Blog Feed

Posted in All

JESUS: that’s the chat

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba

[4] The word of the Lord came to me, saying, [5] “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.” [6] “Alas, Sovereign Lord,” I said, “I do not know how to speak; I am too young.” [7] But the Lord said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am too young.’ You must go to everyone I send you to and say whatever I command you. [8] Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you,” declares the Lord. [9] Then the Lord reached out his hand and touched my mouth and said to me, “I have put my words in your mouth. [10] See, today I appoint you over nations and kingdoms to uproot and tear down, to destroy and overthrow, to build and to plant.


[4] Lentswe la Jehova la tla ho nna, la re: [5] Ke o tsebile ke eso ho o bope mpeng ya mmao; o eso ho tswe popelong, ke o kgethile, mme ke o beile moporofeta wa ditjhaba. [6] Yaba ke re: Oho Morena Jehova, bona, ha ke tsebe ho bua, hobane ke sa le ngwana. [7] Jehova a re ho nna: O se ke wa re: Ke sa le ngwana, o mpe o ye ho bohle bao ke tla o romela ho bona, o bolele tsohle tseo ke tla o laela tsona. [8] O se ke wa ba tshaba, hobane ke na le wena ho o namolela, ho bolela Jehova. [9] Yaba Jehova o otlolla letsoho la hae, a ama molomo wa ka; mme Jehova a re ho nna: Bona, ke bea mantswe a ka molomong wa hao. [10] Shadima, tsatsing lona lena ke o laeletsa ditjhaba le mebuso ho epolla le ho qhaqha, ho senya le ho ripitla, ho haha le ho hloma.

Jeremiah 1:4-10

Bana beso ba ratehang,
before you were loud,
before you were lost,
before you were impressive or invisible
you were known.


Before your bones learned how to run from purpose,
before your mouth learned how to say “later,”
before you ever hid behind ambition or fear,
a voice spoke your name:
“Before I formed you in your mother’s womb, I knew you.”
Not when you got it right.
Not when you were useful.
Before.

Now I am about to tell you a story which is not necessarily mine but may be, which is not necessarily yours, but may be. It begins with a voice that may be all too familiar or a portion of our distant subconscious.

The voice said to me:
“There you are.
I see you.
Curled tight around your hurt like it’s the last thing you own.
That weight you’re carrying…I know its name.
It’s the name you called yourself in the dark.
“Failure.” “Broken.” “Unworthy.” “Dirty.”

You think if you hold it all close, you can control the ache.
But the weight isn’t yours to carry.
It never was.

I’m here.
And I’m not coming to condemn you. Or to point out all the shattered pieces.
I’m here because I heard the sound of your heart breaking from heaven.
And it wrecked Me.

I’m kneeling now. Right in front of you.
My eyes…they’re not what you expected, are they?
There’s no anger in them. Only sorrow. Only love.
There’s a burning fire that warms, not scalds.
A love so fierce it feels like it might unmoor you.


I see your hands. I see the dirt.
And I’m reaching for them.
Let Me.

I am not looking at the stains.
I am not painting the blame.
I am tracing the lines on your palms.
The ones I wrote there before you took your first breath.
I am remembering My masterpiece.

Now, I am touching the weight.
The one you’ve been carrying for so long.
The bondage and the chains.
My fingers are on the knot you could never loosen.

I am taking it.
You have to let Me have it.
It’s not yours. It was always Mine to carry all along.
That’s what the cross was for.
Let… it… go.

Here I am, standing by you.
And I am not leaving. I am waiting.
I am asking you to stand with Me.
To stand in the truth of who you are,
who I say you are,
a King and a Priest.

I am not done.

I want to offer you new clothes.Robes of righteousness. Garments of praise.
They are woven with grace and threaded with light.
Take off the old. It served its purpose. It brought you here.
But you don’t need it for the road ahead.

Look at you.
The old is gone.
Behold, I am doing a new thing.
Now it springs up
Do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

This is the unmaking that leads to becoming.
This is the surrender that leads to victory.
This is the death that leads to life.
But freedom isn’t just about what you receive, it’s also about what you release.


There’s one more thing.
I’ve carried your chains away…but the memory of them still lingers.
And for you to walk light, truly light,
we must put the old you to rest.”

Now, where did the voice come from and how did I end up there?


The invitation arrived with no return address.
Just a time, a place, and my name.
And when I got there, the chapel was empty. Just myself, plus one casket at the front, closed.
And Him standing beside it, not in priestly robes, but in a simple shirt, sleeves rolled
up like a gardener about to get to work.
‘I’m glad you came,’ He said, His voice the sound of quiet earth after rain.
‘It’s time.’

I didn’t want to look. I knew.
I knew whose name was etched on the plaque;
the name I answered to for so long,
the ‘Me’ that was built on a foundation of everyone else’s applause,
the ‘Me’ that was a fortress of achievements designed to hide the hollow rooms inside,
the ‘Me’ that was so desperate to be loved, it forgot how to obey.


‘We are here today,’ He began, ‘to lay to rest a beloved creation.
A self that worked so very hard.
That carried weights it was never meant to carry.
That learned to limp, rather than ask to be carried.’

I wanted to protest. To run up and pry the casket open.
That’s me in there! My ambition! My reputation! My carefully crafted image!
But His hand on my shoulder was a gentle anchor.
‘Let it go,’ He whispered, not a command, but an invitation to freedom.
‘The things you clutch so tight to your chest are the very things that are drowning you.
That version of you? It had to die. Because I love the real you too much to let the
imitation live.’

He walked me to the casket and placed my hand on the cool, polished wood.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered to the casket, tears finally breaking free.
‘Thank you for trying to protect me.
Thank you for getting me this far.
But your work is done.’
And in that moment, I felt it.
Not a loss, but a release.
A death, yes, but like a seed falling to the ground.

The old me was buried.

He handed me a new garment. It felt like light. It felt like breath. Not just bright. It felt like Him.


‘Put this on,’ He said. ‘This is the new self. The true self.
The one I fashioned before the world ever told you who you should be.
The one that is hidden with Christ in God.’

I am not who I was.
I attended my own funeral and found my resurrection.
I had to die to that stranger to finally meet the believer He always knew I was, the one He already died to save.

I share this with you because I once had a casket of my own to face, and I probably still have more to bury. I share this with you because there are many like me and many I pray do not end up like me. I share this because I need you to Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings.

We often follow a “live fast die young” rule while trying to walk in the spirit of a God who wishes for us to enjoy a long life.

We paint our lives red,
bottles clinking,
bodies touching,
memories blurred enough to forget who you were becoming.
As if youth is a fire that must burn recklessly or it will go out.
As if joy only lives in loud rooms, in bodies pressed too close, in nights we barely remember but swear we’ll never forget.
As if impulsive pleasure is proof of life. What is life?

We are very good at building things God never asked for.
Very good at running fast
in directions He never sent us.
And somewhere along the way,
we stopped asking what we were assigned
and started chasing what impressed.
We baptised ambition
and called it purpose.
We mistook movement for obedience.
We stayed busy enough to feel faithful,
but quiet enough to avoid direction.
We ran after our own plans
until they began to consume us,
until the thing we were supposed to steward
started owning us instead.


The Bible never warned us against ambition,
it warned us against replacing God with it.
Because there is a difference
between building something
and building what you were sent to build.
There are instructions written over our lives,
not just dreams.
And when we delay obedience to those assignments,
we don’t just pause God’s plan,
we disobey Him.


I came across someone saying that
procrastination is the arrogant assumption
that God owes you another chance
to do what He already gave you time to do.
And that sits heavy,
because delay feels harmless
until it becomes a habit.
Because our God is graceful but also wrathful.


We tell ourselves, “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
but not doing something wrong
doesn’t mean you’re doing something right.
Neutrality is not faithfulness.
Comfort is not calling.
Waiting without obedience
is just fear in slow motion.


Scripture doesn’t call us to be impressive,
it calls us to be obedient.
To seek first what He has already spoken.
To trust that His assignment will sustain us better than our ambition ever could.

The Bible doesn’t rush us to consume life.
It teaches us to steward it.
The Word does not ask us to be impressive.
It asks us to be obedient.
To flee what corrupts the soul,
to pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace,
with clean hands and a teachable heart.

Sometimes I’m afraid we ask the wrong questions.
We ask, “Is this allowed?”
“Will God be mad?”
“How far is too far?”
When maybe the better question has always been:
“Is this leading me closer…or further away?”

Because truth is, being young is confusing.
We are told to live,
but not taught how to stay whole while doing it.

So when we ask,
“But what does the Bible say?”
It’s not a cage.
It’s a compass home.
Home to wholeness.
Home to rest.
Home to a way of living that doesn’t ask us to bleed just to belong.And maybe today,
that question isn’t meant to condemn us but to invite us to choose life again.

To remind us that scripture doesn’t whisper when the world screams.
It reprimands us not in a way that shames us for living, but in a way that reminds us we were made for life.
It asks gently, but firmly, that we remember our Creator in the days of our youth.

Not after the hangovers.
Not after the heartbreak.
Not after you’ve given pieces of yourself away and can’t find where they went.
And that if it’s after, you are never so far gone that you cannot be redeemed.

It tells us in Ecclesiastes 11:9 that You who are young, be happy while you are young, and let your heart give you joy in the days of your youth. Follow the ways of your heart and whatever your eyes see, but know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment.

So what if enjoyment looks like discipline instead?
What if fun looks like purpose?
What if joy looks like waking up knowing you’re building something eternal?
What if enjoyment is praying when no one is watching, learning when others are sleeping, saying no when everyone says yes, investing in your spirit, your mind, your future?

What if enjoying your youth is:
• guarding your heart,
• keeping your way pure by holding fast to the Word,
• listening to instruction even when it corrects you,
• honouring wisdom passed down to you,
• choosing peace over impulse,
• obedience over applause?
All in the days of your youth.

Because the Word is not outdated, it is anchored.
Not restrictive, but protective.
Not boring, but life-giving.

We are not a lost generation.
We are a listening generation.

Ha re linku tsa lelahleha,
Ha re mehlape meipusi joaloka ha lefatše le re bolella hobane re busoa ke ea kalletseng maru.
Re bakhethoa, leha re na le ho khoptjoa.
Re bahauheloa.
Re baratuoa ba hae.

Re bacha ba botsang hore na
“Empa Molimo Eena o reng?”

That question, when asked sincerely and lived boldly,
will save us from finishing life
without knowing why we started.
It will help us seek first the Kingdom of God.

Posted in All

UNTITLED BECAUSE NO TITLE IS FIT ENOUGH

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba

Welcome to the reality of funeral programs turned into a national currency, where we print more obituaries than birth certificates, where the ink never dries on the eulogies before we’re writing new ones. Listen when I tell you another woman has passed on, I need you to understand I’m not speaking metaphorically, I’m not being poetic, I’m giving you the news before it becomes old enough to ignore. This is a roll call of the disappeared and the violated, this is a census of the silenced, this is the geography lesson they don’t teach in schools: here is where she was last seen, here is where they found what was left, here is the growing map of places we can no longer walk without remembering who we lost there. Listen to the sound of a mother identifying her daughter’s body, listen to the specific pitch of a scream when recognition and denial collide because her past survival did not guarantee her offspring safety, listen to the way silence sounds different after violence, how it has weight, how it settles into rooms and refuses to leave. This is not a poem, this is a testimony, this is evidence, this is the documentation of an ongoing massacre that everyone keeps calling something softer because femicide only counts when we decide to call it that. Listen:

They keep telling us to be careful, as if caution were a bulletproof vest, as if we haven’t already spent our entire lives being careful, as if careful ever saved anyone when the danger lives in your own home, sits across from you at dinner, says I love you with the same mouth that will later say I had to. What if we are careful and still die, what if we scream and still die, what if we whisper and still die, what if we fight back and still die, what if we don’t fight back and still die, what if every single choice we make is the wrong one because the game was rigged from the beginning, because survival was never actually an option, just a temporary reprieve, just borrowed time, just luck running out in increments? What if she was ‘loved’ and still died, found where her body was left like an apology too late to mean anything, dumped like garbage, disposed of like evidence, erased like a problem solved. And hey, they will call it a crime of passion, as if rage ever looked like devotion, as if femicide was just love gone wrong instead of hatred gone exactly as planned.

Another woman whose laughter used to fill a room now fills a coffin and we keep saying rest in peace as if peace ever rested in the bodies of women alive, as if we knew what peace tasted like, as if it wasn’t a foreign language we’ve been trying to learn our whole lives but the lessons keep getting interrupted by funerals, by vigils, by the constant low hum of grief that has become our national anthem..

This is war. This is violence baptized as love, this is murder dressed in apologies, this is a country building its monuments out of our bones and calling it romance, calling it tradition, calling it a private matter, calling it anything but what it is: a genocide in motion, an extermination so normalized we’ve started measuring our survival in days instead of years, an apocalypse in slow motion that we’ve normalized into background noise.

They say “not all men” but enough of them that I cannot walk home at night without rehearsing my obituary in my head, without wondering which photograph they’ll use when I become a hashtag or maybe my case also will not make the headlines, without composing a eulogy for just another funeral where we hold each other and pretend this is shocking when we all knew, we’ve always known, we were born knowing. We are before pictures waiting to become breaking news, we are missing posters in the making, we are bodies that haven’t been found yet, and someone is going to say we should have known better, should have seen the signs, should have left, should have stayed, should have been quieter, should have been louder, should have existed differently, should have somehow managed to survive the unsurvivable.

Listen: this is not isolated, this is not random, this is not a series of unfortunate events, this is a pattern, this is a system, this is infrastructure built on our bodies and maintained by our silence.

We are not safe in the arms that swear they love us, we are not safe in the streets that claim to protect us, We light candles that melt faster than justice moves, we hold vigils that multiply faster than trials, we say her name and her name and her name until our throats are raw and still there are more names, still there are more bodies, still there are more mothers collapsing at morgues, more children asking when mommy’s coming home, more sisters cleaning out closets full of clothes that smell like someone who should still be here.

How do you tell a child that their mother’s silence was not consent but the sound of her dying, how do you explain that the world killed her softly, quietly, privately, in the intimate spaces where screaming doesn’t carry, where neighbours hear and do nothing, where we all become complicit in our collective deafness?

Girls learn fear before they learn freedom, we inherit trauma like heirlooms, we are born knowing that our bodies are battlegrounds, that our existence is a provocation, that we will spend our lives apologizing for taking up space, for having opinions, for saying no, for saying yes, for breathing too loudly in a world that prefers us silent.

My greatest fear is not death itself but that my life will be reduced to a headline that no one reads past the first paragraph, that my mother will have to hear my name mispronounced on the news, that my story will be dissected for warning signs as if I was a mystery to be solved instead of a person who deserved to live, that I will become a statistic cited in a speech by someone who will do nothing, a data point, a moment of silence that lasts exactly sixty seconds before everyone goes back to their lives, before I am forgotten, before I become just another woman who should have known better.

But here is what I know: I know that we are not dying because we are careless, we are dying because we are women in a world that has never forgiven us for it. This is not love, this is execution, this is systematic elimination, this is cleansing, this is war, and I am tired of calling it anything softer.

We are tired of the euphemisms, tired of the think pieces, tired of the awareness campaigns that raise everything except the dead, tired of the moments of silence when what we need is noise, cacophony, a roar so loud it drowns out every excuse, every justification, every “she should have” that tries to make sense of the senseless.

Listen: I am not asking for your thoughts and prayers, I am demanding your rage, I am demanding that you feel the full weight of this, that you let it crush you the way it crushes us every single day. We should be tsunamis of fury, we should be avalanches of refusal, we should burn down every system that built itself on our bodies and then had the audacity to tell us to smile while it did.

They want us to grieve quietly, to protest politely, to die conveniently, but we are done being convenient. Another woman is dead, raped, violated… and we are furious, we are incandescent with anger, we are a forest fire of rage, and they will call us emotional, they will call us hysterical, they will use all the words designed to dismiss women who refuse to disappear quietly, but we will not be careful with our anger, we will not moderate our grief, we will not make our survival palatable for an audience that has already decided we are disposable.

This is a world that keeps building monuments to fallen heroes while using our bones as the foundation. This is a society that loves dead women more than living ones, that turns our murders into daily news, our trauma into passing content, our bodies into lessons about what not to do, where not to go, who not to trust, how not to die, as if dying was a choice we made poorly. We are not disposable, we are not collateral damage, we are not acceptable losses in someone else’s entitlement, and if this world cannot figure out how to let us live; truly live, not just survive, not just exist in a state of constant vigilance, then we will haunt it, we will haunt every man who looked away, every system that failed us, every society that shrugged and moved on. We will be the ghosts in every mirror, the names you cannot forget, the debt you can never repay, and our blood will stain every hand that stayed clean by staying silent.

Listen, there is new statistic today, and tomorrow there will be another, and the day after that another, and we will keep counting until you finally understand that this is not normal, this should never have been normal, and every single one of us who dies is a failure of everyone who lived and did nothing. This is not a poem. This is a reckoning. This is the sound of women refusing to die quietly anymore.

Hobane hee, re khathetse!

Posted in All

20 or so Things Since I Turned 20

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba

Turning 20 felt like a loud unignorable shift. Not a joyous celebration (no pun intended), not the overwhelming transformation I expected (a bit unrealistic of me but hey, I had plans and I was determined to put in the work), just deeper noticing.

Since the last December 24th, life has broken me in ways I was not prepared for.

I do not say that dramatically, I say it because it is true. This age did not come with clarity. It came with loss, with exhaustion that feels like it lives in my bones. It came with questions that loop endlessly in my mind and an ache I cannot name but carry every single day. It has not been gentle, certain or rhythmic and I’m not even sure that the difficulty has been necessary.

Still, I’ve learned a few things, or I have always known them but life just emphasised them. Not in a neat, “I have figured it out” way. More in the way that you learn to walk barefoot on glass – slowly, shakily, knowing it might hurt, but needing to move anyway. I know what you might be thinking: why would one walk barefoot on glass? Exactly!

Here are 20 things I have learned, endured or simply witnessed as I navigate what it means to be 20 and alive:

1. You don’t need to turn your life into a lesson right away.

Some things just hurt, let them. Some things are disappointing and discouraging, some are beautiful and excellent and sometimes, there is nothing for you to learn from them or at least not yet, not like the expectant revelation you are waiting for.

2. There are days you will not recognize yourself.

And that doesn’t always mean you are lost. Sometimes it just means you are changing. You are allowed to change. You are supposed to, meant to. What are humans if not ever evolving? Sometimes it’s not into someone particularly better than before, but I hope it is. If it isn’t, I hope your conscience leads you to redemption. Some days you’ll cry for the person you used to be. Other days, you’ll cry because you don’t know who you are at all.

Also, the self you are mourning may not come back, but maybe she’s not meant to.

3. Your mind can be a great liar, but a persuasive one too.

The voices in your head sound like truth. They wear your voice and they convince you that your sadness is your identity. It is not. The fear, the worry, the trauma, the insecurities…they may be real but the fact that you can overcome them is also real.

4. Faith can feel both like a lifeline and a language you’ve forgotten.

I’m holding on to God, but on other days, I feel like I’m in my own world doing my own thing. Lost, like a child who forgot her way home.

5. You can carry beauty and sorrow in the same breath.

Gratitude and grief are not opposites. I am deeply grateful, and I am deeply in pain. I am learning that these seemingly contradictory states do not cancel each other out. Gratitude can live beside sadness. And you can be grateful and still want more.

6. Alone is not always lonely and lonely is not always alone.

I have a community that cares, this I know very well. However, loneliness doesn’t always come from lack. Sometimes it comes from being unreachable, even to yourself. You can feel surrounded by love and still feel alone. You can be held and still need space. People can love you deeply and still not hold you fully, same with you. That’s not failure, that’s humanity. Also, you may be a complex being but you are not hard to love.

Some relationships will become softer, quieter. Let them. Love doesn’t always need to be loud to last.

7. You will be tempted to disappear.

But there is always someone, somewhere, hoping you don’t. Sometimes you work extra hard to ‘erase’ yourself because if you leave first, then the possible dejection will not hurt (and you learn that you never really knew how afraid you were of being a disappointment because you’ve never had to disappoint the most important people in your life, until you did). Other times, you try to make yourself unlovable in hopes that if they leave, it eases the guilt that you are the one who actually did. You pull away, shut down, lash out; not because you want to be abandoned, but because you believe it’s inevitable. Still, somehow, love finds a way in.

Some seasons ask you to retreat. Not to disappear, but to gather. To go quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat again.

8. Closure doesn’t always come.

Sometimes you have to give it to yourself. Sometimes the door stays open, but you learn to walk past it anyway (I think some wise person once said this).

9. There’s no shame in imperfection – though I still feel it.

Sometimes the one thing you’ve always held together falls apart, the one plan that felt solid enough sublimes and the one thing you never thought would go wrong goes wrong. It happens.

10. A clean room or a cup of coffee can be the day’s only win.

And sometimes that has to be enough. I like a good cup of coffee now. On Monday afternoons specifically. It feels like a small truce with life.

11. Grief changes your relationship with time.

It becomes heavier. Every moment feels like it might vanish. Every goodbye feels permanent. Time becomes torture, slow and fast at the same time.

12. The pressure to “make it make sense” is crushing.

I am tired of making sense of things. Sometimes things are just senseless and that is what makes them hard.

13. There are truths you won’t know how to tell yet.

There are versions of my truth I have not spoken out loud yet. Not because I’m dishonest (the lie of omission is a thing), but because the truth is a lot, even for me. Because I don’t always know where to begin (my English Language teachers would come for me for starting a sentence with ‘because’). Sometimes, I just straight up lie, say things like “I’m good, thanks.” I’m working on it. A friend of mine usually says “I’m trying my best” instead.

14. Fitness goals are easy to break when just getting out of bed is a battle.

And yet I still judge myself for not being disciplined enough. Also, where do we draw the line between gluttony and stress eating? (a friend and I have been trying to figure this out. Yes, my friends make up a huge part of my life.)

15. I don’t know if feelings are real constructs.

And it’s funny how feeling nothing at all is also a feeling. Saying “I don’t know” is powerful, freeing too.

16. Your mother’s love can anchor you to the world when you want to disappear.

I don’t know if anything can come close to it. This is just my own experience of it. I know there’s much more to this. There are times when the sound of my mother’s voice is the only thing that matters, even when I don’t hear what she’s saying.

17. You can sit with a loved one, laugh and still want to vanish.

Yes, too much of the vanishing thoughts. Joy and emptiness often sit at the same table. I’m trying not to feel like a fraud for that, too much pretense and performance for my liking though. Sometimes showing up is the bravest thing you’ll do though. No grand gesture, just being there.

18. The beach still makes sense when nothing else does.

And I cannot believe I never experienced this until I was 19 and I still don’t get to as often as I would like. Also, romanticising your life is not delusion (or for me, at least not always), and I only learnt this once I stopped. It’s another form of survival. Painting sunsets while drinking red grape or apple juice. Wearing perfume just for yourself. Looking at the sky for a second longer. It all matters.

19. You may not be okay, but you are not broken.

Don’t mind me saying life broke me blah blah (it did though). You are tender. You are in process. You are still here.

20. Growth doesn’t always look like progress.

Sometimes it looks like breaking down. Like sleeping too much. Like canceling everything. Like showing up anyway. Losing motivation doesn’t mean you’ve lost direction, I think.

21. Healing is brutal.

Healing is not always visible, even to you. It’s not always crying in the shower. Sometimes it’s drinking water, answering that message and dressing up for lectures. Or at least I’d like to believe this gut-wrenching process is healing. I refuse to let it be anything else. This is a refinery. It’s gold being burned to purity. It’s pressure making diamonds.

22. I did say “20 or so”, lol! There is no rulebook for becoming.

There’s just you, here, now. Failing and trying. Falling and getting up. Hiding and still hoping. And the Pinterest quotes say that’s enough for today.

23. Politics stress me out far more than I would like.

I find myself occupying my head space about things I sometimes hardly even understand and it can get quite consuming.

24. I want to learn how everyone’s brain works.

And that’s probably impossible. This, coupled with my frustration about how life could be one big lie is just…!

25. Do not ignore your joys.

It’s a good thing to be at peace. Learn to detach from the melancholy. Laugh out loud if you feel like it. Dance. Sing off-tune. Giggle. Celebrate yourself. Pamper yourself. Compliment yourself and walk exactly as good as you feel.

26. Oh, well…

Five years from now, or even tomorrow, I might disagree with everything I wrote here and I guess, that too, is okay.

Maybe 20 sometimes is about walking through the fog even when you’d rather lie down. Even though, I’ve been doing more of the lying down than the walking through the fog lately.

The proper title for this should have been “20 Things I’ve Had To Come To Terms With In My 20 Years Of Life” but the current one sounds shorter and sweeter.

P.S. – This is not me romanticising negative thoughts or something. There is nothing sweet about feeling low beyond comprehension. This is me painting you a picture of my thoughts as they come and believe me, trying to find hope in the midst of pessimistic inside voices can look something like this at times. And yes, I may or may not have said that I am never writing again, I lied to myself.

.thegirlwhowantedtobethesun

Posted in All

AN ACTUAL PIECE OF MY MIND

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba

First things first, you are going to read this (especially if you are my loved one) and want to scold me and reprimand me. You are going to tell that this is me feeding the negativity and declaring a terrible reality upon myself. But, I promise you, that is not what I am trying to do. Please try to understand, utloisisa hanyane feela. This is me trying to express whatever it is that is going on in my mind, truths I am too afraid of slapping directly into your face. I just need to be heard, to be listened to, even if it’s just for a fleeting while and sometimes what I need to voice isn’t always pleasant. My thoughts are not always lovely and kind and sweet. You might also tell me that somethings are better kept to oneself, but I have been doing that my whole life and I feel like I am about to explode. I have a very strong urge to say, “I’m okay” and reassure you, but I am truly not. So much has been wrong, and as much this post is the plainest honesty, not wrapped around in metaphors, I have ever shared, it is just a little hint, I’m afraid.

I am not feeling particularly bold as I type this, or brave. I am afraid. I am dreary. However, I am also in need. I do not know what I need, but this is a plea. This is me, typing away past midnight, begging for something I cannot voice because it something I do not know.

This is not a rebellion. It’s just me, the me that even I don’t like.

It’s not a cry for help also. Tomorrow, I will wake up, go on about my day carrying the same rotten feelings. Do not pity me, for I do not want for the truest act I have ever done in a long time to be pitied, I want it to be remembered rather.

I am sorry, truly. Now start:

Before I begin, allow me to make one thing clear. I do not wish to die. Not even in my most crushed of state is death ever a thing I truly desire. Yes, I do not wish to partake in life and at times, I would like to erase myself from existence. I have found myself feeling very out-of-touch with the experience of life as it presented to me quite often. I fail to understand it and thus I fail to sustain the desire to be present in it.

It’s not sadness, not always. It’s not despair in the way people expect. It’s a kind of a slow mental drifting, like trying to hold water in your hands. The more I try to grasp life, the more it slips away. I look around and everyone seems to have bought into a system I can’t make sense of. You’re born, you’re told what to chase, who to be, what to value, but no one really tells you why. And the answers that are offered never seem to sit quite right with me.

People say, “this is just how life is.” But why? Why this version of life? Why these rules, this structure, this endless striving? What is the point of fighting for a place in a world that doesn’t explain itself? How am I supposed to want something I don’t understand?

It’s not that I want to die. It’s that I don’t see a reason to fight for a life I feel so estranged from. My body breathes, my heart beats, but my spirit stands on the edge, unsure whether to lean in or step back. I keep waiting for some grand revelation, or even a small sign – anything to tell me that being here is more than just surviving days I didn’t ask for.

I believe in God. Deeply. I believe in the principle that His will is never in vain. But I can’t help wondering – what if we’ve misinterpreted Him, just as we’ve misinterpreted so much else? What if everything we’ve come to know about life is based on borrowed truths, half-seen shadows, or well-meaning lies? What if the truth is nothing like what we’ve imagined? What if this is all a dream? Or a poorly translated reality? I find myself caught between wanting to live for the people I love, or what I think is love, and questioning whether these feelings are even truly mine. Sometimes I wonder if love, affection, care, sadness, anger… are just echoes of conditioning, neurons firing according to some ancient map I never chose to follow. Do I even have a brain? A self? Or am I just a character in a script I never got to read?

My mind is torn. Torn between continuing to participate in what often feels like a charade, for the people I love, or whatever this thing called love truly is. Because sometimes I wonder: are these feelings even mine or just something my brain has been taught to know, taught to perform? Do I even have a brain? A self? Or am I just a pattern of thoughts in a system I didn’t design?

I sleep a lot lately. Not because it helps. Not because it soothes me. My dreams are often painfully vivid, heavy with symbols and emotions I cannot decode. My mind does not rest, even when my eyes are closed. I sleep, not always from tiredness, but perhaps from resignation. From not knowing what else to do. I’m tired, yes, but there’s a kind of tired that’s deeper than the body. A tired that seeps into your questions, your faith, your identity.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone else feels this way and just never says it out loud. If everyone’s carrying their own version of this quiet confusion, this private ache. Maybe we’re all just pretending better than we realize. Smiling with our mouths and screaming with our minds. Or maybe I’m the only one this lost. Maybe that’s the scariest part – not knowing whether this is universal or uniquely mine.

I try to ground myself in routines. Eat, shower, study, smile, sleep, repeat. But even those start to feel like rituals without meaning, motions performed in the absence of belief. I look at my hands sometimes, and they feel like someone else’s. Like I’m a visitor in my own body, doing what I’m supposed to because I’ve been told it’s “normal.” But normal doesn’t feel good. It just feels… confusing. Safe in a way that puzzles me, yet very unsafe.

And I think about time. How it keeps moving, dragging me along even when I’m not ready. The days blur together, and I wonder if I’m really living or just being carried forward by some invisible current. Sometimes I think if I stood still long enough, maybe time would forget me. Maybe the world would pause and ask if I’m okay before pushing me onward again.

I envy people who seem certain. People who have goals and five-year plans and morning routines that mean something to them. I envy their conviction, even if I don’t believe it’s real. Maybe they’ve just made peace with the questions. Or maybe they’ve stopped asking altogether.

I keep hoping that somewhere in the chaos, I’ll stumble into something – a feeling, a person, a moment – that will make everything click. That will fill in the blanks. But it hasn’t come. Not yet. Maybe it never will. And I don’t know if I should be patient or give up searching altogether.

I think of my younger self a lot lately. The one who dreamed so loudly, who believed the world would one day make sense. I want to reach back and hold her hand. Tell her I’m trying. That I haven’t given up, even if it sometimes feels like I have. That surviving isn’t failure. That maybe being lost is a form of movement too. I also think though, of how she had questions, how she suppressed her confusion and how it was much easier for her to play. I am starting to wonder if there was ever a time in my life where I ever not felt out-of-touch with my life. From as far back as I could remember, I would wonder if my life were a dream and I am about to be woken up in my actual life and realize that I’ve had a long disturbing dream.

Sometimes I feel like no one knows me, not really. Not even myself. Who am I? What am I? What am I meant to be doing here? I exist, but I don’t quite feel myself existing. And that disconnect…that hollow ache of not-knowing, it follows me. Even in joy, even in company.

I don’t even like writing anymore. Or anything, really. I just write because I don’t have anyone to talk to in a way that makes me feel like I’d make sense, especially when I already don’t understand myself. I write because silence scratches at me, not because I enjoy this. I feel like a liar, a fraud; walking through the world wearing faces I didn’t choose. I say I’m fine. I say I’m functioning. I say I’m okay. But I hate it. I hate this pretending. I hate that I don’t even know where the pretending ends and the real me begins…if such a person even exists.

But still I wake up. Still, I move. Not out of clarity, but out of habit. Out of hope that maybe one day, the world might begin to make more sense. Maybe it’s the echo of my own questions keeping me alive. And until then, I’ll sit with this not-knowing. I’ll write through it. I’ll name it. Pray through it. Read through it. Seek clarity. I won’t pretend to understand life – but I’ll stay, at least for now, in case someday I do.

I want to believe there’s a reason I’m still here. That even in this fog, my being matters. That maybe, just maybe, feeling all this so deeply is its own kind of purpose.

Bye, for now, or forever. I don’t know. I feel really horrible.

.the girl who wished to be The Sun

Posted in All

The Light Mug

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
Written on 19.01.2025, part of my submission for a writing competition I lost. Inspired by this moment from 02.09.2024 and the bits and pieces of friendship, my home country and the love I’ve received and given even in moments where it felt like there was no energy to even feel love. For the people who continuously choose me without much of a reason to, for giving me a light mug to drink from even when the beverage tastes too bitter or feels too hot…thank you.

The air outside The Light Mug Café in Maseru carried the scent of freshly baked pastries and the faintest whisper of wood smoke from nearby braziers. The night was alive, and so were we. The city’s quiet sophistication mingled with the unspoken chaos of its streets, a juxtaposition as electric as the hum of anticipation that buzzed in our veins.

We were a motley crew of friends, bonded by the shared struggles of university and the hunger to escape them, if only for a while. Thabo, with his booming laughter that could fill an empty hall, was our ringleader. His charm was a magnet, drawing us out of our shells. Then there was Lebo, whose sharp wit often left us in stitches, and Palesa, the quiet observer, her eyes always searching for beauty in the mundane. I, Mpho, the narrator of this evening, brought my own quirks- a penchant for overanalysing everything and a deep-seated love for moments like this.

As we stepped inside, the warm light of the café spilled over us like a blanket. The room was a symphony of colour: terracotta walls adorned with Basotho hats, shelves lined with books and fairy lights that twinkled like fallen stars. The gentle hum of a jazz saxophone melded seamlessly with the chatter of patrons, their laughter and clinking glasses weaving a tapestry of sound.

We claimed a corner table, its surface polished to a mirror shine, reflecting our excited faces. Menus were handed out, though Thabo announced almost immediately, “I’m getting the chicken pie. The best in town, no debate.” Lebo rolled her eyes. “You’ve said that every time we come here, and yet you’re always surprised when it’s as good as you remember.”

The night unfolded like a slow, intoxicating dance. The café’s signature Light Mug Mocha – a decadent concoction of rich chocolate, espresso and a hint of cinnamon – became our centerpiece. Its aroma swirled in the air, inviting us to indulge, to savour, to let go of the weight we carried daily. We talked about everything and nothing. Lebo’s voice rose and fell dramatically as she recounted her most recent clash with a professor. Thabo countered with his latest attempt at cooking- a near disaster involving burnt rice and a smoke fest.

And then Palesa spoke. Her quiet demeanour often meant her words were rare but precious. “Do you think we’ll remember nights like this?” she asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper. The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Silence fell over us like a gentle snowfall.

I looked around the table, at the faces of my friends- their features softened by the glow of candlelight, their laughter lines etched by years of shared joy and struggle. “How could we ever forget?” I said, the words tumbling out before I could overthink them. “Nights like this are what life is made of.”

Outside, the city pulsed with its own rhythm. The lights of Maseru glittered like jewels scattered across a velvet cloth, and the distant sound of traffic was a reminder that life went on, even as we lost ourselves in this moment. Lebo nudged me, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re being poetic again. Write this down for your next masterpiece.”

We laughed, the sound spilling out into the café and drawing a few curious glances, but we did not care. For a few hours, the weight of exams, the uncertainty of the future and the world’s restless demands melted away. We were just us, a constellation of souls bound by a shared orbit.

As the night wore on, the café grew quieter. Plates emptied, conversations slowed, and the jazz saxophone’s melody softened. Thabo leaned back in his chair, his smile more subdued now. “We should do this more often,” he said, and we all nodded, knowing full well how life’s currents would soon pull us in different directions.

“Let’s take a picture,” Lebo said, pulling out her phone. We crowded together, laughing as Thabo insisted on being in the middle. The flash illuminated our faces, freezing the moment in time. It was not perfect – Palesa blinked and I was mid-laugh – but it was real. It was us.

As the night deepened, the reality of our situation began to weigh on us. We had not planned how we would get back to Roma. Public transport had long since ceased and taxis were no longer an option this late. Thabo joked about camping outside the café, but the flicker of worry in his eyes betrayed him.

“Maybe those guys can help us,” Lebo said, tilting her head toward a nearby table. A group of older men, loud and boisterous, had been watching us intermittently. Lebo’s casual flirtation; a glance here, a coy smile there, had caught their attention. One of them raised his glass in our direction, a sly grin playing on his lips.

My stomach lurched. This was Maseru, where the veneer of charm often masked darker intentions. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, my voice firmer than intended. Lebo raised an eyebrow. “Why not? They are offering a ride, or lodging.”

I glanced at the men again, their laughter grating against my nerves. They looked old enough to be our fathers, and I was done hunting for a father’s love in between strangers’ sheets. The thought sent a cold shiver down my spine. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “We’ll figure something out.”

Palesa sighed. “Do you have a better plan?” Her tone was not accusatory, just tired. We all were. The night had been magical, but the reality was creeping back in, unrelenting in its demands.

“Let’s ask the staff if they know someone reliable,” Thabo suggested. “We’ll pay extra if we have to.”

Relief washed over me. It was not a perfect solution given our student budgets, but it was better than relying on strangers with too many questions in their eyes. The café manager, a kind woman with a warm smile, made a futile attempt of calling a driver she knew. But as we waited for the driver to decide, something shifted in us. The initial worry began to dissipate, replace by a quiet acceptance of the moment we were still living in.

When we finally stepped back out into the night, the chill air was a stark contrast of the café’s warmth. We stood there for a moment, huddled together against the cold, reluctant to move and ruin the perfect stillness.

We eventually resigned to the back of The Light Mug, where the world seemed to pause. A small patio overlooked the dim-lit streets, and the stars were clearer than they had any right to be in a city, as if the universe itself had decided to put on a show just for us. Despite our initial plans to stay from alcohol, Thabo grabbed a lone bottle of wine from the counter. It was not stealing, right? Someone paid for it and probably forgot it there, we were showing it some grace. Lebo found a playlist on her phone, the soft hum of familiar tunes filling the air.

We cozied up together, sharing a single blanket someone had draped over a chair. The night’s chill wrapped around us, but it only made the warmth of our laughter sharper. We sipped wine from mismatched glasses, the tang of it grounding us in this surreal, unplanned magic. Palesa started singing a childhood song, her voice lilting and soft, and one by one, we joined. Off-key, forgotten lyrics, bursts of laughter in between but it did not matter. The stars did not mind and neither did we.

As the first hint of dawn kissed the horizon, we knew the night was almost over. We would find our way back home in the morning but for now, this was enough. The laughter, the wine, the stars…this was home, even if only for tonight. Would we remember this night? The laughter, the fear, the small triumph of making our own little home away from home? I did not know. But for now, it was enough to have lived it, to have the fullness of it. As I laid there, I tried to soak it all in; the weight of it, the beauty, the fragility, the fleeting magic of a night out with friends, where the world seemed to pause just long enough for us to breathe. That night, we were infinite.

.Mpho

Posted in All

DAY 1 – 29.04.2025

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba
SIP. BREATHE. STAY.

At times, I am thoroughly convinced that the mind possesses a will of its own, or more unsettling still, that it does not belong solely to me. Though I accept the truth that control is not an all-encompassing privilege we mortals possess, that unpredictability is stitched into the fabric of our humanity, I cannot help but wonder: if the mind is mine, entirely and unequivocally mine, should I not wield some semblance of authority over it? Should I not, at the very least, be able to hold the reins when it charges into unfamiliar terrain, to halt its unbidden voyage into territories I neither recognize nor desire?

Would it not be merciful enough to spare me the torture of its descent into chaos? Would I be subjected to the torment of thoughts that spiral, unanchored, into the shadows of memory, into speculative fictions laced with dread or into wounds long sealed but never quite healed? Well, it slips past my grasp, a runaway force dragging me into memory mazes, imagined futures, old wounds dressed in new stories.

My mind is like a relentless current, sweeping me along whether I protest or plead. It replays half-forgotten conversations like a broken cassette. It invents tragedies with staggering creativity. It tightens around my chest like an invisible thread, spun from a thousand “what ifs” and “if onlys.” It drags me into labyrinths of self-doubt, where logic cannot find me and calm refuses to follow.

There are days when I feel like a reluctant passenger, watching as my mind hurtles forward – too fast, too loud, too far. My form remains motionless, yet within me rages a storm too loud to silence. I long for stillness, for quietude, for the gentle hush of a mind at rest. But instead, I am hostage to its noise, a reluctant audience to its never-ending monologue. And yet, there is something painfully intimate in these moments too. A reminder that even what is most familiar can feel foreign. That we can live within ourselves and still feel lost. That we can be present, but not at peace. Alive, but unanchored.

I have tried to outrun it. I have tried distractions – throwing myself into work, into noise, into the business of becoming someone who seems okay. I have tried discipline, telling myself I should be stronger, that I should not be shaken so easily. That if I just think the right thoughts, the wrong ones will leave me alone. But they do not.

But maybe, just maybe, the mind’s rebellion is not betrayal. Perhaps it is a cry for attention. A plea to be seen, held, heard, especially in the moments I try to silence it most.

I have come to realize that the mind does not respond well to war. That when I fight it, it fights back harder. Louder. Sharper. More persistent. And so, I am learning – slowly, unevenly, sometimes painfully – to sit with it. To listen when it runs wild. To ask it where it’s going, and why. To meet its chaos with curiosity rather than shame. Maybe that is the most radical act of all: to stay. To stay when it is uncomfortable. To stay when it hurts. To stay and listen, not just to what the mind says, but to what it might need. And in doing so, to build a bridge – tentative, fragile, but real – between myself and the wild mind that shares my name. And though I still do not have all the answers, I am starting to believe that maybe control was never the point, connection was.

I used to think peace was the absence of noise. Now I wonder if it is the ability to stand inside the noise and not be swallowed by it. To let the mind run and still know who you are beneath its momentum. To let it speak, even scream, and still respond with compassion. Maybe peace does not look like perfect stillness. Maybe it looks like sitting in the storm and saying, “You are not stronger than me today.” Maybe it is in recognizing that I can feel overwhelmed and still be okay. That I can doubt and still choose to hope. That I can ache and still be whole. It is not silence, nor perfection, nor the elimination of struggle. It is presence. It is the decision to stay grounded even when the winds of the mind howl. It is the gentle resistance to being consumed. It is the refusal to abandon oneself.

There is a quiet power in befriending the mind, in offering it kindness when it least deserves it; when it is flooding you with doubt, dragging skeletons out of closets you thought were locked, whispering all the things you fear might be true. In those moments, I remind myself that I am not my thoughts. I am the space that holds them. I am the one who observes, who endures, who chooses again and again to stay.

And still, I falter. There are days when I am undone, when the noise wins, when I am caught in the undertow of my own inner world. But even then, I remind myself: this is not failure. This is practice. And practice, even in its messiest form, is a kind of devotion.

So here I am. Practicing. Trying again. Listening again. Holding space for the wild, the tender, the restless, the tired. Learning not just to survive my mind, but to trust that it, too, is part of the story I am becoming.

Perhaps this, in the end, is the quiet miracle of being human: that we can be afraid and still choose love. That we can be overwhelmed and still choose softness. That we can dwell inside turbulent minds and still carve out spaces of peace – fragile, fleeting, but fiercely our own.

Just this afternoon, during my study break, hands curled around the comforting warmth of an Americano, a chocolate muffin resting heavily on its napkin beside my laptop, I found myself thinking: perhaps the mind is not so different from this muffin and this coffee.

On the surface, the muffin appears simple, harmless – even inviting. But bite into it, and it holds pockets of richness you did not expect. Dark chocolate buried deep, melting into softness; sweetness and bitterness tangled together in one dense, unassuming form. Just like the mind – layered, unpredictable, not always sweet, and not always easy to digest.

Some bites are light and airy. Others catch you off guard; a chunk of something too intense, too heavy. There are moments when it crumbles messily in your hands, refusing to be neat or manageable. But still, you eat. Slowly. Patiently. Because even in its chaos, there is nourishment. Even in its mess, something warm remains.

Maybe my thoughts, wild and wandering, sharp-edged and soft-hearted, are like that too. Maybe they were not made to be perfect. Just present. Just real.

I watched the coffee swirl as the sugar dissolved, thinking how much it resembled the mind: dark, strong, chaotic in motion…but slowly, with stillness, it settles. The sweetness that once resisted now melts inward. The storm subsides. And in that moment, I remembered that peace does not demand the absence of chaos – it only asks that we sit with it long enough to see it change.

Maybe that is all I can do – sip, breathe, stay. Trust that in time, even the most restless storms will find their calm. And when they do not, at least I will be there – anchored, aware, and never truly alone within myself. So, I sit. I sip. I take another bite. I return to myself gently, knowing that I do not need to have it all figured out to be whole. I only need to stay.

.Mpho

Posted in All

REDEFINITION

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba

A month ago, I was desperate to find my way back to writing. Not just the act of putting words on a page, but the feeling of it—the unfiltered, soul-deep expression that once felt like second nature. I wanted to tell stories, to craft worlds, and to let my words breathe life into thoughts that had long been trapped in the quiet corners of my mind. I longed to feel that rush, that uncontainable urgency to capture life in ink. So, I dived in. The thrill felt like a long-lost companion finally finding its way home.

But something had shifted. The stories I told no longer felt like mine. The words felt rehearsed, cautious, stripped of their rawness so they could fit within the expectations I wasn’t even sure who had set.

A week ago, I found myself questioning if I still wanted to be a writer. Somewhere along the way, I had softened my edges, diluted my voice, stripped my words of their rawness to make them easier to digest, washed down the taste of my syllables to make them more palatable, more agreeable. I had begun writing for the echo of validation rather than the resonance of truth. It wasn’t a deception, but it felt like confinement—a self-imposed restraint that kept me from sharing the raw, unfiltered essence of my mind. I was burying my own voice under layers of expectation, silencing the echoes of my soul.

Maybe it was the weight of becoming. I realized I was no longer sure what my truth entailed anymore. The lines had blurred in my relentless pursuit of becoming something, someone. I have spent so long trying to live up to the version of myself that I once set out to be—the girl who was sure, who had a clear path, who carried her ambition like armor. And yet, I don’t know who that girl is anymore. Or maybe I never did. Maybe I have been performing for an audience that doesn’t even exist, measuring myself against a standard that only I am holding over my own head. And it is exhausting.

Maybe, though, this was never just about writing. Maybe it was about me. About the way I have been trying to define myself in neat little boxes, when in reality, I am made of contradictions, of shifting tides, of light and darkness interwoven. I have been told I couldn’t be everything at once, that I couldn’t embody contradictions, couldn’t live in the duality of opposing personas. but what if I that’s what I am meant to? What if I am meant to embrace it all—the paradoxes, the chaos, the depth? So, here I am, trying to redefine what that means for me.

The beauty of growth is that it isn’t linear. Identities evolve, perspectives shift, and passions rekindle in unexpected ways. Growth is not a straight path; it is a storm, a dance, a breaking and a becoming. Perhaps the writer I was before had to dissolve so that I could reconstruct myself into something new, something truer, something freer. Maybe I don’t have to choose between being one thing or another-I just have to allow myself to exist as I am, in all my complexity.

So, I write. Not for approval. Not for expectation. But for me. For you. For the boundless, ever-shifting, deeply human experience of expression. I write because stories matter. Because our human experiences, though unique, are woven from the same aching, yearning, loving threads. Because we deserve to be heard, to be understood, to be seen in the fullness of who we are. I write because it is my way of reaching out, of whispering to another soul, “You are not alone.” Sometimes, that other soul is me.

And that, I believe, is enough.

.Mpho

Posted in All

OPEN LETTER TO THE BREATH THAT BROUGHT ME BACK TO LIFE

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba

Maybe after all this, if you are still around somewhere, I’ll pass by. Would you allow me to come back home?

Last winter, I let my pen rest for a little while, but it seems the nib may have dried up as I nibbled on dark thoughts and anxieties which attacked my head, my heart and off to my every fingertip. Apparently tremors on your limbs could still render you paralysed. Or maybe I’m just a little insecure because sometimes these syllables do not feel sufficient. So, I apologise if I bleed on you too much tonight. It’s a shock that these words are not here to mock me, tease me and trick me into hoping I could appease thee. It’s been a while.

This is one is for you.

Hello, love. Nice to meet you once again.

Pause.

First things first, thought I’d let you know that I drink my coffee with milk and just enough sugar to wash down the bitter lingering taste of all the words I uttered in haste, or at least I used to. Things have been moving quite differently ever since I noticed how appealing the colour brown is to my eyes, and how rich unsweetened flavours are a delight to my palate, almost like a soothing caress on my tongue. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a monochrome girl but earth tones do seem like home, especially the darker shades.

I am told I tend to turn the things I feel deeply about into prose and poetry, little bit of a beautiful tragic reality. I think it’s a fair reaction, especially when art makes a sudden collision with part of your heart. You are art, right on the front display of museums and the middle shelf of bookstores.

Resume.

Here are five random things I wish I could tell you directly but are best left hidden within the pages of my old poetry books:

  1. You came into my life when I was moving in circles, searching for an oasis to wet these parched dried-up bones. And you were a well that stood right in front of me. Boldy. Unhidden. Wanting to be seen, commanding to be felt. So, since the desert was too hot, like a camel, I bent my head straight into your waters. I am still drinking; my thirst demands to be quenched.
  2. I am certain God made you on a Sunday because He needed Sunday to rest. Or maybe on a sunny Monday morning, called it “moulding the best”. You are beautiful. Ethereal. There is a certain almost magnetic power about the warmth you radiate and that gaze that always lingers. I think Newton would be proud of our obedience to the laws of Physics because what I feel in my field is definitely not repulsion, it’s a classic.
  3. I am starting to think that the candy that sealed our fate was foreshadowing how you’d eventually figure out all the sweet nothings nobody knew I wanted to hear and actions you never imagined I would fear.
  4. I like you. A lot. However, but also, be that as it may, you have been woven into soft beautiful intricacies; a little frayed at the edges but still a mosaic that deserves tender handling. And I am a ghost town, barely anyone here, barely anyone there. I burn for you. Fiery, violent, untameable. I have stumbled upon intended casualties before, that is why I know it is quite unwise to play with fire.
  5. I am grateful to you for waking up my pen and getting my ink moving. Thank you for the resurrection, the revival. But I haven’t left the graveyard yet.

.Mpho

Posted in All

From Me, To Me, and to you.

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba

The story does not end here.

Buckle up,

Let the ride blow your mind.

When I left my room, it reeked of forgotten dreams and a gluey sticky air of grief. Well, it was really just damp tissue paper, stale bread and the perfume I sprayed a little too much in hopes that it covers up the must and gives me a chance to feel a little more important, a little less like desperation and regretful fateful nights. My Bible is left open on my bed. The send-off did not go well, and now as I close the door and turn away from the open book of life, it feels almost like I have just turned my back away from the Giver of it too.

My mother always tells me to take small spoonfuls of food and eat slowly because rushing is only going to disturb my digestion, I think what she means is that I should not bite on more than I can chew. Another thing she calls me out on is the disturbing stubbornness which I have still not worked on changing, so see, my mouth is full, my tummy hurts and really, I am choking.

I went out today to go and draw some inspirational themes for the memorial of all the women I have ever been, or to hopefully find them somewhere along the way instead. Tell them hi and goodbye and it’s been a while, because I do not know when they packed their bags and left, but only a faint presence of them remains and I was never ready. I have been learning how to overcome loss and let go, but not a clue on when it’s versions of myself I am grieving.

I am 20 now, but I feel much more like the girl I was at 10, and even more clueless.

So, to myself,

Undo the pattern of fear-induced responses and the need to shrink yourself to fit into spaces which you should have never set foot in in the first place.

The only light you should switch off in the morning is that in your room, and not in your eyes. What purpose does it serve to shine and act out everything you are meant to be at night when the door is shut if you are going to bend your head when you walk out in the morning?

Unlearn the process of clinging on to what is no longer in alignment with you, was never in direction with your life and the habit of trying to turn temporary connections into forever relations. You are only subjecting yourself to an infinity of harmful attachments.

The kind of fire you should put out is one that destroys, not the burn of your fiery passion for life and love and beautiful things. Also, remember to stop burning your own house.

You are beautiful, and I have no idea where you got the notion that you were anything else but that. You were moulded using divine clay and loving hands, intentionally and purposefully. Do not shy away from that.

Teach yourself how to let love in without the fear that it will ultimately breed hurt and all things that make you want to run away instead. Free yourself from the anxieties of everything the world has told you. Guard your heart, but open it up to the chance of experiencing beauty because, you know how truly beloved you are, only it terrifies you much more than it fills you with warmth.

Learn to love people without giving up pieces of yourself or bending yourself to the point of your spine breaking. Love requires sacrifice, but it is not sacrifice.

Ice cream should be the one thing you like cold, not your heart. Your tenderness and your ability to feel is a gift and I need you to see it as such. Just master the art of managing all that chaos.

You still are very brilliant and very capable, and yes, sometimes your mind can lie to you. Practise telling yourself the truth more so that you can distinguish between the voice of fear and the voice of truth. So, go on, do it. Your world is waiting. Ready when you are.

You are fearfully and wonderfully made. Keep the faith. Talk to God, keep Him close. You know well enough that He listens.

I hope the room smells much better when I return. Open the windows, draw out the curtains, do some cleaning, spray some mist, play some music, stay away from bread for a while. You’ll be okay.

.Mpho

Posted in All

Hey, friend.

Posted on by Mpho Mathaba

To whoever, for whenever.

I hope you are well.

Restart.

I hope you took a breath today.

I walked into your room at 3pm two days ago and you were still in bed, curled up, eyes bloodshot. You dared to smile at me, I looked at you and your lips quivered. This year has presented quite an unexpected turnout.

Friend, I know life has been moving fast, and not in a good way. You seem to be a little more tired than usual lately, a lot more really. Even trying to perform and play pretend is something you are not acing much truly, good thing I guess. You do not play your early morning rock music which I used to never understand, or dance to your Amapiano beats. You do not go out for ice cream anymore, just for helpless past-midnight walks to any place far from all of it. No place IS far from any of it.

I am sorry, friend. I really am, my heart goes out to you. I am sorry that instead of admiring the beauty of the starry sky or gasping in joy as the night breeze hits your skin, you whisper “Hello, darkness, my old friend“. You told me last Tuesday that you wish the night monsters could find you roaming or something like that, but we are not five anymore and koko does not exist.

Lately, nothing seems to be going right for you and it has taken its toll. You are overwhelmed because you know that time does not stop to let you nurse your wounds and regather yourself. The rest of the world keeps moving as yours falls apart. You are tired. You want it all to end, or to reset. You want to go back to 2016, when everything was not moving as tumultuously, when the world was not as chaotic and when everyone was still alive.

You have cried more than you have laughed recently, and even your laugh does not echo anymore. It is not wholesome and boisterous, it does not force me to tell you not to disturb people at 2 in the morning and it does not bring you to tears or knock the breath out of you. It comes out tense and ends with a sigh. Your eyes do not crinkle when you smile, they just glimmer with the kind of sadness so grave it makes my heart physically ache.

Your nails have been bitten to their skin, and your lips too. You cried about toothache because being gritted is the new normal stance for your teeth. You pop Grandpa very frequently now, yet the headache never goes away. I never have seen you so anxious, so scared, so worried.

It has been truly heartbreaking to see you like this and friend, if I could make it all go away…

I want to let you know though that you are not alone. Just as you have continuously told me that we are in this together, I am reminding you of the same.

In a very recent unfortunate event, someone unlikely but very likely echoed my favorite line to me. REMEMBER TO BREATHE. It was not until she said it that it dawned on me that I do not remember the last time those words left my mouth or ran through my mind. I had forgotten to breathe so much that I had forgotten to even remind myself to try. To you as well, REMEMBER TO BREATHE.

It may not seem like much but for as long as the breath still fills in your lungs, comes back out and continues the pattern, there is possibility. Where possibility lies, lies hope, and vice versa. I know hope crashes. Hope crushes. Hope burns. But hope also rises up again. Hope also rebuilds. Hope restores.

I may not have the solutions or even know exactly what it is you are feeling. I may not know what exactly happened five years ago or five days ago. But I see you. I am you, to some degree. And I think you will be okay one day, some day.

You are loved. If not by anyone else, by me at the very least.

Love,

Your friend.