A lot of the time we make decisions based on what works for us in a particular moment. Sometimes we pull it off, sometimes we fuck up, and sometimes we fuck up spectacularly. 

What we’re left with are consequences. How we move forward is a decision. And before we proceed, let’s take “resilience” off the table, and file it with “the new normal”. Burn before reading. 

If you’re looking for “all the feels” and an America’s Got Talent big moment, you’ve come to the wrong place. There might be a smattering of kumbaya, but I’m holding off on the magic circle where we sit around and drum together.  

I wasn’t supposed to be here this long. My decision to move back to Hilton was supposed to be a temporary pit stop, but I’ve committed to a spinning bike and NP number plates. I also post on Hilton Chat and am a card-carrying member of The Hilton Rate Payers Association, a security initiative, and a blasted WhatsApp group that up until recently served the purpose of informing me about where Hilton’s dogs are at. Things have escalated spectacularly from there. Why just a few months ago my mother and I walked into the Anew Hilton Hotel to attend a security meeting. How the world has changed. Back in the day we would walk in to start a shift (both of us), play a gig (my mum), pull a sickie from school (me). Mum and I were the types who looked in on community capers, we never joined in. I mean you’d battle to coax us to a book club (and there are books and wine there). 

Being back on our old stomping ground for the first time since my father sold it in 2009 was surreal. What was more surreal was that two of Hilton’s biggest “non-joiners” were attending a community meeting – plus I even voiced an opinion. Next thing you know we’ll be championing a bid to get the Hilton Lion’s Fair started up again. This on top of rumours that I’m planning to run for mayor might just tip the locals over the edge. Fear not, as much as I’d love to add years to the lives of Craig Miller and Pam Passmore, I’m afraid I’m just not that altruistic. But I am that local. It’s time to face the facts.  

I’m all about the facts. So much so that my job involves reading a lot of books. Let’s all fasten our seatbelts for a flagrant brag festival. Since November I’ve read 140 self-help, self-improvement, mindfulness, dazzling science, history, and some real roll your eyes out of your head level shit. I’m now the person people avoid at parties. Luckily we aren’t partying so my self-esteem is A-OK. Anyway the other day I was comforted while reading that the universe is chaos, and once we accept that and stop trying to impose order on it, we’ll be a lot happier. I find comfort in this because I’m not one who believes in “thoughts and prayers” and the power of a Facebook profile picture filter. Shit is whack. Is 42 even the meaning of life? And if it’s not, where do we begin? Thankfully I’m not here to give you meaning. I ain’t no Deepak Chopra. 

What I will tell you is this. Stories are everything. 

So here’s my voice from the chaos, and what I’ve observed. But before we begin I’ll let you in on a secret, all writers are basically lurkers who verge on stalking. A good story starts with what you know, and then you add in a sprinkling (a generous one) of exaggeration. 

Everyone will have their stories from the past week. Here’s mine. If you don’t like it, then write your own. I can’t pretend I’m not white, not privileged, and don’t live in Hilton. I will make one promise… there will be no virtue signaling, we’ve seen enough of that for one lifetime. “Hashtag doing my bit.”

It all began when Facebook and our local-security-slash-lost-dog WhatsApp group alerted me to the potential threat of JZ, which then escalated to about 25 trucks blazing on the N3. It didn’t bode well, but sadly South Africans are used to burning trucks. Some of us might smash an Urbanol or a homeopathic alternative, but for the most part, it’s business as usual. ‘Yoh, that’s a bit kak!’ 

Things went from kak to worse. Not since those two planes crashed into the twin towers have I felt the same levels of ‘What in the actual fuckshow is this new level of fuckshow?!’ We’ve seen looting, we’ve seen burning, but when I saw Brookside Mall get completely torched the tectonic plates shifted. These dudes meant business. You know what happened next, you’ve seen the videos, you’ve read the news. 

Shit escalated to full-on Oliver Stone, Game of Thrones, and let’s chuck in some Battle of Helm’s Deep cos it was shit cold and dark. 

I know people who were in the thick of it. In the thick of it, I was not. Was I scared shitless? Absolutely. The thing with fear is we fear the unknown, and what was happening was hella unknown. Howick and the greater Pmb were burning, and white okes in white bakkies were mobilising. I’m not gonna lie, I felt uncomfortable as hell. And then I felt grateful as hell. And then I felt conflicted because white bakkies are akin to K-Way puffer jackets and they make me antsy. Look, every community has a different story. We’ve all seen the videos of white vigilante mobs in certain areas going Full Metal Jacket and making shit awful decisions based on their casual, formal, or smart casual racism leanings. It’s not OK. But I’m not here to tell their stories.

So back to my story. Our local station commander “Captain He-Man” is a boss because he’s a man with a plan. And although women, and in some instances mice, make plans too, in this case, it’s Captain He-Man who needs a proverbial Bells or a Bar One, or an all open access to a car bar. Captain He-Man was lank firm with the okes in the white bakkies, and told them categorically that they needed to have their shit well and truly together. They weren’t to land their asses on Facebook viral for being a bunch of gung-ho clowns. They were to be the opposite of clown town. I’m assuming it went well because I saw a bagpiper on my newsfeed, and that’s a sign that the Matrix is still intact. Wait have I got that right?

Anyway moving on. When the WhatsApp came through that the Sweetwaters Community were joining the men in white bakkies, the SAPS, the various armed response chapters, and the bloody taxi drivers (“What?!”) it was beyond kiff. It was so kiff that we all let out a collective sigh of relief. The not so excellent part was the sigh brought with it a real humdinger of a cold front with an epic frost. This would have been OK except the prudent among us were heeding the warning to not use any bloody electricity because ‘If we blow a load, no one will hear our screams.’ Not even the loudest Negative Nancy or Hurrumphing Harold on Hilton Chat would be able to get the attention of Pam and Craig (the managers).

So on the danger front shit was secure. Other places were not so lucky. Big shout out to all the seriously kiff okes who stood sentinel and froze, while we moaned about how cold it was from under our blankies. We avoided the chaos because some people chose not to risk it, and others chose to protect the shit out of it. Sometimes the dice rolls in a different way.  

But then I received a message from a top human who we’ll call Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. She’s not a doctor, but I’m not a “real” doctor either so who’s counting? The WhatsApp told me that the medicine situation was a few million points up from a grade-A shituation. Warehouses and pharmacies were the new Tops, and I can’t even fathom what a monumental bunch of supreme asshats would attack medicine. Not just knicking a few Grand-Pa for the Tops looting hangover, no, burning and looting wholesalers and all but completely destroying the supply chain. That was a decision that I’m not going to kumbaya in a hurry. 

So it was that for two days I helped Dr. Quinn and her team, and ferried medicine to the Police Station for the mostly-grateful Hilton residents in need of meds. One woman told me ‘This isn’t how anyone should be running a business,’ and I wondered if the taxidermy collection from the KwaZulu-Natal Museum was marching up Old Howick Road or if someone had magically rolled a five or an eight, or whatever one needs to get the hell out of Jumanji.

And now here we are… the white bakkies have dispersed, K-Way Puffer jackets have migrated back to the Quarry, and local hero Jono Hornby is once again in his natural habitat being awesome. If you want to contribute to his awesome, please check out the Sweetwaters Food Relief Project Facebook page. There are other people in other circles doing phenomenal things. Tell your stories. Hell, I’ll tell them for you if you can tolerate my propensity for throwing in a few f-bombs. 

So what did we learn? Well, I can’t speak for you, but I can speak for myself. I learned that we’re better when we get involved in other people’s stories. Be a verb and do cool shit. Be an adjective and make something extraordinary. Be a noun and add value. Hell, be a comma or full stop and offer someone a breath when they need it.  

And I didn’t promise to not use my favourite saying. And it’s never been so important. If you can, read the book. 

‘If this is your land, where are your stories?’ (J. Edward Chamberlain)       

Be a part of the story. It’s all we leave behind.

Six years ago, I broke my rule- ‘don’t read or engage in the comments section’. The shit hit the fan. I was called every name under the sun. My crime? I responded to an article listing the most expensive schools in the country. I said that just because these schools are the most expensive in the country, does not make them the best. And, after what has happened over the past few days, I feel the need to hurtle back into the metaphorical comments section and revisit my previous arguments. Call me whatever names you you like; I maintain my position.   

Previously I have used a favourite metaphor of mine to compare a lot of private schools to The Emperor’s New Clothes, and because I’m me, I have also added some of my trademark Jaqui Hiltermann facetious comments. I have used words such as “entitlement”, “privilege”, and “elitism”, which the Internet has not thanked me for. I wrote an article called “Private: Access Denied”, which doesn’t exist anymore because a few years ago my blog was hacked by Russians. (The blog ate my homework…) The article had a mixed response, which is a kind way of saying most people hated what I had to say. The pitchforks were out, and I was declared ‘bitter and twisted because I probably went to a government school’ (the Pitchforkers named a few appropriately “low-grade” schools for their trouble). As a full disclaimer, I attended one of the schools on the list, the Wykeham Collegiate, and over the years I have been pretty vocal about what I liked about it (I had a few exceptional teachers who inspired me beyond measure), and what I didn’t like about it- I have not gone back to the school since leaving in 2001 if that gives you any idea of ratios.  

I have learned a lot in the past six years; I am less gung-ho about flying into arguments without taking pause, I take time to sit with my opinions and thoughts, and I try to listen a lot more. Despite this, I absolutely maintain my position on private school education in this country. Expensive does not necessarily mean better. And education should be more focused on developing better, more critical, more socially aware human beings. And, as the current landscape is showing, we are failing miserably- this goes beyond the standard IEB or NSC curriculum.

I hope Tim Barry, a bit of a legend in the psychology circuit, doesn’t mind me quoting him. Tim Barry gave an excellent speech called “Differentiating a child-friendly school” where he said,

‘I suspect that if I do my job properly today, I shall be your most irritating speaker. This is because much of the literature about what makes for a child-friendly school stands in stark opposition to the rules of a consumerist market’.

Cue the Emperor and his new clothes. And Barry critiques this further by arguing that schools are in the market of offering a “differentiated position”, and how they do this is through the use of symbols. Jean Baudrillard (1981), a bit of a hero of mine, spoke about symbols and simulacra and how often symbols become more important than the reality you are working within. Tim Barry uses the example of a lawn to show how symbols operate in schools at the most basic level;

‘Although a well mown lawn has nothing to do with a child’s education, it is not hard to see how a parent may feel disgruntled if she is paying a premium for a differentiated service and the lawns have not been mown. It must be easy to be seduced into a situation where one feels bound to be bristling with symbols that reflect your commitment to children.’   

‘It must be easy to be seduced into a situation where one feels bound to be bristling with symbols that reflect your commitment to children’. Give Tim Barry a proverbial Bells (the ultimate symbol of “you’ve nailed it”). Private schools are littered with symbols and simulacra that become part of the fabric of tradition; and they are like glitter to a wet behind the ears Grade 7 learner with an obsession with Harry Potter books (OK, OK I’ve run away with creative licence, Harry Potter wasn’t a thing when I started high school).

I remember going on numerous high school “walk-throughs” when I was in Grade 7, and being completely seduced by red brick buildings, Hogwarts style boarding schools, modern buildings, comprehensive school uniforms, expansive lawns, sport’s fields and astroturfs only a few of the most sporty amongst us you would ever use, libraries that would be taken for granted, and fountains with pretty young school girls frolicking. Show me an all girl’s school where there isn’t a statue of a thin white chick with neat hair and a smiling face- often seen dancing amongst a spray of sparkling water. That statue becomes the ultimate symbol of the paragon of virtue at the all-girls private school. That’s the ideal that’s packaged to us as prospective new girls, usually along with a nice school motto; and a hefty price tag.

These symbols differentiate what is understood to be a “high-quality education”. And while all of these symbols, and resources, and opportunities do ultimately add value, they are not the education.  How many of us question the credentials of the teaching staff, the demographics of the board of governors, policies on integration and diversity, and the values that go outside of religious doctrine?  

So, one has to question what the fuck do we value when it comes to education in a South African context? And I think the past couple of days have really opened the lid on “differentiation” and intrinsic value. As an example, my mother was schooled in Swaziland, and many of her classmates were political exiles who weren’t allowed to be schooled in South Africa. Over the years I’ve been enraptured, while feeling incredibly envious, by the stories that my mother has told me about her high school experience. The education that she received, and the lessons on integration, solidarity, and unity that she was privileged to have had, especially under the backdrop of apartheid, is something that I know she values beyond words. As a school, Waterford Kamhlaba ran completely counter to the manicured perfection that we’ve come to value and expect, I present the school cricket “pavilion”.

So, what do many of these private schools value? From where I’m sitting they value religion, school uniform, and tradition. Oh, and the burgeoning use of technology in classrooms. Now before the technophiles amongst you start shouting and calling me a luddite, let me clarify… Technology is fucking fantastic and being digitally literate is pretty essential- trust me I’m not arguing that technology isn’t fucking excellent. But, when it comes to selecting schools, too much emphasis is placed on how much technology they’re throwing at the problem of basic teaching.  And, when it comes to learning and remembering content, there is absolutely no match for the simple art of good contextual teaching; and of course writing shit down. And do you know what’s even better than that? Engaging in critical debates, having difficult conversations, promoting empathy, and listening.

The past few days have really destabilised the homophily in these private school institutions. And it’s time we all start to look at the misdirected value that we place on fancy symbols, while glossing over and denying insidious narratives and discourses.

So fasten your seatbelts and maybe bust out those half time oranges.

Religion:

As a white woman it is not up to me to tell people what to believe, and how to believe. As an individual I don’t do religion in any shape or form, and I do think that it’s a political tool- ‘they came with their guns and their bibles’. However, religion has been used as an incredibly powerful weapon for marginalised groups and communities and this needs to be celebrated.

One of my main issues with religion as a symbol at a lot of (private) schools, it that it frequently smacks of patriarchy, and is used to support the status quo. Furthermore, if you suffer from mental illness, having the right amount of faith is enough to get your through the “dark times”. “A good Christian school” is peddled as a core value, and “good Christian values” become an excellent veil to hide behind; a great way to disguise or stamp out any nasties. When there are issues of racism, intolerance, bigotry, the bible is thrown at the problem. Those who have been victimised are told to ‘turn the other cheek’ and to ‘forgive’, because that is the “Christian way”.

Do you know what happens when people aren’t allowed to be angry? Yes you do. And that friends is why we’re in this hotbed of anger and resentment… and “Kumbaya!” is not going to solve this problem. The time of “praying this away” has gone. It’s time to allow anger and resentment to rise, and white people, this is a time to listen.

School Uniform:

School uniform is a pile of shit. School uniform for girls is the biggest pile of shit ever. Let me elaborate (I could literally write a book on the bullshit that is school uniform but here’s a fragment for your viewing displeasure)…

School boys get to dress like little “mini-me businessmen”. And sure, I’ve never seen a London currency trader wearing Bata Toughies, but at least the uniform represents some sort of version of pre-manhood… trousers, shirt, tie, blazer… An unstylish, and not exactly tailored version of the future men of the world, but it’s a close enough representation of the future careers these boys/men aspire to.  

School girls on the other hand are dressed in outfits that can only be described as ‘we decided on this uniform when women didn’t have careers, so we just “wung” it, and now it’s tradition so you’re stuck with it.’ I’ve never seen Angela Merkel in white ankle socks- in fact, I’ve never seen anyone other than toddlers and school girls in ankle socks. ‘This winter Jacinda Ardern steps out to deliver her address in a gymslip and girdle’. ‘Thuli Madonsela dazzles in her floral button up dress paired elegantly with a navy-blue V-Neck jumper and ample sunhat’. And, if you know anything about body shapes, as someone who has a fair amount of junk in her trunk, I can say with confidence that these uniforms are designed for the skinny white chick- the one who dances in the fountain without a care in the world. Anyone with a body shape that isn’t “fountain of youth”, looks shit in a school uniform. There’s gaping, there are hem issues, it’s just not a vibe… Usually you’ll see us wearing jumpers in the height of summer to disguise the numerous wardrobe malfunctions. So do you know what we do? We rebel.

Enter the school uniform checks. If staff interrogated why students fuck around with their uniforms they’d solve a big problem. If you don’t respect the school, you don’t respect the uniform. And why don’t you respect the school? Sure, some kids are just rebellious little assholes and like to push the boundaries, but I’m hazarding a guess here… lots of young women, are using their uniform, as with their hair, as a political symbol. ‘The uniform does not fit me!’

Listen.

Tradition

When I was at school, I was told that I’m a Wykeham Collegiate girl 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Talk about instilling a spirit of independence. Obviously, I took this doctrine to heart and really went out of my way to be a credit to the school- unfortunately, I was never caught drinking or smoking; my bad behaviour went completely unnoticed. For the most part I was not buying what the school was selling from an ideological perspective… I ignored the symbols, and focused on the subjects I enjoyed, the friends I had, and some of the excellent teachers who I loved. But there should have been more, Neil Postman says that ‘education creates a public’.

Before one of our “rite of passage” school balls we were given lessons on how to be ladies. I remember one of the fundamental lessons was the importance of moisturising one’s elbows- my eyes are a metaphor for Jane Austen rolling over in her grave. At this ball, one of the father’s pitched a fit because his daughter was paired with a black guy for one of the dances. The name of this ball was “the Women of the 90s Ball”. He wasn’t the only racist father… I heard one say, ‘my daughter really dodged a bullet’, when a black guy missed his daughter and went for one of the other girls beside her. I repeat, that was the year that we learnt that ‘one of the most important things is to have soft elbows and knees, because these are neglected areas of grooming’. One of the most important things.

So, as fifteen-sixteen year old girls (“women”) we were paraded out into society at our traditional Women of the 90s school ball, groomed and fully versed in the fox-trot, behind whispers of blatant racism. Tradition.

Tradition needs to be interrogated because it’s a wonderful symbol to hide behind. ‘We can’t change because we need to protect our traditions’. Traditional school values.

Tradition works for those in power.

The powerful need to listen.

In another dazzling display of what the actual fuckery, it appears your average South African layman/woman isn’t the only person making his/her own homebrew. Minister of Trade and Industry, Ebrahim Patel, seems to have been smashing back the pineapple beer with gay abandon. Patel’s Moonshine is clearly made of stronger stuff than he is.

Tuesday was a momentous day for the common or garden South African shopper, with restrictions being lifted on certain retail arenas. Karens all over Mzansi were literally seen queuing up at Clicks to purchase box dye, to touch up their lockdown regrowth; anticipating these new avenues of retail pleasure to be unmasked. Which reminds me, does Cyril not understand that hairdressers are fucking essential? The oke is bald he clearly just doesn’t get what we’re going through- I mean a hubby with a box of Nutrisse is simply no replacement for Gavin. Anyway, as Karens touched up regrowth, and dusted off black K-Ways, Patel was putting together the Great South African Lockdown Winter Catalogue, fueled by his enigmatic brew.

Makro has nothing on this bad-boy.

It’s fucking great news for the babies and toddlers among us, because they’re going to be fashion forward as fuck at Level Four. All baby and toddler wear is up for grabs, sandals, wife-beaters, sun hats, bikinis, you name it they’ve got it.  Sadly, the older children won’t be able to match up to baby’s dynamism- but as Patrick Swayze says, “no one puts baby in the corner”. Children you’re in the naughty corner, and you’re only allowed outerwear, underwear, sleepwear, school wear (yes, get out of your pajamas and put those snappy school uniforms on), footwear and socks. You can’t go to school kids, but don’t let that stop you from sporting a fucking ravishing gymslip.

So where does that leave us adults? Well good news for those of us who are still finding our partners bangable during lockdown. Patel says we can purchase “all adult underwear”, which leads me to believe that after an evening on the Pineapple Power, Mrs Patel gets to put on her decorative smalls for a bit of Corona-kafoefeling. And hallelujah pregnant bitches, you can now give hubster back his trackie bums and get your ass into some truly gorgeous maternity wear- “of every kind”. The pregnant among us will literally be spoiled for choice.

This season, South Africans will mostly be wearing sensible shoes, as they sob hopelessly into their moonshine.

“Not all shoes are allowed”, and once again that’s excellent news for those of us with foot phobias. Chaps and Chapettes if pedicures aren’t allowed, I don’t see why open-toed footwear should be. I’m with Patel on this one… No one wants to see your lockdown feet Beverley, and FYI open-toe boots can fuck right off, and when they reach NDZ they can continue fucking right off some more. Germans are going to have a bit of a problem, but luckily for the socks and sandals brigade, I have it on good authority that they stockpile sandals and socks. Germans don’t fuck around.

The yoga mums will delight in the fact that they can pair yoga pants with a nice court shoe with a solid box heel. Knitwear is in! Dresses are in! Denim jeans and denim jackets?… Fuck yeah! And I really hope that Patel means that they have to be paired together a la Texas Tuxedo… because I for one will not abide by anyone not buying denim as a set.

Things then start to get a bit weird in the Patel Catalogue, because although there are no specifics about length, or fabric thickness, of pants and skirts, tops and T-shirts get the fluffy end of Patel’s lollipop. Pablo Escobaresque knitted short-sleeve tops have to be “displayed as worn under cardigans and knitwear”. Basically, if you’re a cartel member you need to be vibing a helluva twinset, and you may as well add a pearl necklace for extra effect. You’re worth it.

Short-sleeved T-shirts are for warmth only. Patel must be channeling his inner Kurt Cobain…

Leggings… fuck we’re in for another season of hot to trot camel-toe. But for those of you legging wearing monsters, momsters, and mobsters, you can pair them with some “crop bottoms” if you’re worried about your snatch. Crop bottoms? Take a bow Patel you’ve really channeled the power of the pineapple beer, you’re a demi-god. Actually, fuck that you’re the Emperor and you’re striking back. I’m strongly considering ordering what you’re having. Make it a double.

And headwear, bodysuits, legwarmers, and Jane Fonda videos are back on the menu too.

I’m having a throwback to my favourite Richard Scarry book. “Shop Til You Dop Okes”.

My exceptionally dazzling friend Louise posed the question,

“Why are we cursed with Bheki Cele- isn’t Coronavirus enough?”

This got me thinking that it’s about high time we spoke about the “not so new” Sheriff in town, Bheki Cele. Bheki Cele is basically one step down from the Sheriff of Nottingham, and let me tell you his name Cele, is fucking ironic.

Sheriff Cele told us categorically what we are not allowed to do during lockdown. And it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so fucking gleeful and smug about it, because it seems that he’s finally been given the opportunity to rid South Africa of sin and pestilence, and jogging.

Cele clarified that no one is to jog, or walk dogs during lockdown. To be fair, I’m totally down with this because what I’ve noticed about joggers and dog walkers is they really dig a “stop and chat while I just catch my breath”. And sure #NotAllJoggers… But you know I’m right. You’ve seen these people. They jog among us (and by “us” I mean you- jogging sucks).

And then Sheriff Cele announced that cigarettes are non-essential items for the lockdown and they’re banned. Now look, smoking is controversial, and Coronavirus is an absolute bitch for one’s lungs I’m told. But, let me tell you, as someone who has done a fair bit of “stress smoking” in her time, I can categorically say that lockdown is stressful and most people would rather smoke than eat. I went through a phase where I was nil by mouth except for Marlboro Golds, and if you’d given me a Woolies food voucher I would have hawked it for a carton of cigarettes no questions asked. Those days appear to be over, but I refuse to be a sanctimonious reformed smoker, and I believe that people get to choose what to do in the privacy of their own farmyards. Cele disagrees. He wants all the smokers in Mzansi to exit lockdown with bald patches, nervous twitches, and newly uploaded Tinder profiles. “Desperate smoker seeks another smoker to discuss PTSD and anger management issues. Not looking for anything serious, just someone who doesn’t resemble my ex in any way shape or form”.

And then there’s the bit that impacts me. Cele has a “hard no” policy on booze. And this is not a new position he’s trying out. So while I’m here, in case it’s not obvious, I would like to state my position on Bheki Cele. It’s a vigorous swipe left, devastatingly hard fucking no position. But unfortunately I don’t get to swipe left on him, I don’t get to ban him during lockdown. The fucking oke is all over my newsfeed and all up in my grill telling me what I can and can’t do. Anyone with the slightest inkling of historical knowledge will tell you that Prohibition was an unmitigated disaster… Yet Cele is on record saying that if he had his way he’d ban booze in SA across the board. “My first prize would be that we shut down alcohol, but I know we cannot do that. Nothing tells me that taking alcohol will make life easier.”

He’s giving us a lot of “pat on the back facts” about how well we’re doing with no booze, like he’s some kind of sobriety app. “Day 13 of no drinking, keep it up you’re doing so well, you’ve increased your life expectancy by 2 days!” Well the joke’s on you Cele, those of us who could afford to stockpile a little bit, and a lot, are still drinking. It sucks for those who can’t; the people who never get to benefit from democracy because they’re given the “illusion of choice” rather than real choices.

The amazing thing is that he attributes the decrease in crime, house robberies, and violent crime to the no alcohol vibes he’s throwing out.

Fun fact: robbers and criminals are also on lockdown Sheriff. And another fun fact: a lot of us are still having sundowners, night caps, breakfast beers, beer o’clocks, “the kids are driving me to drink(s)” and the classic “is it to early?” Trust me Bheki, a lot of us are going to town on drink combinations we didn’t think possible. Currently I’m enjoying gin, Aperol, soda and fresh lime… and let me tell you it’s really hitting the fucking spot. When you tell me I can’t do something I’m going to do the opposite of listen. And, I know I’m not alone because I surround myself with the best assholes, and none of us are buying what you’re selling. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Oh and there’s no kissing or snogging either, you can forget that. I think there are probably quite a few couples who wish Sheriff would try and extend this ban after the lockdown. “I’m sorry my bok, not tonight Bheki says no…” And I assume this means no sex either. Well judging by the numerous adverts and special deals going on people are still going to Pound Town.

I imagine there is going to be quite a New Year’s baby boom come 2021. And hospitals, I’m sorry to do this to you again, but there may be a shortage of beds… You may have to start thinking about where you’re going to put all of those labouring mothers because they’ll be rolling in hot come January. You’re going to be inundated.

But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…

Credit where credit is due… His hat game is real strong though. And on that note…

I think Woolies must have had a pre-lockdown special on stones, and my hunch is that there was some serious white level hoarding going on. I’m just sad that I missed that particular SMS informing me of this breathtaking special…

“WRewards: Don’t let imminent lockdown prevent you from exercising your right to self-righteous indignation. We have perfect deals for great deep level finger pointing. 40% OFF offer on ALL stones, along with the regulation 30% OFF Country Road. Valid until 28 March 2020. Shop safely in store”

Because the thing is, when I throw stones, I like my neighbours in their glass houses to see just how fucking suburban chic I look in my linen slacks. Jeff in marketing really nailed this “Country Roading Stones” campaign; he may just get his job back after the apocalypse. And elsewhere, I know Yuppiechef sold out of Le Creuset kettles (in black) well before the lockdown began.

I’ve lost count of the number of Tone Deaf Rangers I’ve seen galloping around. Someone actually told me “Lockdown isn’t a thing in KZN, the taxis are still running”. I know KZN can sometimes seem like the Wild Wild West, but I promise it is still part of South Africa, and Cyril is still your president. I promise guys, I know I live in Cape Town and I’ve changed (must be the wind). Then there have been the people cruising around their neighborhoods as vigilante pitch-fork operators, “Boet I’m just doing my bit to name and shame these okes who aren’t taking lockdown seriously”. Here’s the thing Charl… you’re under lockdown too… cruising the strip in your white Fortuner is not abiding by the rules. But sure, we get that you’re doing your civic duty to police “those people” who aren’t taking lockdown seriously.

And “those people” appear on WhatsApp family groups in videos and pictures… usually with comments like “We’re doomed”. And “They just don’t care”. And then in some of these places where “they” live, the army and police get sent in and people die. There’s a figure going around that 8 people have been killed at the hands of the police since lockdown… and fun fact they’re not white people in the suburbs. And let me tell you there are a lot of white people with very creative interpretations of what “stay the fuck at home” means.

When I look outside my window I’m not seeing an army presence… And you chaps and chapettes cruising the neighbourhood and doing your “social distancing” chats in the Spar and Woolies, and at your gated community recycling centres… the army aren’t watching you. The army aren’t watching the people who are sneaking across the lawns of their manicured estates to have a quick “social-distancing” beer or glass of wine. “It’ll be fine babe, we just won’t hug”. The virus arrived in the places that are getting policed and monitored the least… our kettles are boiling.

So perhaps we  should all adjust our attitudes and realise how fucking lucky we are to have unfettered access to Internet, running water, electricity (Inshallah), and comfort… while others can’t do social distancing that well because they have to queue for fucking outside toilets and money to stay alive. And let’s maybe think about all the medical workers, shelf packers, cashiers, and, and, and who wish thay they could fucking stay home in their jimjams and bake banana bread.

But my favourite Tone Deaf Ranger, who is up for “Best Minister in a Comedy Role” at the Rona2020 Awards, goes to Stella Ndabeni-Abrahams who needed no coaxing from Marlon Brando to come outside. In the most dazzling twist of irony “Stella!”, the fucking minister of communications, telecommunications, and postal services was caught attending a bloody lovely luncheon in a mate’s kiff house. But apparently she wasn’t there to enjoy the vibe, oh no she was picking up essentials… masks and other necessary accoutrements. The story went viral on socials… cos you know Minister of Communications…

What a fucking time to be alive guys.

And it’s nice to know that my increasing waistline and fatty liver aren’t all in vain. I see all of the valiant efforts that so many others are doing to show this virus who’s boss. And I’m astonished. And boy-oh-boy does it galvanise me to settle in for another episode of Money Heist, and stare blankly at my phone for the next 17 hours.

I mean take Sven and Laura for example. Sven recently posted Instagram pics of their self-isolation, and I realized that I might need to ramp up my efforts. Sven and Laura are taking their self-isolation so seriously that they flew across country to a couple’s retreat on a game farm. And to really drum the message home Sven captioned the snap, “this is how to self-isolate… bliss” with the hashtags #Covid2020 #CoronaVirus #SelfIsolation #DoingOurBit #FlattenTheCurve. And judging from the comments of “guyz I’m sooooo jealous”, others wish that they could be more like this power couple. Guys you’re doing great. Keep it up!

And then there’s Gavin and Gemma. Gemma takes mental health very seriously. So in a bid to spread cheer amongst her besties, she and Gavin have rented a lovely AirBnb to share with 4 other couples for a long weekend. Gemma’s WhatsApp group, “Hey MaCoronas!” really got the proverbial chuckles going, and hell did Clive not throw some real zingers into the meme trough?! That Clive really knows how to hunt down memes- you should see the one about the Chinese guy and the bat- it’s hilarious! Anyway, despite the fact that Gavin is a pharmacist, and he’s around sick people all day, he’s assured the group that there’s nothing to worry about in terms of his Covid status. And when Gavin says, “don’t worry guys”, everyone believes him, because men with such great hair and chiseled features don’t lie. Kate is concerned though because two of her work colleagues have just come back from Europe and they’re awaiting test results. Luckily Kate’s dissuaded from leaving the group because Gavin assures her that she’s A-OK, and Gemma chimes in that she simply can’t live without Kate’s signature potato bake, and the weekend won’t be the same without her. That’s settled then, Kate and her potato bake are in! As texts about who’s bringing the brie rain down upon the group, Gemma knows she’s done a good thing, and her heart swells with pride. Friends should stick together in hard times, and there is no way that any of her friends have Corona anyway.

And elsewhere, Jasmine is using her mommy powers to impact on her community. Jasmine’s read up on herd immunity, so she’s started a Facebook Group called “Herd it through the Grapevine”. Jasmine has such a way with words. Jasmine’s inviting local area moms to host “Corona Parties”, reminiscent of Chicken Pox parties, and she’s recommended some great close contact games to add fun to the fiesta. Jasmine suggests pass the parcel because she’s read that the virus can live on paper for up to a week. Other fun games and activities include musical chairs, duck duck goose, bobbing for apples, and pin the respirator on the Corona patient. And sure, not everyone is on board with Jasmine’s brilliance, but there is always one particular group who try to take the wind out of your sails. But do you know what Jasmine says to those people? “Let’s just agree to disagree…” Oooo mic drop Jasmine. You fucking nailed it!

Finally, there’s Ben and Sharon who have decided that they really need a break from it all. It’s been a helluva year for Sharon because she finally quit her job in order to focus on her online shop, and what’s more, she’s just had to let their domestic worker go because things are a bit tight at the moment. Sharon feels desperate for their darling Lydia and she just can’t bear to think about it anymore. Sharon’s done everything that she can for Lydia by imploring her Facebook networks to help out, but it’s time that she starts thinking about herself for a change. That’s why they’re off to Zanzibar for a well needed break. I applaud Ben and Sharon for not letting a global pandemic that killed nearly 800 people in one day affect their plans to have a nice holiday. They really can offer us all a lesson on Stoic Pragmatism.        

It really is so nice to know that we’re all in this together and that each and every one of us are really doing everything that we can to flatten the curve. We’ve got this guys! And just FYI, if anyone needs any extra toilet paper, I’ve got a whole garage full. Because you never know when a member of the community will need me to generously donate an extra roll!

I’m a fly by the seat of my pantalone’s kind of a betty so I was fucking stoked when my trip to Hilton coincided with the breaking news story that the first confirmed case of Covid-19 was in my “home” town. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not wishing the virus on anyone (enemies excluded), but I’m a dirty ho-bag for a good story, and this is a helluva story. The prodigal daughter was coming home- the red carpet was rolled out- my father had found hand sanitiser and for once he wasn’t moaning about the toilet paper s(h)ituation. My dad has a thing about toilet paper… as a family we “go through far too much of the stuff”. I had hand sanitiser, toilet paper, and I was itching to get into the hub of Hilton Village to check out the vibe.

I’m not sure what I expected to be honest. Actually, that’s a lie. I expected a Hollywood Blockbuster. I wanted the scene from ET where the government agents are all hazmat-suited and booted and the danger zones are all tented in a massive quarantine bubble. Where was my quarantine bubble? And where was the tumbleweed rolling down the streets. Where was the Ennio Morricone soundtrack? It was in my head.

Despite this, I’m not the type of pantalone wearing lunatic to be deterred from telling a good story. ‘Persistence’, I remember, is something I tell my students. And, if all else fails there’s my go-to exaggeration. There’s a fucking story here and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the lack of hazmat suits and face masks influence this narrative.

The Quarry Shopping Centre is, on any given day, a fucking nightmare. To put you in the picture, there’s one way in, and one way out. Parking is so valuable that the “Moms and Tots’” bays are often invaded by non-moms and then the Internet goes fucking crazy and pitchforks are sharpened. One day someone will lose their shit completely and the Mombies will revolt! Cries of “the Mombies are revolting!” will rain down on the village. But not today. Where are the Mombies?

I mean there are moms here. They’re just not the ones who wear the uniform- the leggings/skinny jeans, white blouse/t-shirt, scarf that goes “pop”, gilet if it’s a bit nippy, and cute little canvas takkies (usually Superga). The out-and-about-moms, the Normoms, are just going about their day, and I’m waiting for them to pull out face masks from their handbags to add a litter glitter to my story. Where are all the face masks? They’re not in the pharmacies I’ll tell you that for free. My pharmacist friends tell me that they were the first casualty of the Coronavirus. Maybe Spar will have some answers?

Spar is busy. I mean sure it’s not filled to the brim with those damn pensioners who insist on smashing into the back of your ankles with a trolley wheel, but it’s certainly vibey. Ronan Keating is playing in the background so I’m reassured that the winds of change haven’t moved in to destroy everything sacred about village life. People aren’t stockpiling canned food. There’s a massive pallet of antibacterial soap. Expectant. There is fuck all hand sanitiser. Hilton residents will have to “make do” with soap.

The lack of Mombies, hand sanitiser, and face masks are the only clues that things are a bit rough in the village. I decide that I deserve a glass of wine. I need to think.

My head isn’t as sharp as I’d like it to be after a night of ‘Nana always used to say the best thing for germs is whisky’. Nonetheless I decide to accompany my dad on his errands because I need one more crack at this story. We go to the pharmacy that services the “Garlington side” of Hilton- my dad says he’s never seen it so empty on a Saturday morning. It’s eerie. Visions of tumbleweed. Ennio don’t tell the orchestra to pack up just yet.

It’s a Saturday morning and it’s the quietest I’ve ever seen Hilton. We hit the bottle store; a few parents seem to be self-medicating as usual, ‘virus or no virus I need my wine Wayne!’. Dave is clearly having a braai (for one?). Edwin is clutching a bottle of Old Brown and a bottle of Gordon’s. There’s that fucking Ronan Keating again. ‘There’s no story here’, I tell my father. ‘Let’s go! Hilton is so weird!’

I’m feeling disappointed. Where is all the hyperbole I’ve read online? Where are those pesky Whatsappers and their vitriol and histrionics? And where the fuck are those damn Mombies? I want my apocalypse dammit. And then it happens… as we drive past Grace College we see a bonanza. The Jesus Makro, as I like to call it, or Hilton Christian Fellowship, as the attendees call it, is fucking packed to capacity. The signage says it’s some kind of leadership thing but I’m almost sure they’re discussing the Coronavirus with Jesus in there. Is that a craft beer van? In any event it’s telling that the Jesus Makro is clearly protected by some invisible, almost 100% effective antiviral agent. Okes have flocked there. Fortuner by Fortuner.

As for the Mombies and their spawn? I eventually find out that they’re in “self-quarantine”- probably watching Gwyneth Paltrow’s GOOP Lab on Netflix while chugging down glasses of Haute Cabriere Chardonnay Pinot Noir. After all they must be pooped out; they’ve had an exhausting week of bidding over hand sanitiser at the local pharmacies, auctioning off face masks, and Googling Coronavirus. My brother actually said it best (sorry Ronan Keating), ‘Jaqs, no virus spreads as fast as gossip’. Mass outbreak of the Hyperbole Virus, the only cure is to self-quarantine yourself.  

This has been the unwitting soundtrack to this week… a beautiful coincidence brought upon by the shuffle function on my battered and bruised iPod. It’s not dark yet… but it’s fucking close. It feels as if we’re all raging, raging against the machine, the man, and against the dying of the light.   

But with all things, there’s strength in the collective- the fact that we’re all raging, we’re all angry, we’re all hurting. We’re all in this together. Yesterday, as UCT gathered, there was immense comfort in occupying a space with others, and it proved that these are dark and scary times, but we are not alone. It galvanised me, because I’m predisposed to overthinking and cynicism… and at times like this it’s even more difficult not to hate people and humanity.

And then I see yet another manifestation of the hashtag #AmINext, redolent of #MeToo, and I actively try not to roll my eyes back into my head. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, and I need to pause, take a breath, because I know that we’re occupying a space where women* are scared shitless. We’re all watching this horror movie together… except in this scenario there’s no dimbo ignoring the non-diegetic soundtrack and going gangbusters down the stairs towards the eerie basement. Nor is she shouting “Billy!” “Billy!” “Is there anybody there?” as she enters the abandoned locker room. In this scenario the eerie basement is a routinous fucking post office… This is public space. Public space next to a police station. This is broad daylight. This is everywhere.  

So I get it. It’s difficult not to make this shituation about the “me”. It’s hard not to ask “am I next”? It’s really fucking hard. But we need to remember that this is first and foremost about Uyinene Mrwetyana, and the scores of women and children who have died at the hands of men, and only then is it about us. It’s not asking “Am I next”? It’s asking who is next and what can we do to stop it? Because the power of a woman is in her ability to forge community… women are communities of practice. Women do kin work– community is in our collective DNA. This makes us powerful. And asking “am I next” dilutes the message, it isolates us from the group… and women, we need each other.

But surely, as women, this isn’t our problem? We’re not the problem right? And why do I, sorry we, as women, have to take responsibility for the actions of men…? This is not us… this is them…

Well sorry bitches this is us… and it’s them. And we can all do more.

Graca Machel delivered oratorical fireworks at Uyinene’s memorialising gathering on UCT upper campus yesterday. Graca Machel is a woman that I can really get behind… she’s angry, but there’s no populism… there’s no call for bringing back the death penalty.

Instead Machel reads the crowd, and offers a pragmatic measured approach. She’s angry, she’s raging, she’s sad, but she’s behaving like a woman with a solution. Cue the hallelujah bats**. Machel knows her audience and she asks us all to look within our academic disciplines to solve the crisis. She addresses us as a collective of minds… and she lays down the gauntlet. “We need to find out what’s wrong and broken within our society… Anthropologists, Psychologists, Sociologists, Psychiatrists… everyone…”

Machel also advises all women to look after each other, and to support each other. I like this idea because it abandons the “me mindset”- we need to be concerned about all of us. We need to check in with each other, to show concern, to group together, to travel together, to band together. And sure it absolutely sucks that we have to move as a group… but maybe if we frame ourselves as an army it’ll be less “buddy system” and more “bad bitches on the move… fuck with us at your peril…” So gather your army bitches. Move with purpose. Safety is our new community of practice.

So, here’s where I take up the gauntlet, get onto my academic soapbox, and reflect on what my discipline can add to this conversation. And here’s the thing… as Graca Machel says, we need to scrutinise our own families and our own homes (to add credibility to this rant, my research area is the home). I research the home because, 1. I say “fuck you to masculine bias”, 2. the home is primarily the space that women occupy, and 3. because it’s a microcosm. You can learn a lot about the world by looking at homes. I’ve studied a variety of homes and let me tell you it’s not all fucking Woolies schnitzels and Peppa Pig lunchboxes… there’s some dark shit afoot. So humans look at your household structures… look at your families… look at your tribes. And affect change. Because change starts at home.

Secondly, power relations are usually “blackboxed” (I’ve shamelessly plugged my own paper here). And my research in Actor Network Theory shows that blackboxing happens through discourses (that circulate within networks). And language secures discourse. So be careful with your words and be careful of how you represent others through your language, because language is power.

So combining what I know about the home and discourse… here’s where we can all make a start. And you may ask “but what does this have to do with rape and murder?” Well here’s the thing, power manifests in different ways… and gender violence is about power. So we need to learn how to re-navigate how we frame ourselves as men and women. Because all cues lead to women being in positions of inferiority and power is a constant fucking struggle.

1. Women are not second class citizens… I don’t care what your religious text of choice is. Don’t use it to tell us we’re second class. We will fight you. We will rage. Women, if you try to justify being made a second class citizen through your religion then you need to interrogate this. And then you need to rage. We’ve got your back.
2. Respect the women in your homes. All of them. Your domestic worker is not your servant. Don’t tell her she’s “like” family… she either is family or she’s not. If she’s not- fine. But don’t pretend she is to absolve you of guilt. Raise your children to participate in the household chores… it’s not up to a woman to “do everything” for them.
3. In terms of “women’s work”, in Africa housework used to be considered “men’s work”… so men, be fucking grateful that this discourse has shifted… and learn to use the fucking washing machine.
4. Examine your own household power structures. Usually this is dependent on breadwinner status because money is power too… This is where you need to communicate with your children, each other, your peers, etc. because normativity is learnt… and just because he’s bringing home the bacon/macon/vegan alternative doesn’t mean he contributes more. And FYI the man is not the head of the household… unless he’s a single parent.
5. Women can bring home the bacon/macon/vegan alternative too… this doesn’t mean she “wears the pants”… she can wear the pants, skirt, hazmat suit, whatever the fuck she wants.
6. Parents and family members… communicate with your children, and each other, about why you made the choices you made… Parenting is about choice and sacrifice- it’s not about predetermined gender roles.
7. Women are not the sole providers of care work. Raise the men in your house to participate in care work. If he’s not sending his mother a card on her birthday, and if he makes it your job, realise it’s not your job. Guilt is a weapon and women feel it too damn much.
8. Every family has a “creepy uncle so-and-so”. If you don’t have one in your family look closer. Flagging up the “gropey pervy uncle” is not enough. Why do we think it’s OK to just give him the moniker “Creepy” and that absolves him? “Oh it’s OK that’s just what Creepy Uncle What’s His Face does at Christmas… it’s just his vibe”. Everyone in the family needs to tell Creepface to fuck off and stop being pervy and gropey. Everyone.
9. If there’s a man in your family who is abusive or shitty you have to call it. You will save a life.
10. Please refer to those of us who identify as women, as women… we are not girls. You’re happy calling your toddler a “little man” but I must be addressed as “my girly” or a “girl”. Fuck that.
11. Your boy toddler is not a little man. He is a boy and he has a lot to learn. Raise him to respect girls and women. There are no “my little woman” cruising around Top Tots. (Mums feel free to inbox me and tell me I’m overreacting and that I’m an angry feminist… But your son is not a little man. He is a boy child. He’s not bringing home any bacon/macon/vegan alternative.)
12. Television is not a passive medium. Discuss television content with your children and family members. Watch the hard stuff. Have difficult conversations. Discuss sex, violence, nudity, swearing, etc. with your children (within age appropriate reason obviously)… FYI- PG means parental guidance… i.e. you have a role to play. The television is not a babysitter, it is a medium to engage with. Don’t blame it for your children’s kak behaviour (or violence).
    
13. Just because he looks tidy in his uniform and addresses you as “maam” does not make him a lovely polite young man. Look closer.
14. Just because she looks tidy in her uniform and seems like a lovely young lady, doesn’t mean she’s a lady. Look closer.
15. Use the term “lady” with caution. I am not a lady I am a fucking woman. When (gentle)men start behaving more gently I might decide to too.
16. On that note, being polite is awesome and great… and we could all be a lot less dickish. But don’t ever feel guilted into politeness… “I went along with it because I didn’t want to come across as rude”. Never feel like you have to be polite to men… you don’t have to do what you’re told… you don’t have to follow them into the back room. You can refuse them, you can leave. Don’t apologise.
17. And off topic, but because I’m here… teach every family member that the death penalty is not a solution. And if you’re confused about this just think about how many administrative errors you’ve dealt with in the past 6 months. Now imagine your incorrect water bill is someone’s life. And if my analogy is a problem for you then think about how many activists during apartheid were on death row for fighting against the government. It’s a fucking slippery slope and you can’t cherry pick with the law and say “we’ll only kill the real criminals”. Our criminal justice system is fucking broken… but sure add in the death penalty what could go wrong?  

And finally, 18. And this will appall the religious among you… stop with this virginity bullshit. Of course humans should be self-aware and critical about sex… as with everything else, but the virginity narrative needs to duck. I’ve discussed this in class and I’m appalled at how many women were taught (at school) that losing their virginity takes something away from them, that once it’s gone it’ll never return. Being pure is a highly prized commodity in women (as determined by men). Okes, when I’m looking for a shag let me tell you purity is nowhere near the agenda… so why should it be on yours?

Furthermore, girls are taught to hold onto their virginity as long as they possibly can (because hellfire, brimstone, dirty slutbags, no man will want you, you should wait until you’re married, etc. etc.) whereas the narrative around boys is that they should cash in their v-cards as soon as possible. So given that the population is pretty much 50/50 what could go wrong? I mean, on one hand you have 50% of the population (who have been framed as weak and subservient) being told to hold onto their virginity while the other 50% (who have been framed as stronger and dominant) are being told to lose their virginity as soon as possible. Seriously how has no one flagged this up as utter insanity? No wonder we have a fucking crisis.

So folks… it’s time to roll up your sleeves and do some housework.

*I have tackled this article from a very gender binary way… The LGBTQ community has a fucking hard time and suffers from a huge amount of violence, bigotry and assholery. My decision to take this focus is purely because this particular narrative is framed as men and women/children.

**A note on “hallelujah bats” as an agnostic/atheist/don’t do religion I use the bat emoji instead of the raising hands hallelujah emoji.

It’s no secret I’m a vigilante bullshit police officer on the Internet. I’m 35 years old now, so I’m easing into life as a grumpy woman. I’m totally OK with it. Why just yesterday I posted a “this is a hoax” link onto someone’s post about… Actually fuck that let me pull up the post and insert it so that you can see what kind of bullshit we’re dealing with here…

Posts like this… they are worse than finding empty ice trays in the freezer, worse than thinking about making a cup of tea and forgetting, *click*, hello loadshedding my old friend. Posts like this are everything I hate about people on the Internet. It’s 2019 and I am sick of telling people about hoaxes and asking them politely to not spread bullshit. Because it starts with an inaccurate post such as this, and the next thing, Sunil Tripathi is being named as the Boston Bomber. And actually, when you decode these posts, they’re not just innocent mistakes.

Posts such as these deliberately pit Muslims and Christians against each other, and a person who shares such posts is aware of these particular agendas. I want to say, “listen here Carol, no one is saying Christians have never been victims of terrorism, but not today… not today Carol”. That’s actually not what I want to say, I want to say, “Oh fuck off Carol”. But I don’t. Instead I just post a link and hope Carol will realise she’s spreading bullshit ideology about how Christians are getting the fluffy end of the lollipop.

Whataboutisms are the sweet spot of the Internet, and they’re akin to saying “But what about the time Nicholas got to watch that 16SVL movie on M-Net?” when you’ve been told you’re not allowed to watch a 13PG movie. But we don’t actually notice how prevalent whataboutisms are because we have no real political discourse in this country other than, “But what about the BLF?”, “What about when Julius said that, this is reverse racism?” “What about Helen?” The SA political landscape is like watching other people’s horrible kids on the playground, and you have to choose which one is the least kak. Good luck with that.

We’re used to comparing one asshole with another, one shit situation with another, “Cape Town has no water, but at least we have electricity…” Hold my beer.

Anyway as self-appointed bullshit police officer (BPO) I am unequivocally unafraid of offending people who are patently incorrect, aka WRONG. Because sharing false information is not OK. When faced with information everyone needs to take a breath, mull over it, maybe open another browser tab… Google Google, and Google will come up. Click on it. It’s easy, and it doesn’t involve a trip to the library like in the old days. And “better safe than sorry” is not an excuse to propagate bullshit either. Because sharing misinformation propagates fear, and fear is a precursor to bullshit and bad decisions. Fear is how we got to the second half of this decade of clusterfuckdom, Trump, Brexit, resurgence of white Nationalism, etc. etc. etc. 2019 is a product of fear. We’re hear because we’re scared. We’re paranoid. We’re afraid of anything that isn’t “us”.

Not all that glitters is gold, and not all that is news is news… I came across this absolute gem earlier, and it’s what Oprah calls a “teaching moment”… I didn’t fact check that. I don’t know if Oprah says that, but it sounds like something she might say. Anyway some chap posted a shortened clip of the video below, with a comment, “What did this idiot just say? Fees must do what?”. You may see the clip trending on your socials (check me being so up to date). The clip is in the throes of going viral, and it may go “Woolies Water”, but we’ll see. What is interesting is the response to the clip, and it says a lot about not taking time to listen and going straight to shouting.

Humans think they’re smart. But they’re not that smart. Notice how I othered myself from humans, I’m such an asshole. For example, just because it’s on the news Jason, does not mean that it is news. You know? No you don’t know Jason, so I’m here to explain. Coconut Kelz is a satirical character, and if you listen, rather than jumping to conclusions based on your opinion of women, black women, women with long manicured nails, etc. then maybe you’ll get it. But maybe not. Rome wasn’t built in a day. So, as expected the comments on the clip are wonderfully disparaging and subtle, and not so subtle, in their racism. For your viewing pleasure I read them all..

If you Google Lesego Tlhabi, you’ll find she attended school. Not only school, but Brunel University in London. She’s also not mentally ill. But you Facebook commenter, who I shall name Pamela, you obviously attended school and are OK upstairs. Nonetheless you are blind to satire. So well done there. Or maybe you just just jumped to conclusions about this “thick” black woman, based on your own misguided assumptions, rather than actually listening to the fucking video and critically analysing it? Is everything OK upstairs Pamela? Do you need a lie down? Thinking is hard.

Coconut Kelz and by proxy Lesego Tlhabi gets called a cow a lot. She gets shamed for wearing a blonde weave. She also has shit for brains apparently. She’s the product of the Generation Fees Must Fall, stupid and entitled. One commenter actually calls her out for being a “house n (word)”- he’s black, if that even matters. The n word.

If I took my job as BPO seriously I would respond to each and every single one of these people and make them feel as small as they are trying to make Coconut Kelz feel, but the Internet is a dark place, and it’s full of terror. It’s a big job, I can’t do it alone.

So let’s all take in the silence for a while… But then we have to start shouting at all the people who make the Internet kak with fear and bullshit. I’ll be watching you.