Kitchen floors

Me sitting with my legs crossed in front of my notebook, pen and open bottle of wine. I have two rows of red, white, and blue beads on each ankle.
Amina on her kitchen floor

Who knew kitchen floors could be so grounding?

That they could offer so much perspective?

Coupled with wine straight from the bottle & Keenan Meyer in the background, tears are bound to trickle down my cheeks.

I’m being reminded to talk less and listen more, so if you’re looking for me I’ll be on my kitchen floor.

A place to call home

Me standing in my lounge, dangling the keys to my apartment.

The year 2021 has allowed me to realise my biggest achievement yet. I have my own apartment and a place to call home.

The sudden and unplanned move to Johannesburg last year, on the brink of an unknown pandemic, meant that I spent my days in a commune with house mates that annoyed me from time to time. Earning an interns salary of less than R10K also meant that my options for accommodation were limited. I often say that Johannesburg specialises in ‘sardine type of living’, and as much as I despise it, I understand why things are the way they are.

So after getting a promotion at work earlier this year, I got serious about looking for an ideal place to stay. I was very intentional about finding the perfect place for me. I invited God and my Ancestors to guide me to what was mine, because I believed that I was going to find, and I did. Funny enough, it ended up being the first place that I viewed and five minutes into the viewing I told the landlord that I wanted the place and that I would be in touch soon.

The apartment was perfect! It was on the top floor and had a spacious bedroom that led to a balcony where the sun was shining. There was a bathtub that doubled as shower and it was semi-furnished. Most of all, it was within my budget and in a familiar area just 10 minutes away from where my friends stay. I was sold! I had three more viewings lined up after this initial one, but I did not care – I was no longer interested in attending them because my mind was made up. Of course, I did end up attending all three of them and my goodness, I was disappointed.

At the top of that disappointing list was a place that was basically a rondavel turned into a bachelor/open plan space or room, or whatever that was. I remember being unable to hide my disapproval during the viewing, I think I even let out a little sound of “yho ha.a, this aint it”. The owner of the premises quickly picked up on this because I had been standing in the exact same spot by the door for at least a minute. I mean I didn’t know what else to do because the entire space was so crowded with so many things and with two people being inside it at the same time, standing by the door seemed like the safer option.

I left that viewing and immediately called my aunt. I was in so much disbelief and had to share it with someone, and of course my aunt was the perfect person for this. With each disappointing factor I described she replied with just the right amount of disapproval in her voice accompanied by the odd, “asoze mntanam” and “hayi hayi kaloku”. By the end of the call we both agreed that life in Johannesburg is expensive, but were hopeful that I would find the right place, and I mean I already had found it.

Fast forward to today, and I am writing this blog post in the comfort of my bed listening to the birds chirp outside. My curtains are closed but it isn’t dark, because the sun is still shining into my bedroom. I finally have a place to call home and I am loving each and every moment of it. Living alone is an experience that I’d recommend to anyone who can afford to, especially if you’ve never had the experience. This is also my very first time living in my own space, according to my full definition of the phrase. I do not share anything with anyone, unless I want to and that on it’s own is a privilege that I am so grateful to be experiencing.

The last time I had a pseudo experience of living in my ‘own space’, I was living in foster care and was still in high school. It was my first time having my own room, my own bed and my own study desk, etc, etc. I enjoyed it so much, but it didn’t last long because I ended up sharing my room with my foster sister. A decision that I would make all over again if I had to. Then after that, I lived in a commune, then it was res during varsity, another commune last year and now its my own apartment. Thank you God!

I don’t take for it granted that I have my own place, let alone that I can afford to pay for it every month. I know that many older women in my life have never experienced this type of freedom. Take for instance my mother; she lived at home until her early 20’s and only moved out of the family home when she met my father and when he left, my sister and I were in the picture so she never lived alone or had a chance to experience the gold and treasure that I’m experiencing. Then there’s my aunt who had the exact same experience. She lived at home until she met my uncle and even though they didn’t move in together until they were married, any ideas of that she had of independence were crushed by the war that broke out in the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) all those years ago. As a couple, they fled and moved to South Africa, where they lived together and eventually had two children. And I am sure many other Black elder women have experienced a similar storyline.

I had this conversation with her during a recent visit back home while I was doing her hair and even she was shocked by her reality. Her eyes widened when she realised that she had never had her own place and her own things that just belonged to her. As a means to brighten up the conversation, she expressed how proud of me she was and reminded me to stay away from boys for as long as I needed to – her exact words. Although I don’t fully agree with that statement, I can still appreciate the sentiment behind it.

There is so much freedom, power and happiness in being able to walk around naked when I feel like it, or blast my favourite song on my speakers during my evening showers. I am getting to know me and I like it. I am also nurturing my inner child who never really and truly got to experience the idea of privacy and who was later thrown into a cycle of instability due to the loss of my mother.

I have been searching for home since then, and now I have finally found it.

My favourite part of it all, is having the entire bed to myself every night (yes, sleeping on a chest slaps but you know what I mean). I have always had to share a bed or have slept on a single bed. I get to wash my dishes whenever I feel like it, while there is nothing stopping me from making pancakes at 11pm on a random Wednesday night. I am also getting the chance to make it my own by slowly furnishing it and filling it up with all the things I have stored in the mental compartment that has been storing interior design ideas since 2014. I can hear myself think and have the choice of two couches to work from.

I promised to give myself the life that I want to live and by having my own home, I am doing exactly that.


by Isipo Bakana

(CW: Suicide)

‘You’re too into boobs to want to kill yourself.’ My words dry up in my throat and hurl themselves back into my voice box, backing themselves up in a corner of uncertainty and disbelief at this senseless demonstration of ignorance.  The way his words rolled off his tongue as though what he was saying was seamlessly acceptable. 

I feel as though home isn’t just a place full of my safest sounds. It’s the Boys II Men that whirs through the small speaker in my mother’s room while I blast 808’s and Heartbreak through my earbuds. It’s looking out the window and staring at the skeletal trees that carry their leaves so gracefully that they’re tinged with an amber hue around the edges; signalling that winter is waiting just around the corner to make its grand entrance. It’s the air, and how it carries the aroma of lavender and nicotine that trails down from Mrs Thompson’s third floor apartment, the familiarity of my girlfriends shampoo as I smell her bouncy hair while hugging her goodbye. And I hold her extra tight tonight before walking her to her car because it might happen tonight. 

But I said that yesterday, and the day before that, and I’ll probably say it tomorrow as well. But tonight, I lie in my bed again and wonder if it’ll be done tomorrow. 

Sometimes the Monday mornings are so mellow that I almost forget to swing my legs off my bed and into my skin. 

My thick skin.

Starting with the mask of deception, and then come the arms of affection (which I personally think are the wickedest because when the streetlights pour into my cluttered room and when the affection gets peeled off, only the scars of self-hatred are left). Lastly, I step into the feet of a coward. Feet that are willing to walk away from anything.

The thing about having thick skin is that you have to drag it with you everywhere you go. Haul the smile from the cracks in your skin and plaster it across your face extra hard so it doesn’t look fake. Laugh with your outside laugh when you’re inside just so everyone can put their doubts aside. Walk these school corridors with a bounce in your step, not because you want to look cool, but because the skin underneath just wants to stay in bed all day cuddling with the neighbour’s cat, yet the thick skin knows better. As I mentioned before, this particular Monday morning is rather mellow. We all file into the English classroom with loud, indistinctive chattering floating about the room and we take our seats while we anxiously await the register question. 

“How are you feeling today?” A simple question. “We’ll start at the bottom .” Our teacher says, “Xulu?” Necks crack to face me and all eyes are now on the thick skinned kid. 

“Suicidal.” I say audibly. An icy layer of silence blankets the room. 

‘You’re too into boobs to want to kill yourself.’ My words dry up in my throat and hurl themselves back into my voice box, backing themselves up in a corner of uncertainty and disbelief at this senseless demonstration of ignorance.  The way his words rolled off his tongue as though what he was saying was seamlessly acceptable. 


Photo taken by: Amina Deka Asma in bed this morning.

I grew up drinking tea
Rooibos tea in big mugs filled with water, 2 sugars and milk for taste.
It was a weekend ritual
One that involved everyone in the house
Guests, family. We all drank tea.

“Amina, tu fanyiye chai” my mom would say.
Deliberate in her request because she knew that I made it best.
I made it with love and care.

It was a weekend ritual of boiling the kettle
Lining up all the mugs
Rinsing them one by one
Adding a teabag to every second mug
2 sugars each, but 1 for Mom
Adding the boiling water
Stir, stir and stir
Now add the teabags to the alternate mugs
Stir, stir and stir
Add the mugs to the tray
And one teaspoon just in case
Slices of lemon on a saucer and a jug of milk to accompany the ensemble
Then deliver as requested.

Now I make it without the milk, but still insist on big mugs
The bigger the better.
I make sure to drink a cup at least once a day
The older me seems to need tea just to think straight
To wake up
To get into work mode
To unwind
To warm up or cool down
It’s become more of a daily ritual
One that ensures my growth continues.


It’s the morning after the storm and it has started to rain again.
I think the worst has passed, we are just dealing with the aftermath now.
The night was good to us, it was quiet and peaceful.

But what if I’m wrong and the storm actually hasn’t passed?
What if this morning’s showers are an indicator of what is yet to come?
I’m not sure how much more I can handle.
It hurts too much.

You’d think that a person who has been through so many storms would be used to them by now, but I’m not.

I don’t know how to handle the tsunami of feelings that build up inside of me and translate into heavy rains down my cheeks.

I don’t know what to do with the thunderstorm sounds of my cries.
I have no clue how to clear the grey skies enough for me to think clearly again.

I thought I was equipped with what to do when the flood walls I have built begin to tumble down.

You’d think that a person who has been through so many storms would be used to them by now, but I’m not.


An ‘essential’ workers’ work

[TW: mention of death, loss, mental illness]

It’s January 2020 and my stress and anxiety levels are in a constant competition to outdo each other. I had just completed my final year of university at the end of 2019 and was now at home job hunting and praying, panicking and praying, very depressed but was still praying.

For me, the panic kicked in on the Monday after graduating with my Bachelor of Arts degree in Journalism and Media Studies, and isiXhosa. I woke up in a panic that morning because it had just dawned upon me that come the 30th of November 2019, I would be an unemployed graduate so the job hunting began.

I would make sure that I applied for at least five jobs a week. With my busy schedule as an Honour’s student, a Sub-Warden, a Tutor, Teaching Assistant and Hairdresser, five applications a week was a miracle. I had so much on my plate because I wanted to make sure that I capitalised on each and every opportunity that came my way, and I did. I was great at all my jobs, I even managed to bag a few awards at the end of the year because of my outstanding performance, but nothing ever entirely felt like it was enough.

I recall feeling like I had hit a brick wall when I realised that my student debt was yet another obstacle that I had to overcome. My alma mater was in no way helpful and the money I was making was no longer enough to cover the expenses that came with insisting on studying further even though I had no prospects of funding for that year, a decision that I will never regret.

Eight months later the hard work, sweat, literal blood and tears paid off. I got a call for an interview from one of the biggest newsrooms in country. I was shaking throughout the call and couldn’t believe my ears. Straight after that call, I cried my eyes out and thanked God for answering the prayers that I had been praying for months, and particularly that morning. Besides being unemployed and in desperate need of a job and a promise of survival, I was going through the most mentally. The anniversary of my late mothers death was coming up and my mental health was hanging on by a strand of hair. Fickle in reality, while having to be strong on the outside.

Might I add that this was now my second job offer, but the first one that actually counted. The first offer required me to settle my student debt of more than R60 000 and still cough up close to half of that amount for student registration and tuition for the year. So even though I was pleased to have this as an option, it was also a rude reminder of my bleak reality in relation to my dreams to carry on in the world of academia.

According to the call with the man who was soon to become my boss, I was to be flied up to Johannesburg for a full day of an interviewing process that was made up of 12 potential intern graduates for a programme that could only accommodate 10.

And so the day came. A lot happened between me receiving that call and me sitting in a conference room in front of the other candidates listening to their story pitches, nervously awaiting my turn. This was everything that I had been praying for, I was well prepared and even had some familiar faces around me that were rooting for me. It was a gruelling day, not because of the interviewing process but because of the fact that I was so tired. I was tired on the inside and was so desperate for it to all work out. My mental health was still fickle and I was so stressed that my period even started at the end of that interview day.

Left: Photo’s were taken at the end of the interview process.
Credit: Modiegi Mashamaite

I recall sipping on some red wine on my flight back to East London, thinking to myself that even if the job did not work out, I had tried my best and that was enough for me. Do not get me wrong, I really needed this job, but I was also extremely proud of myself for making the cut. According to the interviewing panel, there were more than 500 applicants, and knowing that my application stood out for them gave me hope. So much hope.

Fast forward to a week later and I got the call I had been so nervously waiting for, me Amina Deka Asma got the job and was due to fly back to Johannesburg to commence my internship in less than three weeks! It all finally paid off and I had myself to thank for sticking it all out. I never gave up on myself and getting this job was so affirming. I did not take it for granted that I managed to get a job the very next year after graduating, at one of the biggest newsrooms in the country within my field of study. A dream come true, if you ask me.

But all dreams come to an end right? Well, at least mine did.

Like my fellow interns across the country, I started my job on the brink of a pandemic that no one really sufficiently predicted. Not many people knew how much it would change our lives as we know them and the world around us. I for one, only got to spend a period of two months in the office, and worked from home for the rest of year. Not only did this sudden transition affect my work ethic, my psyche, and my holistic experience of my first year of work, but it also had a huge impact on my general outlook on life.

Within less than two months of lockdown I was tired of being an essential worker. I no longer wanted to be the intern reporter/journalist who had to come up with something to write on a daily basis, I slowly but surely grew to hate my job. As time went on I even grew tired of my colleagues, my housemates and my living space. Like many other people, I was tired of the pandemic and I did not have the choice to take a break and detach from everything.

By June, I realised that I hated working in the fast news industry. I often questioned myself as to whether me having studied Journalism was the right choice. I doubted myself in everyway possible and the nature of my work as well as the work environment did not help at all. An array of things happened that I will not mention for the respect of my previous workplace and for my own protection. Being surrounded by the news of so much death, gloom and sadness affected me so badly and I didn’t feel like I had a choice out of it. I constantly felt like I was not allowed to complain because I was an essential worker according to the National State of Disaster. My job was essential and I had absolutely so say in this.

On the days when getting out of bed became a mission, I would like there and fantasise about what my next work experience would be like, but would quickly be reminded of my reality. At one stage I recall being so tired of working in the news world that I researched other career fields that I could potentially enter, from being an Au Pair to a Personal Assistant, anything and everything was a lot more appealing than what I was doing.

But at least one good thing came out of it all. I got a chance to work within the news industry and because of that, I now know that I never want to work in it again. At least not anytime soon. Thank you to God and my faithful ancestors, I no longer work in the fast news world. My journalistic love, passion and interest has been restored and I am slowly but surely working towards a point where I fully believe in myself and my capabilities again.

But I was told that I am Black and beautiful

So here is my attempt at writing about being ‘desired’ as a dark skinned Black woman and how this has affected me up to this day.

All trigger warnings observed – and I do not say this because I am trying to get people to read this, but because I really do not know which triggers I should mention. I am also still struggling with the process of admitting to myself that this has been a very triggering topic for me. I mean that my mind is taking a while to reconcile all of this, and for this I offer my humble apologies.


From the time that I was 6-years-old, I realised that I was a lot darker than both my sister and mother, who were the only family around. To comfort me, my mother would show me photos of my sperm donor who I resemble a lot, accompanied by words that I assume were meant to reassure me; “Amina, you are my dark beauty, you are Black and beautiful”. These words hardly lived long enough to serve their purpose.

To be a dark skinned little girl meant that I often over compensated with my personality and jokes because I did not want my lighter friends to ever get a chance to point out the one thing that embarrassed me the most, the shade of my skin. When and if this was brought up, it was almost always around the context of being fetishised or between sentences that came out of the mouths of people that wanted something from me. My dark skin would get complimented to my face, but get compared to the well-known Kiwi black shoe polish behind my back.

I have written extensively about being made fun of as a little girl in primary school, from being called an array of derogatory terms to being compared to midnight darkness as a joke to make everyone laugh. Yes, we were kids, but those words still hurt. They hurt me a lot. What I have not really written a lot about is how I navigated my high school years as a dark skinned young girl, teenager and now a woman.

Amina in Grade 8
Amina in Grade 11
Amina in Grade 12

The photos above give you a glimpse into what I looked like during my high school years. In grade 8, I was very dark. A lot darker than my classmates and this was something that I was conscious about. I was aware that the shade of my skin acted as an added identity marker for my peers to use when deciding how to treat me, which language to speak when addressing me, or which conclusions to make about me.

I recall one day during Art class, very early in the term during my grade 8 year, a few of my classmates were talking about me in isiXhosa because they were convinced that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. And even though they didn’t say anything negative about me, I still took offence and looked one of them in the eye and replied by saying,”Ndiyaniva” (I can understand what you guys are saying/I can hear you guys. The look on their faces was priceless and I got such a good laugh out of the entire situation. Excuse me, I digress.

As a student who didn’t attend primary school at two of the main feeder schools that my high school worked with, meant that I had a lot of ground to cover. I had a lot of work to do in terms of proving myself worthy of anyone’s attention, let alone their friendship. Making friends was already one of my weakest points, so I had to use my brains and ‘smart mouth’ to charm the people around me. And yes, it did work but only to a certain extent. The people whose attention I really wanted was something that I never got, not because of me at least.

What I mean here is that I was always the friend that guys befriended in order to get closer to one of my friends and this messed with my mind a lot. It made me wonder what was wrong with me, or what I had to change in order to become a bit more attractive to the people I went to school with. I already believed that my dark skin was working against me, so I always stayed in shape and didn’t laugh too loud or let anyone get too close. Yes, I was in high school and these are things that people go through at that age, but it didn’t help that none of my close friends were as dark as I was. Or that the one guy who ended up showing interest in me broke up with me for a white girl. How much worse can it get? Might I mention that this gentle brother was also dark in complexion, but he had it easy, I mean he fed right into the stereotype of tall, dark and handsome, and he was a guy!

To be completely honest, I did not believe that I was beautiful at all. I did not believe that I was desired or that I ever would be, because of the shade of skin.

And this is what went on in my head for years until the early years of university where I had to unlearn the harmful ideas that I, Amina Deka Asma believed about herself. I had to spend hours in the mirror starring at my features and finding beautiful things about my face. I started to fall in love with my eyes, my smile, the shape of my nose and eventually me. I fell in love with myself. With my dark skinned self.

This was a process that had to happen over and over again because the cycle of self-hate and the feelings of undesirability always found a way to creep up on me again. In fact it just took a stranger referring to me as a ‘dark bone’ for me to dive into a downward spiral. Or for one of my residence mates to ask me why I preferred to were black clothes instead of wearing bright coloured clothes that ‘would bring out my skin tone’. The triggers were everywhere and quite frankly people didn’t care. People do not care. We see this every time the colourism topic comes up on Twitter, during such a time that I choose to log off until something else becomes the topic of discussion. For the sake of my peace and sanity.

I recall being interested in trying out make up for the very first time in grade 12. My matric dance was coming up and I was advised to get some foundation in order to achieve the all-matte look that I was going for. I kid you not, but up until that day when I was standing in Foschini and the make-up consultant had covered my entire face with foundation, I did not believe that there was even make-up out there for me. Make-up for my skin shade that would suit me and enhance my beauty. Lucky for me that lady was not phased by my dark skin, so she didn’t offer me any unsolicited advice like many of the other make-up consultants that I have come across.

My favourite one is when they advise me to use sunblock, or a range of face products that have lightening agents as their main ingredients, as if I asked them how I could make my skin lighter. If you have ever done this to someone you know who is dark in complexion, STOP THAT THING!!! It is extremely harmful and darn right rude. No one asked you and even if you feel like you are offering your professional opinion, KEEP IT SHUT, KEEP IT TO YOURSELF!

One thing I am grateful for is my ability to fight the urge to use these said lightening creams, and please do not take this as me judging those people who do use them because everyone has their own reasons and I have no place to judge anybody. The ‘accepted’ beauty standards that society has decided to align themselves with is enough of a reason for me to understand why someone would lighten their skin. However, what I am trying to say is that as a person who descends from a country where skin lightening is the norm and where the skin lightening market is thriving, overcoming the temptation and urge is something that I will always be proud of. I thank myself for arriving at a place where I love who I am and what I look like, and even though I still have to check myself when it comes to issues of colourism, I have definitely come far.

I feel beautiful and not because I am ‘a true African Queen’ or a ‘dark beauty’ but because I am beautiful.

SelfLove Chronicles – 31/12/2020


And today I am sitting in the decision of choosing myself. Choosing to love myself and to honour that love by granting access to me to only those who understand what it means to love a person like me.

I am one of a kind, special, incredible and magnificent. I deserve a sweet and gentle love, one that does not involve hurt and pain, one that does not involve continuous uncertainty and second guessing. A true love, an honest love.

As I sit and soak in this moment of triumph I am also met with feelings of sadness. I am mourning the girl who would have stayed in an unhealthy relationship for the sake of being chosen day after day. I am beaming with pride because I am at a place where 18-year-old Amina couldn’t be at. I have chosen myself and I am so proud of that decision. I am no longer afraid to be alone, I am no longer afraid of not being chosen because I will choose myself over and over again.

So as I redefine what love is to me and how that love needs to look like I am also on my knees because this reincarnation is not an easy one. But I am comforted by the fact that I do not walk alone, but with my God and my Guides that love me.


Being fathered from more than 3000km’s away

The title gives it all away doesn’t it?

Yes, you guessed right. This blog post is going to be about my deadbeat father – among other things of course. Dedicating an entire blogpost to him wouldn’t be right. If anything it would be an injustice to me, myself and I.

Now, if you know me on a personal, personal level, you would know that I was raised by my single mother. My father left us in SA just before my 2nd or 3rd birthday, or at least that is what I was told – top tier deadbeat criteria, no?

To put this all into perspective, what I am trying to say is that I have never met the man that I am continuously told, without fail, that I am almost identical to. Apparently I have his eyes, nose and even walk and laugh like him.

Fast forward to my 2nd year in varsity and I managed to track him down. I was 21 when I spoke to my father for the very first time as grown up, and it didn’t take long for him to slide into his ‘fatherly duties’. The funniest for me, was when he gave me a lecture about hosting my 21st birthday dinner at a place that sold alcohol. I recall reading that message in not only disbelief, but I was also met with a wave of anger and utter confusion.

Okay, shap nhe. I am your daughter. You are my father, my mother’s ex husband. BUT you don’t know me!
You don’t have the slightest idea of how my life turned out because you decided to do like Zola7 and ‘pack your bags and hit the road’. Yet, you have the courage, the gull and the audacity to tell me where I can and cannot celebrate my 21st birthday.

And that friends, is when I decided that I needed to create some space between this man and I (as if him being more than 300km’s away was not enough).
A man who carried the title of being my father, but was only willing and able to carry out these duties via WhatsApp messages, voice notes and of course the routine ‘Jumaah Mubarak’ pictures that were sent to me every Friday with pride.

Here I am at 25, having survived a pandemic (or rather, still trying to survive one) in a new city away from familiar spaces and faces, away from friends and family. Having lived my entire life without you in it, yet every now and again I can’t help but wonder what my life would have turned out like, if you had stayed.

More than anything, these thoughts and feelings are triggered by the trials and tribulations that are so securely attached to losing your mother and only parent at an early age. The yearning for my mother’s love, comfort and care after a long day at work. Wanting to have an adult to vent to. An adult that is genuinely interested in how my day was, which story I wrote today, or which source I struggled to get hold of.

It also does not help that it is December, the month also known for family time. Also the month before my mother passed away.

Lest I say that the triggers are all around me. I mean, it isn’t like they will ever entirely go away.

Nonetheless, I am grateful to Allah and my guides for getting me this far. I am very grateful to myself for never giving up, not even when that was all I wanted to do. I have made it so far and I am so proud of myself.

There are times when I think back to my matric year when I was in foster care and was in need of the supportive words that only my mother knew how to give me. Yho, foster care was tough. But I was tougher. Hell, I am tougher. What I went through during those years deserves a blogpost on its own. One that I am nowhere near ready to write.

I guess I just can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have a present father in your life as a young adult. A father who is committed and interested in being your support system, your confidant, you knight in shining armour – and yes I know having a present father doesn’t always equate to everything that I have mentioned above, but I am sure or at least hope that it comes close.

If anything, I am glad to be past the stage of feeling like I am not worth of being fathered.
There was a stage when I couldn’t for the sake of me, fathom why this man left his entire family in a foreign country, only for him to go and start another one back home. I thought I was the problem, and that maybe something was wrong with my family, until I realised that he was the problem and that he is the problem.

And that friends, is my experience of being fathered from more than 3000km’s away.

15Nov – 22:19

It’s that time if the year again.
The time where sleepless nights and stiff necks become the norm.
End year fatigue has taken over and there is nothing I can do to shake it.
“What does the next year have in store for me?
Will I have a job, let alone a place to stay?”
Questions that ring in my head daily.

Oh! How I wish for a softer landing.
Not much, just a place to call home and a bed to rest my head on when the going gets tough in the war zone.

Yes, the war zone.
No one can convince me that this life we are living is normal. That this is how it’s supposed to be
and this is how the cookie crumbles.
(We) oh, I mean I.
I am in a war zone.
Standing in the trenches side by side with people that I can recognise on good days but whose names disappear on bad ones.

I am spending my days dodging bullets, praying for the best.
Walking through kilometres of mud, praying for the best.
Carrying heavy machinery and ammunition, praying for the best.

I want to wipe the mud off my cheeks, but my hands are just as muddy.
All I ask if for a softer landing.