Welcome to my TedTalk.
Once the chicken had done its 2 hours, I removed it from the oven, and lifted the foil to find blackened thighs and drumsticks.
I decided to take the time to finish my trilogy.
So, at 5.30am, I stopped my car outside of the corner shop. From my back seat, I could have sworn I heard laughter. The laughter sounded young; adolescent. I decided I must have heard something/someone from outside the vehicle, and as I let my passenger in, my stomach dropped, as I was overcome with a feeling of nausea and dread. “Hello Shana”, she said.
You aren’t even going to believe what happened next.
To summarise, the urge to shake my daughter to death and put her in the oven isn’t one that I would like to wear on my sleeve. I constantly have the daydream where I forget her in the car. I keep seeing myself drop her from the bed.
At 9.45pm, the other woman was transported to Somerset Hospital. My daughter and I remained in the waiting room. She woke up to nurse, and I opened my breast to feed her, with tears in my eyes. The pain had progressed to the point where I could no longer stand or sit upright. And of course, as she suckled, my womb contracted. I was sincerely convinced that I was going to die.
I must have misread the scripture before making the blood-pact with the Lord. I thought it said “Whoever serves me must follow me on Instagram; and where I am, my servant also will be Facebook famous (That's New Testament).
As I sat there, in the dark, I could see a woman standing at the edge of my bed. She was screaming.
I have a fairly smart seven year old. I didn’t feel that we were giving him more than he could handle. I was at ease. Until my WhatsApp buzzed at 2pm.
Ike, pung, Miagi, Juvi, Koppe, Boere, miley.
Does your boyfriend only message you on a Friday, but barely says hello to you during the week because ‘work is hectic’?
Matric: The show where everything is made up... and the points don't matter.
With conviction, I announced earlier this year that I would also no longer swear, and that I would only use my mouth for good. I guess whether the latter is true is a tale for my husband to tell. As for swearing, my attempt was the equivalent of a proper Christmas trifle… a fruitless endevour.
My heart stopped. I was frozen. I wanted to catch him in the act, probably on the phone with someone who was gorgeous and thin. I haven’t even done my eyebrows this month.
My blog is late. My period is late. My credit card payment is late.
Two lines. Get it? Cos they both lined. “Het jy al ge-book?”
Coloured people. Please calm down. To answer your questions: No, I don’t want you to kick me in my p. No I am not Jus. Yes. My mommy does know that I am here.
I know you guys think I died. But Shana lied to you.
Regardless, so many things have transpired in the last few weeks, that I have had some trouble sitting down and putting my thoughts to paper. Until Sidney-Jonah asked me the question I had been dreading for years: “Mommy, why don’t I have a real daddy?”.
Breathe. I am a woman of the Lord. I am not ashamed of the gospel. Lord, grant me the serenity to not climb through the phone and hit this ding’s bek in.
I am incapable of keeping things in. I dread locks.
“Uncle Riyaahd, do you still want my mama’s booty?” Silence befell the room.
From the creator of "Just a Hoe with Babies", comes the spin off blog "Into a Housewife" that details Shana Genever's journey from raising her legs, to raising her children.
The child walked slowly towards Bronwyn. There was something off in her gait. She seemed frightened by something, but her facial expression remained staunch. The young child crossed the threshold of Bronwyn’s apartment doorway.
Growing up, I wouldn’t dare look at black boys in a romantic way.
One day, Najwa told me a story.
“Mommy, I can’t sleep’. Great. Another 11pm tall-tale that will most likely keep me out of sleep until Scarlett screams at me at 2am. Sidney has been extra ‘sensitive’ lately, and I have been doing my utmost not to mantra him out and leave him outside to air overnight. “Why, what’s wrong?” Sidney stared at … Continue reading Rob Kelly of everything: 2019
I am sofa king relatable.