“Riyaahd. Is there something you need to talk to me about?” Riyaahd turned to look at me over his shoulder. His one eye was barely open. I turned my screen so that he could see exactly what I was looking at. Riyaahd turned around fully, eyes wide.
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.
I was displaying toxic behavior. I wanted to cancel this bitch, without even trying to understand her. Lemme tell you that much like Jonah’s colon cleanse, humble pie tastes kak.
So much has happened in the last month, but i would like to start with what has me all fucked up today.
Without further ado.
“What the fuck are you doing?” my logical mind ridiculed me. I will admit, I felt like a moerse gaai talking into the air.
A word of advice – Don’t speak to the dead. 1/10 – do not recommend.
“Don’t go downstairs”. She sounded different. But I didn’t give it much thought.
I have had so many nights where I want to just run away for a little while. Get in my car and drive, and call my husband from a pay phone somewhere upcountry. But these fantasies, no matter how rooted in really feelings of entrapment are merely just that; fantasies.
So nope, I sit here as the early bird deals open on all my favourite store sites. And I look longingly at the 4 lemon juices for R30, the half price camping chairs and the two bottles of Russian bear for R300 and I sigh deeply.
What you are reading is what my brain does when it is overloaded with nonsense. I am venting, to everyone. Forgive me. But I am gonna verbal diarrhoea on you, even against my better judgement.