I’m Living Coloured: An open letter to gham_ Tales from chising n cryp.

 

Holy shit, according to the dictionary and contrary to popular belief…. We aren’t neutral after all.

…….

Coloured people. Please calm down.

To answer your questions:

No, I don’t want you to kick me in my poes.

No I am not Jus.

Yes. My mommy does know that I am here.

 …

 

You See Tea Confession: I haven’t been missing because of how busy I am. But I admit I disappeared in the last few weeks, like a white teenager in Delft, because I felt the need to observe something deeper, and report back to you about things other than my vagina’s escapades.

Even though, my Exes never Ca_paid maintenance, (Method: Not even once) and it makes for a titillater of a tail, I am concerned that my following has started to feed my ego, instead of the original plan of me feeding my following… Ergo, I will discuss the latest bane of my existence… Coloured people.

We can discuss my Titti, later.

Shockingly, I have to admit something to everyone.

I am a coloured.

Calm down. We are allowed to admit this now, guys. We’re free.

I am a Coloured.

A proud one, albeit a newly found sense of identity. I have actually spent the largest percentage of my adult life trying to hide my very distinct lack of Twang, and my insatiable craving for King Pie. (Fuck You, AKA. There are no Lobsters in Portlands… but you know that, don’t you? Your sense of superiority is as inaccurate as your girlfriend’s autobiography. I would much rather listen to Youngsta rap about the importance of takkies, than lose my Composure over a poor man’s JayZ.)

 

/Flashback/ 

“Awe mammi girl sit net SOE bietjie vorenttoe daars nog plek vir drie mense daar agter.”

I stare at the gaadjie, as three people proceed to sit on my lap, seemingly unaware of our impromptu version of hoopie-le.

As the rest of the 43 seats were filled in the quantum… I heard lingo that I recognised from ‘Die Aantwoord’s’ video about brah Anees committing anal rape…

“Het jy nie a twinnagsentie?”

This cretin motions to me with his sunrise-tattoed loafing-hand, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of a Six-Bop asking me for a 2 Bop.

“Soe wiesie girl. Wanni anties wiet mos os gooi soema hier deur busy corner af vir dieprfft plkksvdbsjj nbhbjnl;nmmdsur8yuih Noba jnogyubjl vir die lighties te jiggyjella”

“Sorry? No.. No I don’t wanna get jiggy with anyone’s lighties. That’s illegal….. And weird.”

“I’m also not Jazzy, Jeff… Get it? Coz… Okay”.

Silence.

More awkward banter ensues.

….I’m going to Strandfontein. Yes.. Robots yes.. By the heights.. No i don’t smoke. Okay cool. Yes. Yes I have two kids. No I’m not married. No I’m Not a lesbian. No.. we cant make sandwiches”.

Enter two men who i’m fairly certain just signed ‘admission of guilt’.

And from what I could hear, and I am paraphrasing their Sabela, Certain men were about to become wiser, regardless of being rhythmical junkies who occasionally eat four cheeses.

Also, they were elated that their number was about to reach capacity.

Now, from my training in going to Marcus Garvie’s informal settlement and pretending to know what a Challies is, so that everyone in the Cape Flats and surrounds can think I’m cool, I’m pretty certain that if someone utters the words Gwala or Chaaila, I am to vacate the premises with immediate affect.

But this signifies the extent of my prison-slang, because unlike Jintu’s, taxi queens and every girl named Nuraan, my mother prohibited my involvement with ‘paradise for teens’, and anyone’s ‘Golden Banana’.

I was not young and free when I was only seventeen. Unfortunately I forget which type of queen that is…..

“Waarsie kussie, waarsie kussie, waarsie kussie?”

Your repetition doesn’t intimidate me, Fu-aart. I refuse to sit on a crate. My bucket list doesn’t include ‘fok through a windscreen’.

I gathered my already camouflaged belongings, and de-quantummed, eagerly waiting for the bus to Strandfontein village.

 

/FlashForward/

Before, that memory used to make me cringe. Now, as a coloured woman in business, in media and in control… I see it for what it is… Poetry.

As I tend to do from time to time, instead of making you laugh… I am going to share my thoughts with you, and encourage you to think.

As most of you have noticed, my tone has changed. (Perhaps one can say to a lower register. Hopefully, my people who you deem as lower than you will register in your consciousness).

I have decided to upscale my demeanour. I’m an ALT hoe.

But regardless of the array of jokes that have reared their head in the last few months, most of which are about my new hairstyle that admittedly makes me look like the baby from RugRatz, and all of my homosexual friends, I have made the conscious decision to remove my head from my rear (Ironically, unlike my homosexual friends), and address a pressing issue… and this time, I don’t mean my colon.

We will discuss that next week. It’s a ‘semi-colon’ anyway.

Let me give you some context.

A few weeks ago, I called a friend of mine during office hours, to discuss certain plans I wanted to put in place before going on holiday with a few friends. A familiarly un-recognisable accent answered on the other end of my telephonic communication, but I proceeded with caution, only realising afterwards that I chose to tread lightly enough, for the other party not to make out that I was a cape coloured. This, in business, is a strategic move handed down in my family for generations, so that we too can be taken seriously in the workplace.

“Hello, can I speak to Random Coloured Person who grew up on the Cape Flats, please?”

“Sure, Carn Arrr Arsked Whoors Corrlingrr?”, the pirate on the other end responded. I say pirate, because her identity had obviously been hijacked, while sailing the Model C’s.

I made a video about it.

It went double platinum.

This means… we have a collective grievance. And I, ladies and gentleman, have a target market.

—–

I want you to notice something when you enter any workplace.

All races are backed by pride. Pride in their language, or heritage. The office in 2017 is common ground for phrases like ‘Haibo’ and ‘Nje’. Even ‘Lekker’ has hidden itself in white Afrikaans communications.

But the use of a friendly ‘aweh’ is reserved for mocking the token coloured associate, usually coupled with an ironic, yet embarrassingly out of place declaration of ‘Ma Se kin’.

Appropriation of the coloured race is reserved for the group of Caucasians we call ‘poor’. Whenever white people live in our midst, we see them as the rejects of their people, yet when we ‘graduate’ to areas previously owned by them, (previously owned by our predecessors), we are seen as ‘Uppity coloureds’.

And yes, it’s a_pity coloureds are the only ones who disguise their native accents when in the work place.

I miss the days when the Durban Indians were right there beside us, sounding absolutely ridiculous.

We have allowed ourselves to be ignored. We have allowed ourselves to be ridiculed.

And I have allowed myself to disguise my intelligence by watering it down with the word ‘Poes’.

 

A clever coloured makes everyone uncomfortable.

“Riyaahd, I have decided to elevate the way I address my blog readers. I don’t wanna dumb myself down anymore.”

“You gotta do what feels right baby. You have compromised. Now you have to be yourself”.

“But what if they no longer follow me?”

And then it hit me that if you are following me, I should be sure of where I am leading you to.

“Paaaaaa, wat maak julle daar binne?”

 

“Ek praat gou net n rukkie met jou ma…”

 

“Ohr okay, nou maak net die gordyne toe……. wannie bure dink jullle naai”

 

“Wannie buure dink julle naai… Wannie buure dink… Wannie buure dink……………….”

 

– Possibly the best remix intro of the 2000’s.

Well that, and the incessant in-borne need to take a broom and display our ingrained janitorial prowess on a strangers yard.

I am tempted to say that this mentality is why we will incessantly, as a race..

Go down.

Go down.

Go down.

But I shan’t.

Instead, I will do the Apechi to the fact that myself and Freddy Mercury have the mutual desire to ride our bicycles.

Yes, I want to ride my bike.

 

(We really are a beautiful and diverse demographic. En daai verse is kak lekker)

……………..

Thinking about the last ten years, two things stood out to me.

Number 1,  An Article by Kuli Roberts, circa 2011, that nearly cost her her career.

The article emerged while I was doing my Journalism qualification. In February 2011, Kuli Roberts made key points about coloured people so accurate that she was fired.

Here is an extract of what she called: Jou ma se kinders…

“Coloureds are nuts because:

They drink Black Label beer and smoke like chimneys. They shout and throw plates. They have no front teeth and eat fish like they are trying to deplete the ocean.They love to fight in public and most are very violent. They’re always referring to your mother’s this or your mother’s that. They know exactly what tik is.”

And Just before righteous indignation hit, I lit a entjie, took a sip of my Carling and started typing a response to this ma se poes.

And I realised that these stereotypes are just offensive truths, but truths nonetheless.

But what has happened to us neutrals is that we are the only race that has chosen to be apologists.

 

What happened to Kuli, really?

 

She got a better job on a better TV program.

My bru.. this mense aren’t just kyking us mis. We don’t even forcha ourselves.

 

Here is a test for anyone reading. Stand in a public place.

 

Shout “Whity”.

Shout “Kaffer”.

Shout “Gham”.

 

Which one did you get away with?

 

Here’s a bruinteaser:

 

Ever seen a coloured family adopt a white baby?

We don’t feel worthy.

Everyone I asked this question laughed, puzzled.

The act of adopting a child of colour is charitable. The act of adopting a white baby is arrogant.

Understand that not all of us are entering the race debate from a political standpoint.

Expecting only the educated to give their viewpoint is exclusive, and elitist. Most people want to give their opinion from an emotional perspective. From living in the situation, without the academic backing of facts and dates, social media bullying has made these people feel less than. Just because I know nothing of what van Riebiek did, doesn’t make it feel less kak  to be called a Kaffer or Gham.

Telling me that I can’t be happy with who I am, because my great grand mother was raped seems wildly insensitive.

Wild. Wild. Wild.

Now….

Regarding my video.

https://www.facebook.com/plugins/video.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fjustahoewithbabies%2Fvideos%2F1755880501106324%2F&show_text=1&width=560

Accent isn’t language.

Read my last few paragraphs. Did you read it in a coloured accent? If you did, would it detract from my in-credibility?

Word count exceeded. 

 

To be continued.

P.S My Name isn’t Say-Neh.

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One thought on “I’m Living Coloured: An open letter to gham_ Tales from chising n cryp.

  1. sharon barnes says:

    And then you have no replies as in your other blog posts…quite sad in fact that we as a coloured society and community are ashamed of who we are. We say we are proud of ourselves, yet shy to claim it.

    Like

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