How ‘Khwezi’s activism shaped a generation

In 2005, Fezekile Kuzwayo accused Jacob Zuma, then Deputy President of the ruling party, of rape.  During Zuma’s rape trial in 2006, the One in Nine campaign organized a national day of solidarity with “Khwezi” (the pseudonym adopted to protect Kuzwayo’s identity). At Rhodes University in Grahamstown, a group of activists marched to the High Court in solidarity with the One in Nine campaign (the group of feminists who first believed Kuzwayo and kept believing her). A year later, members of the organization hosted the first annual Silent Protest against sexual violence at Rhodes. When I took part in the protest for the first time in 2012, the protest had grown to be the biggest of its kind in the country, boasting over 1000 participants.

In the years I attended, the Silent Protest was somber yet significant occasion. Like clockwork, the clouds would gather together above as we marched to the Main Admin building. During the day, most participants wore black tape across their mouths to symbolize the silencing effect of rape. In the evening, reverberations of Kuzwayo’s courage were felt in the Cathedral vigil, as one by one, those who wore “Rape Survivor” t-shirts entrusted the crowd with their stories. What moved me about the protest was that it provided a space to de-stigmatize the experience of rape: a platform for those who had experienced sexual violence to speak out openly.

In April 2016, four years after I first participated in the Silent Protest, Rhodes University exploded in an anti-rape protest of a different kind. Following the publication of the #RUReferenceList – a list of alleged perpetrators of sexual violence  – on social media, students shut down the campus, demanding the suspension of the listed students.

As the hashtag #RUReferenceList went viral on social media, feminist rage spread ferociously. Soon, our cry for justice was echoed by students from other campuses, who expressed their solidarity by mobilizing under the hashtags #Iam1in3, #UCTSpeaksBack and #EndRapeCulture.

Perhaps for outsiders who were familiar with Rhodes University’s legacy of hosting the Silent Protest, that rape culture still persisted at Rhodes may have come as a surprise. However, for those of us who had over the years learned of the violations of our peers, which occurred often at the hands of other students, the image of our university as a safe space had long faded.

The #RUReferenceList protests highlighted that symbolizing silence was no longer an adequate strategy for ending rape. As activist/author Pumla Gqola had said, rather than symbolic solidarity, there needed to be a social cost for raping. At a time where our faith in our institution’s preparedness to combat sexual violence had dwindled, the Reference List was the megaphone we needed to break the silence.

Months later, shortly before commemorations of Women’s day had begun, four women staged a silent protest as Jacob Zuma delivered a post-election speech in Pretoria. Amanda Mavuso, Naledi Chirwa, Simamkele Dlakavu and Lebogang Shikwambane stood in front of the president, holding up posters which read “#I am 1 in 3”, “Khanga”, “10 years later” and “#RememberKhwezi”. Although they were quickly removed from the venue, their reminder echoed across airwaves and online spaces thereafter. As the name “Khwezi” regained prominence, the nation had to meditate on the sore fact that the victim-blaming beliefs that drove Kuzwayo into exile a decade ago still plague us today.


On the October Sunday that we learned of Fezekile Kuzwayo’s death, we experienced a deep heartbreak; a spiritual laceration. Waves of grief and disbelief washed over us, leaving us worn. At Rhodes University, later that week, when we held a vigil to celebrate Fezekile’s life, even the most outspoken amongst us had no words to articulate the weight of the loss. After all, in mourning Fezekile, we were mourning one of our greatest feminist teachers. In remembering her, we would inherit the responsibility of fighting to create the society she deserved.


In paying tribute to Kuzwayo’s legacy – her courage and her intellect – we must pledge to remain cognizant of the violences that queer people, women, non-binary trans people, and HIV-positive people face every day. Our life’s work is to reclaim justice as our birthright, even when we tremble with fear. It is our task to institute a real freedom and put to shame the farcical institutions that fail us time and again. The enormity of patriarchal violence, fused with our own traumas, may discourage us, but we must remember that Fezekile also treaded this path. We must prepare to carry this baton as far as we can run. As our race heats up, may Fezekile Kuzwayo rest in peace and in power.



What is intersectionality?

I first came across the word ‘intersectionality’ a few years ago. At the time, I understood it loosely to be “the idea that people have different oppressions and also, different privileges”.

Firstly, Kimberle Crenshaw came up with intersectionality in 1989. A Black woman did that. But as these things go, I only heard about Crenshaw a while after I first came across the word. I’m just putting this out there because Black womens’ genius is often ignored (and because it hurts my feminist soul that we can talk about intersectionality without saying her name).

Secondly, and more to the point, intersectionality is huge in feminism now. Fellow feminists are defining themselves as intersectional, calling for intersectional approaches and critiquing things for not being intersectional enough. “Intersectional feminism” has become our beacon of hope: the thing that will lead us (as Black Africans) away from feminisms that don’t fit.  But what does intersectional feminism even mean?

The word ‘intersectionality’ is used so often that it’s getting vague: it seems like it has no limitations. With such frequent use, it loses its shape and its grit. As it has become more popular, people have started using intersectionality in a way which seems to be for everyone’s benefit. But best believe Kimberle Crenshaw was talking about Black women. In Mapping the Margins, the article she wrote explaining intersectionality in 1993, Crenshaw was very specific.

The fact that everyone can now cash in on ‘intersectionality’ heavily suggests that it has been stolen and appropriated. This is not to say that only Black women can talk about intersectionality or that it can’t apply to other forms of oppression. I just want to reflect on where it came from.

In  Mapping the Margins,  Crenshaw wrote about how both feminist and anti-racism movements failed to address issues specific to Black women. She noted:

Racism as it is experienced by Black men tends to determine the parameters of antiracist strategies, just as sexism experienced by White women tends to ground the women’s movement.

Crenshaw added that dealing with one oppression at at time fails to truly free people because (to paraphrase Lorde) we don’t live single-issue lives. Something that frees a white women won’t free a Black woman; that’s why feminism has been criticized so much by Black women.

Mapping the Margins is about how not recognizing social differences within movements leaves some people out in the cold. For Crenshaw, it is necessary to assert the differences that are erased, to call a spade a spade basically, so that this exclusion doesn’t happen within our liberation movements.

With that, I think intersectionality should always mean taking the focus away from privileged voices and listening to people who are oppressed. This becomes increasingly important as recently, I’ve been finding that even within ‘intersectional’ spaces and intersectional feminism, some people use intersectionality to protect their privilege.

I’m uncomfortable with people using intersectionality as a buzzword so often that it no longer prioritizes marginalized groups. I’m uncomfortable with people using intersectionality to avoid taking responsibility for privilege. You shouldn’t be able to use intersectionality as a shield if you’re being oppressive. Put some respek on Crenshaw’s concept.

If you’re white and queer, you’re never not white. If you’re black and upper middle class, you’re never not middle-class. If you’re cisgender and queer, you’re never not cisgender. And so on. Facing a particular oppression doesn’t cancel out having a privilege and we need to constantly take responsibility for what having privilege does for us.

Privilege amplifies your voice all the time. So your whiteness, your wealth, your physical abilities, your heterosexuality etc. all speak louder than you imagine. For that reason, intersectionality, to me, means that you are aware of when you speak and what your voice means in different contexts. You ask: Is this conversation about me? Do I need to speak? Will this conversation benefit from my contribution? Am I only responding right now because I’m uncomfortable with having my privilege interrogated?*

Crenshaw ends off saying:

The most one could expect is that we will dare to speak against internal exclusions and marginalizations…Through an awareness of intersectionality, we can better acknowledge the differences among us and negotiate the means by which these differences will find expression in constructing group politics.

Coming together is vital for our liberation. But coming together is also a collision, where we have to confront our complicity in the systems that oppress others. Perhaps, in colliding, we can use intersectionality to free ourselves from practices that harm others.

*I still think we need a better way of talking to each other about privilege within feminism. I’m still thinking about whether or not calling people out works. I haven’t figured it out yet.
**Special thanks to everybody who helps me figure this stuff out, particularly Dlova & Nomoyi (2016).

Why I don’t believe in monsters

CN: sexual violence, perpetrators, violence

Motho ke motho ka batho. I am because we are. The promise is that we are only able to exist through other people, that we should value each other despite our differences, treat each other with compassion and coexist. It’s nice, isn’t it?  🙂

I have a concern…As far as I can tell, we’re not applying the principle of ubuntu consistently. We call on it to unify our nations and uphold it as a virtue. Ubuntu is our slogan in the good times.But where does ubuntu go when things go wrong?

I’m from a country where the death penalty is legal. A hanging in Botswana is not usually the biggest controversy. By 2013, Botswana had hung 47 people since independence in 1966. This year, they added another name to the list.

Growing up in Botswana, I thought the death penalty was just one of the things that happened mo life-eng: I didn’t question it. The justification was that the death penalty served as a deterrent to crime. Although South Africa doesnt employ the death penalty, given the ‘high’ crime rate, I suspect that some may view the death penalty in the same way I did, as the ‘necessary’ response to the problem of crime.

The media reports on crime often and each headline seems more scary than the next, each crime more brutal and shocking. We fear for our safety. Those who believe in the police, want them to do more. To patrol. To catch the criminals and put them behind bars. ‘We’ want the people who threaten us to be locked away. What happens to ‘them’ when they’re locked away is not our concern. It hardly seems to worry us that prisoners could be harmed in jail. In fact, the idea of prison rape has snuck into the fabric of everyday humour. Somehow when someone has committed a crime, it’s easier to pardon the same crime being enacted against them.

Justice being served means locking  ‘them’ up. Justice is castrating the rapists (because they’re always presumed to be (cis) men) and making sure murderers get what they deserve. It’s an eye-for-an-eye.’They’ don’t belong in our society. Because of their actions, ‘they’ are not part of us.

This is where something just doesn’t feel right…

Why is it that when someone commits a crime, botho does not apply? If I am because we are, then surely I am because we all are? How can I be selective about who counts as “us”? It’s easy to say ubuntu when things are good, but why do we abandon taking responsibility for others when they are harmful? Doing this dehumanizes them – as if they have no history, no possibilities and no future. It paints their harmful choices as a part of their nature, as if only some people have the potential to harm others.

I’ve often thought about this in connection to sexual violence in our societies. Perpetrators of sexual crimes are often labelled ‘monsters’ because their actions dehumanize and hurt. One of the most prevalent misconceptions about perpetrators of sexual crimes is that they exist on the fringes of society. The reality contradicts this belief; rapists walk amongst us every day. They get groceries at the same places we do. Some of them are our friends. As we fear the strangers who lurk  in the shadows, the ‘danger’ is often closer to home than we’d like to think. And it’s too uncomfortable to confront that we could have the same capability within us, that this capability might betray our intentions.

I think that sexual crimes are the worst violations out there, but I can’t bring myself to forget that rapists are people too. I can’t say that they’re monsters, although I can acknowledge that their actions are monstrous. I do not believe anyone is born a rapist. Nor do I think that someone who rapes another can never change and make different choices. There are circumstances which lead to rapists making the choice to rape: whether we want to admit it or not, they are products of our societies. In addition, if we say that someone can never change, then we’re saying that violence is just a part of who we are and that there’s no way of doing better.

I’m struggling with it, but I’d like to believe that we are capable of a galaxy of things. That my perpetrator can be your best friend, and that the pain he causes me doesn’t make the love he shows you invalid (or vice versa). I’d like to believe that we can confront each other and love each other and create systems which allow both possibilities to flourish. Humanity is complicated battle for survival and love. Motho ke motho ka batho means, to me, that we’re connected to each other at all times. I think the connection still has the potential to help us heal, somewhere down the line.


*I originally drafted this post in December 2014 and did not publish/finish it until now. I have revised some things but most of it was written back then.

The blame game: classism and inequality in tertiary education

Trigger warning: This blog post addresses classism and *extensively* quotes classist/ anti-poor sentiments. Also, there’s some reference to the #RUreferencelist protests later.

The national shutdown in the #FeesMustFall movement was significant in that, amongst other things, it displayed the potential for students to band together for an important cause. The extent to which #FeesMustFall can be deemed a success has been hotly contested, especially considering that several student groups have continued protesting financial exclusion well into 2016. Such protests indicate that the ‘0% increase’ secured through last year’s protests only tackled the tip of the iceberg.

At the university currently known as Rhodes, student activism led by groups such as Rhodes Asinamali, has shown that covering tuition costs is only one aspect of redressing financial exclusion. For instance, this year, there have been protests highlighting the plight of Oppidan students who attend lectures hungry because of inadequate funding. Another matter which arose was the high cost of attending graduation ceremonies for students who are not well off. Additionally, students pointed out the exclusionary costs of events such as Africa Ball (R120 per person), where provisions had not been made for students on financial aid.

Recently, Rhodes announced that they would withhold June exam results for students who had not honored their payment agreements or still owed more than 50% of their fees. The decision to announce this the day before results were due to be released angered many. Rhodes University’s spokesperson released a follow-up statement saying that some students had been given the payment warning erroneously. In addition, she said the University’s decision to withhold results was not a decision which was taken lightly as Rhodes had less than two months of funds** to cover its financial commitments.

Since the decision to withhold results was announced, it has been a hot topic on social media platforms such as Twitter, Rhodes Confessions and the UCKAR student body group. Such debates have pointed to a division in opinion over how the university handled this situation and in my view, have brought into question whether/how the types of solidarity we saw during the #FeesMustFall movement can be achieved again.

The polarizing nature of the views expressed by students via social media pose a big threat to student solidarity. Many of the comments I read contained heavy anti-poor sentiments. For instance, a common inference made was that (guardians/parents of) students who defaulted on payments did not ‘work hard’ enough and that is why they hadn’t paid. This logic rests on the idea that if one simply works hard, they will be able to accumulate wealth. However, in actuality, the workings of our exploitative economic system mean that the ‘haves’ benefit as a result of the poor’s hard work, not as a result of them working harder than everyone else. Thus, the simplistic view that working and lower middle class students can and should simply just work harder in order to make the payments unjustly victim-blames those already marginalized.

A second debate which arose was whether tertiary education is a right or a privilege. Several commentators argued that university education is a luxury and that people should ‘live within their means’.  In failing to acknowledge the contradictions of our reality, in the same breath, some of these commentators noted that ‘education is the key to escaping poverty’. This is where it gets tense, right – because if education is the key out of poverty, then it should go without saying that it shouldn’t be a luxury. If poor, Black students cannot access higher education* now, the country will remain untransformed.

Thirdly, the conversations I followed often became about “entitlement” – specifically, the entitlement of students who are indebted to Rhodes, presumably, in wanting to study at an institution they cannot afford. The anti-poor sentiment here is clear, as is the violent logic of capitalism. As Foucault writes, “Power is tolerable only on condition that it masks a substantial part of itself” – power works by ‘hiding its own mechanisms’.  In this instance, the power of class privilege works to frame the problem of inequality as a one which the rich have no part or responsibility in. So when the question of entitlement comes up, it’s never in reference to the entitlement that some CEOs must have in accepting bonuses/salaries that could pay someone’s school fees. It’s never in reference to the entitlement that people who have never worried about varsity fees must feel when they say that protests such as #FeesMustFall inconvenience them. The method of capitalism’s power is to ensure, repeatedly, that the many entitlements of the rich are never questioned or even seen as such.

In addition, the very word ‘entitlement’ in this context frames a Rhodes education as something that doesn’t belong to working class or lower-middle class students. Of course, the way the world is set up, nothing can [presently] be free. That said, it is troubling that some choose to frame wanting an education [one which could meaningfully change the lives of many students’ families] as something working and lower middle class students should feel wrong for. A lot of the comments/confessions I read suggested that if you cannot afford Rhodes, you should go study somewhere you can afford to. For many people, this is saying that they shouldn’t pursue tertiary education at all. Sentiments like these are the reason people can’t breathe at Rhodes University. It’s because even when you get ‘access’ to the space, the way the institution functions (and often, the views of fellow students) make you feel like you are not really meant to be there.

Further, comments like “The world owes you nothing” are meant to silence those who are dissatisfied with society’s deplorably low standards for economic justice. Saying that working-class people are ‘entitled’ is saying the ‘have-not’s’ should accept inequality as their cross to bear. It’s telling of how individualistic (and cruel) the world has become, because in such thinking, it’s inferred that an injustice suffered by one person is no one else’s business.

The lie of capitalism makes us think that any adverse circumstances can be overcome by just trying harder, undermining how hard many people already try.  We’re socialized to view our own (financial) successes as results of our hard work and in turn, view those who are not as privileged as being responsible for being in that position. Instead of addressing the cause of the unjust circumstances, we’re told that we can just “refuse” to let circumstances define us. This message is internalized by people on all ends of the class spectrum. This is why, as was seen in some confessions, some working or lower middle class students shamed others in the same position as them, saying that since their parents/guardians had “worked hard/made a plan”, others should/could too.

For those who felt that the results being withheld was unjust and thought Rhodes had acted in bad faith in the way it handled the matter**, there was considerable opposition. The rebuttal against us was that we “fail to understand reality”, don’t know “how the world works”, that we’re “throwing tantrums” and need to be “made aware of some truths”. What I found sad about these responses is that the author(s) do not see potential for a different world. To say that we shouldn’t bother to point out injustice where we recognize it, is to accept its defeat absolutely. To say that we’re ‘throwing tantrums’ is to say that in demanding justice, we are asking for more than is deserved. To say we are unaware of how the world works is to suggest that this world actually works. And with everything in my being, I reject that.

I insist that this reality can be re-imagined, as difficult as that change will be. It is my truth that my fellow students’ plight has everything to do with me. While it remains convenient for the privileged to frame ourselves as not being part of the inequality problem, it’s already too late for us to escape our involvement. We can, however, act to dismantle our complicity. Humanity’s hope rests on this potential: on our ability to recognize that inequality is an injustice that no-one deserves.

*With that said, the fact that tertiary education is seen as the only path to economic emancipation says a lot about how the economic and education systems are just not working out. Tertiary education institutions cannot sustain the economic hopes of the entire population, especially seeing as they’re struggling to cope with their present demographic. Therefore, although I’m arguing for transformation within these institutions, this argument is limited because that the broader questions about inequality cannot be answered by an increase in working-class graduates alone.
** I think that the way Rhodes informed students about withholding results was in bad faith. At the same time, I recognize, as many have pointed out, that the university is facing a financial crisis and that, oksalayo, they have to get money from somewhere (while I await the revolution). Last semester, when the university was faced with the problem of sexual assault, the VC suggested that perhaps we should look to change Constitution since the problems students pointed out were not necessarily all in the university’s jurisdiction. He suggested that since a university is (allegedly) place for knowledge-production, maybe we could be innovative in tackling the problem. Somehow, faced with the financial crisis, we have not heard a similar story about innovation from UCKAR management. There have been no statements about re-directing the weight of problem at the government or at the wealthier corporates of South Africa. Thus, though I get that the money has to come from somewhere, I maintain that the university is anti-poor because by withholding results, they placed the burden of the problem on those who were already worst affected.

The difficulties of loving stand-up comedy

Comedian 1: Apparently, Jacob Zuma can’t name his successor – Why?  Is his successor a number?
Comedian 2: “I’m a white girl, so I can’t dance, but at least this is my real hair”. She adds, “If I’ve offended you, you can twerk on outta here.”

Comedians are often walking a very thin line – one joke could ruin the whole set, sometimes you have the wrong joke, sometimes it’s the wrong crowd. In such instances, how do you know when you are taking something too far? What are the limits? The pressing question (I’d imagine) is when is it too soon to make a joke about Oscar? How do you recover when the punchline misses the mark? These are the questions that keep me awake at night (well, sometimes).

I’m interested in the politics of stand-up comedy shows, mainly because they can seem so apolitical. Everyone is just there to laugh because laughing is nice and we want nice things. Then everyone goes home. Simple. But there is a lot going on, power-wise, if you can afford to sit in a big room and pay someone to make you laugh. There’s a lot going on when the audience is predominantly middle-class; when the jokes are about PVRs and panicking about crime. There’s a lot going on when the comedian talks about travels to the UK or Australia and his audience can relate.

At the same time, I’m interested in the politics of comedy because it’s making me uncomfortable to think about what I laugh at and what I don’t. On a day like today, when it seems like 100% of things that happen on Earth are horrible and not funny, I find myself questioning what (or who) I am really laughing at.

Fatigued by the unfunny

A popular formula in stand-up seems to be to appeal to people’s politically incorrect leanings: a lot of punchlines are about fat people, black people, women, queer people, etc. With this formula, you push the boundaries a bit, playing on established stereotypes. Maybe it’s popular because it’s safe: because it’s what people were thinking, but were too ‘afraid’ to express.

For me, this formula is lacking. All it really is, is throwing marginalized people under the bus. The method is tired, which is why the jokes are tired. The punchlines in this category – the ones about about Zuma, black women,  fat or disabled people – don’t amuse because they don’t require imagination. I’ve heard them already: the only difference is that before, they were dressed as slurs.

Stand-up is political to me because it’s a form of storytelling: it’s representation. I’ve been fascinated by the power of storytelling for a long time. Stories have the power to influence ideas and, in turn, human relations are determined by those ideas. That’s why it matters to me to think about who tells a story, how they tell it and for what purpose. Perhaps I’ve found myself disappointed with comedy because the stories being told don’t push enough buttons. A joke about Zuma overshadows the fact that apartheid is the reason he was unable to access education. The joke about black women twerking, told by a white woman, just reminds me that white women don’t have a great track record when it comes to showing up for black women.

Possibilities for challenging the status quo

It’s not all doom and gloom though. Last Sunday, I caught Tyson Ngubeni’s show The Dark Ages. In it, Ngubeni jokes about the colourism he’s experienced and his brushes with xenophobia, resulting from him being mistaken for a foreigner.

The stage was decorated with flags from different countries and marred by posters containing slurs like amakwerekwere. Again, I was on edge. This time it was because xenophobia and colourism are so touchy, I struggle to discuss them in day-to-day conversations. I sat nervously, trying to manage the weight of my expectations, wondering if Ngubeni would take the conversation where I hoped it would go: to the depth of the difficult place.

I thought The Dark Ages was honest and well-delivered. Ngubeni deviates from the tired-trope formula, using humour to ask questions, as opposed to playing on stereotypes. On top of that, The Dark Ages re-orients  the dominant narratives: it exposes the mistreatment foreign and dark-skinned Black people experience, explicitly. I think this critical approach to comedy is what I’ve been missing in the jokes about gay men or fat people or women. Ngubeni uses his positionality as a dark-skinned, South-African to challenge complicity. It’s refreshing, considering the multitude of comedians who poke fun at issues like racism and classism just because

Later on in the week, at The Very Big Comedy Show, I was intrigued by a group of black women, Thenx, who featured briefly. In their musical skit, they sang about the land issue, belting out – to a predominantly white audience – “You know it don’t belong to you”. The crowd seemed more than a bit uncomfortable when they started singing about the k-word, and I was shocked by their honesty.

After this encounter, I was compelled to watched their sketch comedy show Thenx Presents Aza-Nya is Five-To, which didn’t disappoint. In it, they address topical issues like patriarchy, media censorship and economic inequality through vibrant satire and song. Touching again on the matter of inequality and redistribution, they sang, “There’s a huge cake we’re supposed to share [but] the ones with the knife don’t care.”

Thenx’s confrontation is in your face, in all senses.  The peak of their performance is when one of the comedians addresses members of the audience directly, asking why we should ‘keep’ Aza-Nya (South Africa). A woman in the crowd answers, “Because it’s a nice country”. A younger man and his friends respond,”We need to work together. We need to build together”. Sharply, the comedian, asks “A nice country for who? Who is we?”. She’s not going to let us get away with falling back on the myth of the rainbow nation: the promise of unity which has obscured the face of injustice for so long. Rather, as Thenx closes, they call upon the ance-stars – Biko, Sobukwe, Malcom X – reminding us of the legacy of those who have struggled for the realization of true justice. “We know it’s time”, Thenx say.

There is so much room for more of this type of work. There’s so much potential to push the boundaries. I hope, that despite the constraints of trying to make people laugh for money, upcoming comedians can develop new concepts for their sets. As a fan of stand-up, I long for more of this kind of comedy: the type that pushes us all to question what we laugh at after the curtains fall. 



I’m not blonde on the inside

When I was in high school, my friends and I had a lot of inside jokes and quips that tied us together. Several of my friends at that time were white and blonde and one of the quips was that I was “blonde on the inside”. I’ve been thinking about that.

I was a black girl with black hair in a predominantly black country, so being blonde on the inside should not have made sense.[Kanjani, guys?!]. But it does make sense when I think about how whiteness is glorified like, everywhere, and how class privilege can really blur the line between ‘black’ and ‘white’ (to a point). Having access to particular privileges (notably a private education) meant that I had access to whiteness, and I became so well versed in it that I could be validated by my white friends as being one of them [on the inside].

[Lorato Palesa Modongo explains so excellently how being white is glorified in Botswana here ]

Choosing whiteness over blackness wasn’t a choice I was aware I was making. I felt a lot of shame in the parts of my life that didn’t seem Western or white enough so I just never mentioned them. The things I kept silent about were my way of distancing myself from blackness – an identity which, at the time, symbolized being uncivilized and backward. Being fluent in whiteness offered an illusion of safety. You could feel comfortable in your [proximity to] whiteness because it seemed to mean that you were just like ‘everyone else’ – all the ‘normal’ people you saw in films – recognized fully as a person. As I gained this ‘recognition’, I didn’t understand how it was almost always being gained at the expense of another Black person. For instance…

I remember a lot of my  classmates (of all races) used to laugh at videos of “black ghetto names” – videos mocking African-American people. As we laughed at names like Shaqonda and Bonquiqui, it never occurred to me that I was laughing at a fellow black person because I did not recognize ‘blackness’ in myself. I didn’t think I was like them. I just existed in that rainbow-nation space where race didn’t matter.


Being at university and learning about racism changed my sense of humour. Now when someone says the word ghetto or ratchet around me, I know that [poor] black people are being mocked. And the fact that I can be in a space where someone can mock a poor black person in my [black] presence is evidence that I am being accepted into that space because I am assumed to not be like ‘other’ black people.

I don’t laugh at Bonquiqui or Shaniqua’s names  anymore because mine shouldn’t be an exception. Mocking them is mocking all of us. I can’t laugh at things that are “ghetto” or “ratchet” anymore because it’s not funny that [black] people are poor. It’s a crisis.

Having class privilege as a black person basically means that you can afford to not suffer in the same ways many other black people do. On one hand, this is met by some people in white spaces assuming that you are only in university because they needed to fill up a quota or that if you have money, your parents didn’t work hard, it was all just B.E.E etc.

On the other hand, it can mean that people will use your position as a way of shaming other black people  – using you/your family as evidence that black people can make it if they just work hard.

Asmany have written, instead of applauding poor [and in this case, black] people who overcome poverty, we need to look at ourselves and how we contribute to those conditions. Poor [black] people aren’t poor because they don’t work hard. They’re poor because we’re rich/middle class. We’re involved in it. We are a part of the capitalist exploitation that causes poverty and we need to take responsibility for that.

We can’t really keep having conversations where we just blame Zuma for stuff. I’m not a fan of Zuma either but before we talk about Zuma or how #ZumaMustFall, can we please have some serious conversations about apartheid and how we have to deal with its mess? Let’s talk about how some of your family members are overtly racist and you don’t know how to confront them about it. Or about how trippy it is to spend like 20 years of our lives ‘not seeing colour’ only to discover that not seeing colour is part of the problem? Let’s talk about how society rewards you for being white and how the flipside of that privilege is a black person not getting the benefit of the doubt?

Sidenote: It’s weird for me that every time I post a Facebook status about racism, suddenly, it’s like I don’t have white friends on Facebook :/ Are white people just not seeing those statuses or ….?  It’s cool if you don’t want to comment on my status, I can understand why. But at the same time, why are so few white people writing their own statuses about racism? We really need to talk, y’all. And when I say we, I mean, all of us but also YOU because racism isn’t going to go away until we all actually start dealing with it 😦 

The topic of racism is really uncomfortable but I’d rather be openly uncomfortable with you than be uncomfortable because you haven’t said a single thing about Marikana and now I have to wonder what that silence means.

We’re at a point where we can’t use our interracial friendships as evidence that we are not racist. As Sisonke Msimang said, “If you’re friends with white people who don’t get it, then you’re not friends”.

I want to be friends but first, I need you to know that I’m not blonde on the inside. I’m black and I am not hiding it anymore.