Don’t Rush To Get Grown

This old lady said to me;
“Ubuntu, you seem like a really nice kid, but it worries me how you juggle up everything at once, and you dream like an idiot, and strive for success, equally idiotically. Please slow down my son, allow fate to take its course, live in the moment and enjoy life for the beauty it truly is”.
She smiled, touched me, and said; “Don’t rush to get grown”.

I was silent for a moment, my past flashed back to me, the crimes, drugs, guns, women and everything else, and more recently, my deceased babies, and my late father. I then thought of my family, how much they needed me, relied on me and so I figured there really is no slowing down for me, given the stakes.

Finally I replied, “What if it’s already too late?”
She smiled, shook her head and then said, “It’s never too late my son, ever”.

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The Scars We Cover Up

He was a true craftsman, a poet, an author, his mastery of words was his charm, and he was a true reflection of self-confidence. He had style, class and determination that reflected through in that all he did.
He had come from a broken home, with a torn heart, horrific images of his father strangling his mother, hence he breathed hopelessness, his blood boiled with rage and his stomach had endured hunger pains as “daddy” drowned in another green bottle.
As he randomly chatted up random ladies and often was complimented for his charisma, optimism and sense of humor, no one ever noticed the scars in his heart, covered by godly designed ribs and flesh, and a perfectly peaceful smile.

She had a million dollar body, shaped like an hourglass, timeless, and a billion dollar walk to compliment it. She had a perfectly cheerful smile, bright and beautiful, and her confidence could move mountains, or so most people thought.
She had been blessed with a baby, and simultaneously cursed with a clumsy operation that cut almost half of her stomach off, it was now a scar, but still a fresh wound to her that bled uncontrollably every single night she uncovered her expensive garment.

She had a perfect life, so he thought.
He had a perfect life, so she thought.

My Self-Esteem

To say I have a low self-esteem would be a lie, although I’m sometimes skeptical to call it high.
I think of myself as average in every possible way, and that’s just euphemism for dull as they come.
I do not drink, smoke or club, I spend most of my time indoors writing articles, reading books and watching documentaries on how to acquire wealth; I’m as dull as they come.

When I was younger I wasn’t a very fluent speaker, my aunt would imitate my sloppy voice that I grew up too afraid to voice my thoughts and feelings fearing focus would not be on my content but rather my “funny” voice, funny isn’t it?
In high school I was “slightly” overweight, and at home they treated being fat like a “deficiency”. I remember my aunt showing me the Eddie Murphy movie The Nutty Professor so I knew “the handicaps of being fat”, as if the tight pants that I wore in grade 9 weren’t enough torture, and the fact that a girl I used to crush on once spanked my ass because it looked like a girl’s, damn it.

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I have never been handsome, smart, excelled in academics or athletics that I was a center of attention, and Lord knows how desperate I have been to get noticed somehow.

Am I confident in myself though? I would like to think I am. I have made peace with my “deficiencies”, focused on maximizing my strengths, and realized that what really matters in life is how you impact other peoples’ lives whilst just living your own, hence I have made it a personal mission of mine to make people feel good about themselves.

Again, am I really confident? I am not confident that if I ever asked Beyoncé out she would say yes, but I am confident that with my words I can make someone feel good about themselves as much as I’d like to believe Beyoncé does about herself.

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My aunt really screwed me over, but I’m partly to blame, I should have known making one more sandwich on a full stomach was a bad idea.

I have really struggled fitting in the society, so much that when I think back of college I only imagine the weirdo my classmates must have figured I was, and as for the rest of the schoolmates I doubt they even noticed me as I was defeated by painful hunger pains, abusive background, bad choices and a paraffin stove odor; I have truly come a long way.

God has blessed me; I have been through a storm and because of it I have learned some of the most valuable lessons in life; some which are more valuable than everything I ever learned in college, combined.

And for the last time, am I really confident in myself? Yes, so much that I don’t even need to prove it to no one. My life matters, I know it, I believe in it and I let it shine through every fiber of my being without making it anybody’s burden.

Amen.

To The Independent Ladies

There is nothing more attractive than a woman who doesn’t really need you, for some strange reason her non-neediness becomes part of her charm, as long as she doesn’t overdo it.
Make me feel like you can survive without me, but don’t actually do it.

Personally, when I like someone I obsess, I will want to know where they are all the time, what are they up to, with whom, and I spend most of my lonesome moments worrying if they’re also thinking about me, if they find me as attractive as I find them, the uncertainty really tortures me but I guess it’s all part of the charm, right?

I understand that some ladies just do not want to seem easy and be taken advantage of, but damn it girl, please wink at me every once in a while so I know I actually do stand a chance.

And finally, to the “independent” ladies, maybe you’ve witnessed your mama being taken advantage of by daddy because she relied on him just a little “too much”, or your baby’s father left you pregnant, please know this; as much as I’m attracted by how you’re able to take care of yourself but I also want to take care of you, I am not your dad nor your baby father but I’m Ubuntu, and I would like to ask you out for drink sometime.
Do I really stand a chance?

Grandma Used To Say……….

As we set on a school-like bench next to a coal stove with heavy eyes, roaring stomachs and much anticipation, grandma would finally dish for us a meal of homemade mille maize and spinach we had picked from the garden earlier on that day, and we would all gather around the big bowl where all the children ate together every single night, and we would all appreciate that the soil had provided yet again, just enough to get us through another day, we’d be so grateful, and then grandma would say grace, and as we all let go of each other’s hands she’d look at us all and say;
“With gratitude my children, thou shall feast now”.