishes were horses, we would all ride them. It’s good to know his other kids have been riding. & continue to. Bumped into the girl going to Milan the one time. Must be nice.

The sadistic part of me wonders if when he passes I’ll be invited to the funeral. Wonders if I’ll go. Wonders if he’ll leave something behind for me. Wonders if I’ll take it.

The broken part of me worries if when I have a moving, breathing baby blessing, if the man I love will be there for the little one. If not for me, just for the little one, you know?

The optimistic part of me is waiting for my prince charming. The pessimistic part knows such doesn’t exist. The pessimistic part remembers statistics of children of divorced parents never finding love.

I friended him on LinkedIn. My father. He looked at my profile and my heart skipped a beat and wondered if he’d reach out. if he was proud. If he cared.

My hand waved around the ‘send a message’ button and then dropped. Do I start with Hi Dad or fuck you?

You know in the movies when the girls with Daddy issues go sleeping around and find the right guy and suddenly all is right. Or they have a life-changing moment in which closure is reached. I don’t think that happens in real life. The right guy, or closure part, you can sleep with who you want when you want obviously lol. 

I don’t think closure happens. I think everyday you remind yourself of who you are because of what has made you. And I think if a missing piece of me made me, me. Then I’m ok with that. 

Sidenote: can you miss what you’ve never had?

[internallyunrefined]

Split an 1/8th to see the Universe

Firstly big ups to Kid Cudi, sometimes there just isn’t a jam that hits you quite as right as his do. Before I start I’ll leave this here

This is some good good. None of that pursuit of happiness Project X bs, although don’t get me wrong, that song was a tuune. 

In the song Cudi references “And I tried to piece the puzzle of the universe. Split an eighth of shrooms just so I could see the universe.” Kids, don’t do the drugs. They make you crazy. I split shrooms with my bestie today and I wouldn’t call the experience life-changing, but there’s always something so different about each trip that..almost teaches or shows you something.

I wouldn’t say I love drugs, so I’ll settle for I really really like them. But I mean, is weed even a drug? That’s straight up herbs fam. Anyway, that’s a different conversation. 

I took the shrooms and it was my second time tripping. The first ended up with the floor moving beneath me and me believing I could see my blood flow through my hands, calling my older sister and having her talk to me till I fell asleep. So we can safely say I wasn’t hoping for the best this time but I was determined Not to have a bad trip. Funny how thinking about it can take you halfway there sometimes.

First hour: Bugs, grass, trees. Everything becomes so visible. All those things that were just the ordinary, became the extra-ordinary. Just cause of one (or more) little switches in your brain turned around from a hallucinogen. Crazy

Second hour: Da shrooms weren’t doing my body right. Felt like I needed to throw up that shit asap but was also trying to convince myself that at that point it was in the bloodstream, so all puking would do is make me feel like shit.

My bestie only starts tripping at This point. Drugs never seem to hit her as fast as they do me, could be either a blessing or a curse. We have to move to a different venue and maaan was that walk trippy.

Third hour: Colours changing, words on my phone screen going from big to small and all wavy-like. Music. Is. Hella. Maan, this is when it got real. This is when I remembered why I liked experimenting.

Fourth hour: Feeling ew again. Work shift in 2 hours -- and so the bad trip begins. What if I’m fucked at my work sign-in? What if I’m fired? What if i’m eternally fucked. fuck me.

Fifth hour: Watched 4 consecutive episodes of Awkward and giggled myself into a happy high. Shit starts to wear off and the more sober I get the higher I feel in terms of my mood.

Sixth hour: I appreciate sober state more now. Begins to feel like weed wearing off. But it’s in this moment that I appreciate everything. How often we go by without noticing the minor details. The friends that support you, the music that keeps you going, the life that exists within nature. We take so much shit for granted. 

I went on a short trip this weekend, and I didn’t even have to leave. And I’m not really for calling drugs a life-changing experience but I wanna appreciate more, I wanna live more, and I wanna be more. Not some existential shit, like i wanna change the world, but I wanna just sit and be. We waste so much time trying to do more and sometimes we lose out on what’s right in front of us, and lose sight of enjoying life.

I found the key to happiness mates, and it isn’t drugs, it’s life. How’s that for some existential bullshit hey?

[internallyunrefined]

Trophies

I love boys. Actually, hold that thought. I love pretty things -- in general. I shan’t discriminate as to what their goods are down there cause I could give less fucks if their face is screaming for mine to be against it. 

So a rephrase- I love sticking my tongue down peoples throats. Making out is just introducing yourself in ways that saying your name and a handshake just won’t do. 

I’d reclaim slut positivity but recognizing my positionality as a young black woman and the struggle that people before me have gone through to deconstruct stereotypes of the hyper-sexual black female started in colonial times, I’ll leave the reclamation activism to someone else rather. 

So I started a bet with my sister, to keep my tongue in my own mouth for 9 months. Or rather, she laughed and laughed and laughed and told me I was destined for failure, and with the combination of lack of time and sheer stubbornness turns out I only have one more month to go. The prize? My personal favorite: Tequila, silver, Olmeca.

In the spirit of winning, and the habit of reflection I figured I’d try to remember (& describe briefly) ghosts of boys past. ^cue Drake’s trophies track^ (ps lyrics not relevant, just referring to boys as trophies)

The beauty of this list is that the anonymity is not purposeful, but out of the genuine fact that these young lads names were never known from the start. (Everyone who says they look for a great personality is lying to you.)

1) Mr Sloppy Seconds: first boy(friend). He said he had so many girls before me- He lied. He hadn’t kissed a girl, I felt like my mouth was a washing machine. Never again.

2) I tried to jack his best friend’s snapback and in my frantic getaway was caught in the crossfire of his face. I don’t know if his kissing sucked, I’d had too much to drink or was caught by surprise but either way that ended promptly. I had to give the snapback back too.

3) Nigga was drunk af and almost got hit by a car. Pushed him out the way and landed on the hood of another car with him on top of me. He thought he’d thank me, I figured I should let him. (10/10 recommend saving people’s lives)

4) Dis dude. I strongly believe I am and will forever be his kryptonite and I’m sorry for the tornado I unleashed on his life. He was number 4 but returned at various points of life. boy(friend) I guess?

5) Funny story (anything that starts with that rarely is). #5 knew #4. and I saw them AT THE SAME TIME when I had Just gotten with one the night before. Sigh. Good times

6) DJ. It was a dare. & he let me mix the discs. Or whatever the fuck it’s called. I’m easy, whatever, let’s move on.

7) Halloween. We were both in nerd costumes. I danced, he pulled me back. 

8) Jamaican Canadian. Bumped into him a year later and fack. Sexy

9) Big arms. That’s all I have for you. Same night as #8

10) Thirst was real. I’m pretty sure I gave him my number. Why you no call me? Same night as #8 (please don’t judge me)

11) Toga party. Made out for 3 hours straight I shit you not. British guy-- I have a thing for accents. Totally thought he was black but friend told me he was white the next day. I don’t see color? lol 

12) Football player. He was an ass, he had a girlfriend dammit. (I promise I’m not a homewrecker I was really wasted, I’m sorry. I cried that night)

13) He had a beanie that said “bxtch” on it and I giggled and said “I like your beanie”. Gahd I’m an idiot.

14) White dude that shared a smoke with me outside and let me sit on his lap. He was a sweetheart.

15) ASShole that made me feel like a thirst trap and question my identity that spiralled into an existential crisis.

16) He had a sick haircut and was just fucken adorable.

17) I don’t quite remember but he can dance. Same night as #16

18) Killer smile, French accent, rad body. Almost tried to cuff a bish but I ain’t ready for that, as is apparent in this list. 

Open for lucky number 19, or any of the numbers after. Here’s a look into my life of loving. Can’t stop, won’t stop.

Sincerely,

Connoisseur of Beauty

[internallyunrefined]

Punani Power

You know what’s synonymous with guilt still in this day and age? Female masturbation. & what a shame it is that young girls out there haven’t fully discovered the full power of their punani.

After going 5 years past the sweet 16 and never been fucked (I know it’s kissed, i’ve changed the phrase) [16+5=21] I began to discover myself and my body. From countless minutes spent in front of the mirror, to nudes. and nudes. and nudes. and nudes. I appreciated the goddess of all that is woman. 

A young girl of 15 it’s funny how on one of those nights one’s hands can just slip and suddenly. Oh. 

Now as I would confidently say as a woman of 21 (many may disagree as I still act like a child in more ways than I’d care to admit) still figuring out my orientation what I do know for sure is all that escapes me is only music to my ears as I play DJ down there.

Sure, that’s what we’ll call it. DJing, for the faint hearted of course. I love music, but I’m eclectic in taste. That could be taken on a wider context in that I like all that is pretty no matter what’s down there *points at center of body*, or in a smaller context in that I like to explore the different feelings connected with the different genres. DJing can go from Rap and Rock the one day to Indie and RnB the next. Cause what can I say, I love me some Drake, but some days just aren’t complete with some less mainstream Soley.

Now if you’re following the extended metaphor I give you props cause I tend to lose people from time to time. But if not I’ll just leave it at the point that sometimes you have those lowkey, quiet, dragged-out, need-some-real-good-lovin (shoutout Miguel!) RnB kind of DJing. But sometimes you just want it quick, rough and sort of confusing-- kinda like how Mayday Parade has me feeling some typa way-- kind of DJing.

Either way, ladies. Love your punani. How’s someone else gonna know you if you don’t know yourself.

Don’t be ashamed either, I spent way too damn long tryna push down feelings because “that’s dirty.”

Disclaimer: My gynae says my “happy” hormones pump at an abnormal rate, so I generally can ovulate for up to 3 times a month. Don’t ask how. All I know is i wanna jump everything at all times. So hey, maybe DJing isn’t the career for you--But i was born a music lover. 

[bibliohoe]

[internallyunrefined]

Tryna write a blog post, thinking of a title, then being like “hol up, where’s that word even from?”

[internallyunrefined]

Untitled

I was waiting for an epiphany of sorts to dawn on me, with an eruption of thoughts well sown together to make a fabric of a perfectly put-together blog post.

But it never came. Or it came at the wrong times -- in the shower, pre-bedtime in those moments just before I fell asleep, (still talking about writing here, I swear) when I was so angry only words could calm me, or so sad I was overwhelmed by a jumble of words.

I wanted the perfect first blog post. I wanted the first one to be everything you know? I wanted to be the undiscovered lyricist who hits 400 notes on their first post and finds relentless fame for the rest of their days.

But I’m gonna be honest with myself, knowing that the perfect blog post will never come. I started the whole thing to find a place that I find perfection in my imperfections. To spew out run-on sentences that don’t make sense but they’re out there, and not in here *points at head* and so that’s ok.

But the truth is right now, of all times, I have nothing to say..