why is no one following me?

mmmmhhhh... a couple of blog newbies that i'm following aren't following me... must get new fans, i mean friends...

i haven't published much lately because a) my laptop was stolen almost a year and a half ago, and b) my new laptop and i haven't bonded like that yet (i'm currently using my first macbook, sans iWorks or MS Office for Mac. instead i'm using Open Office which, for all it's virtues as a distinct up yours to the microsoft monopoly, is still a pretty crap piece of software). my "documents" folder is filled wiht half-written, half-baked, half-arsed random rants that i keep thinking i will flesh out, but obviously this hasn't happened.

but be patient dear loyal reader, i will soon be with you once more... wait, who am i talking to? i don't have any fucking followers!!!...

My letter to the editor of the Sunday Times Lifestyle section in response to Diane Awerbuck's review of "A Man Who Is Not A Man" by Thando Mgqolozana

Reading Ms Awerbuck's review of Thando Mgqolozana's novel, A Man Who Is Not A Man (Ritual Abuse, July 26) has left me with feelings that can only be described as being in conflict with each other. As a Xhosa man having experienced the rite therein described, my natural instinct is to defend my heritage and cry out in outrage at such sacrilege. This is something, while the antipode of my urge to applaud Mr Mgqolozana's courage in shedding light on so misunderstood a tradition, that I nevertheless am unrepentant about. Though I too have broken the vow of secrecy in one way or another in my own personal effort to demystify a tradition I cherish as one of the few remaining links to the mythology and religion of amaXhosa.

Ms Awerbuck's analysis gifted me with a certain sense of empathy which elevated my notion of the book's value in a campaign I would like to assume I share with Mr Mgqolozana. Having successfully completed my own period of “eating little” and “tending [my] small fire” with not so much as a sneeze in the middle of a somewhat sunny Eastern Cape winter, I do confess that the plight those of my fellow initiates who weren't as fortunate was completely lost on me. I was told stories of boys my age or even younger whose uncooperativeness resulted in the most horrendous of outcomes. Disobedience was not to be tolerated. It was important to remember that I knew nothing of what was to happen and therefore I should listen, watch, and repeat – to do as I was told.

I also confess that I did eat quite a lot – including an almost complete goat left over from umojiso that hung in the middle of my hut for about a week while my cousins who kept an eye on me and the extremely humourous gentleman who nursed me went to it daily and cut enourmous chunks to put on the fire for any and every mealtime. These would be consumed over raucous and unbelievable tales of days gone by, things that happened that afternoon and plans for tomorrow. Each time I was reminded that this bounty was all my doing and that I was a gracious host for inviting all there gathered in the very first household I could call my own. And this was my reward for allowing myself to be led like a small child, new and unknowing, through a world I was experiencing for the very first time.

And so arises my conflict with Mr Mgqolozana's novel. Although I am yet to read the book and believe, from what Ms Awerbuck tells about it, that it really is worth reading – especially for umXhosa such as myself – I also think that it threatens the very thing I believe pivotal to the success of my own circumcision. I would like to believe that the secrecy around the rite of circumcision is not some throwback to a world of superstition and conspiracy. To not know what awaits you beyond the moment you are led from your home, coupled with the knowledge of the gravity of tradition, transmogrifies you into a blank canvas. This is the very mindset that is encouraged in order to train out of a young recalcitrant boy, the folly and irresponsibility of youth, and imbue in him the values and tenets of manhood.

In a time when much of what is manifestly evil and horrible about society is acted out by black men, the power of such an institution and the value of its outcomes, in the instance of appropriate execution, cannot be underestimated. But the blackballing of those who are not as fortunate as myself and indeed any of the majority who do come out alive and intact, is a sign of the unfortunate application of the tradition. One, I'm ashamed to admit, that I have never stopped to consider until I read Ms Awerbuck's review.

I look forward to reading Mr Mgqolozana's book, but I hope no one that is yet to go through this rite does. And I hope the powers that be will be able to open their minds and read it too.

genesis - the beginning

so how did i get here?

well, when i came out (makes me sound like a debutante don't it?) internet dating was something you rarely heard about on american tv shows. in sunny s.a. we could hardly even get enough bandwidth to send email, let alone create fanciful profiles complete with pics of various bodyparts and video, webcam, instant messaging... ndibala ntoni na?

when i came out, being me was still very taboo and you were either closeted behind 3-inch reinforced steel or you wore your pride colours on a sequined dress and 10" heels. the only way you could meet someone was if you were the blatantly OTT one attracting the DL brother, who would follow you out of the shebeen you were drinking at with your friends to the dark corner you went to pee in. he would then say something like "do you know " to indicate that he knew what you're about and is therefore interested. you would then have to ply him with alcohol until he was near-paralytic, but not quite comatose as he still had to drag his own damn self to your friend's house, where you would proceed to have your way with him. or rather, he would have what he wanted from you and promptly pass out, snoring, next to you, facing the other direction and smelling of yesterday's brew, feet, armpits, balls and ass.

when i came out, being with another gay man was considered a rare form of lesbianism which would result in endless taunts from bitchy bosom buddies, and in some rare cases ostracism from the gay community to which you belonged. and so it became that we took on the heterosexual model and applied it to ourselves. we became bottoms and tops. we assumed the requisite roles, and played "poppiehuis" with a never-ending revolving rollerdex of new (and sometimes recycled) boys every weekend. we wore mascara and women's pants and tops. we spoke at the highest octaves we could muster. we carried ourselves with a regal demeanour befitting of a wife of the house of windsor. we were antagonistic. we were well-liked and loved by everyone because we were entertainment.

and then one day i woke up (literaly and metaphorically) and realised i'd had enough of entertaining the masses. i'd had enough of playing someone else's caricature of what they think i should be. and so i did so intense soul-searching yada yada yada yada... and i arrived somewhere... not where i am now, but somewhere...

it wasn't until i had a full-on back and forth with one of my oldest and dearest friends did the lightbulb finally go off... he said: be the man you want to attract. simple nhe? not so simple in application though...

it demanded that i do a complete overhaul of me. well, ok maybe i'm just being a little melo there, but it did require a shift in perspective. i became less of a character, and i became... me.

but what to do about attracting a mate? it's all good and well to be me and feel comfortable in my own skin and not have to endure the unbearably judgmental stares of complete strangers, but it won't get me the cute boy in the till in the next aisle at the suparmarket's phone number now will it? i mean i have no way of telling if he bats for my team, and now, with my newly made-over self, he wouldn't be able to tell that i'm a wide receiver either. conundrum. catastrophe. loneliness???

in steps the internet...

but that's a story for another day....

intro - the first movement

welcome.

being a novice at this, and not much inclined to reading others', i'm a little at a loss for what to say in my very first blog. that is not to say that i have nothing to say. in fact i think the problem is that i have too much to say.

maybe i should start with what i'm hoping to achieve here.

this is going to be collection of my most intimate ramblings.

to begin with: i've just discovered the facebook party. i believe it's the future.

i'm sitting at the southern sun grayston on rivonia rd with one of my oldest and dearest friends. both of us with our laptops on the table, barely saying a word to each other and conducting multiple chats with friends, both mutual and exclusive. what is this world coming to?

the fun part is we're sharing the experience.

this is what one might come to expect of this blog.

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and so after a few stops and starts with the initial entry into the blog, i've finally settled on an overarching theme for it. the blog that is, not this particular entry necessarily.

my friends have been hounding me to chronicle my exploits in the invariably treacherous dating field. having been single for most of my life, i'm what you might call a seasoned dater. i recently experienced love in what was on my part it's purest form, and since that ended i've been on a never-ending quest to reclam it - not from the same person, mind you. i'm not one to peel potatoes twice.

but yesterday, as i was walking out of my office to catch a taxi i had an epiphany. an oprah a-ha moment. i don't really want to be in a relationship. i'm quite content with being single - bar the little problem of lonely nights in an empty bed (worsened by the mandatory jozi evening thunderstorms). so what i've resolved to do is to do it like the do it on american tv. i will now become a professional dater. and to that end will go on as many dates with as many people as i can handle. and you, my dear reader, will get to hear about it - blow by blow! (was that a pun?)

why, you may ask, would this be interesting to you? well it doesn't have to be really. but you're here and my mission is to both entertain you and myself, while preserving my experiences for posterity, here on the life and times of the fumi.

i mean, i'm the same guy that went on three dates with one guy and decided he was to be the father of my childred - i moved in with him, bought a stationwagon, a labrador and we had 2.5 kids... all in my head of course. and when he told me we were just friends, i went on a never-ending drinking spree to drown my sorrows (or rather let them float while i poke at them with my cigarette), which culminated in me crashing my car (which would explain why i was running after a taxi yesterday). of course, the events didn't quite follow on with such precise and rapid succession as i'm letting on at the moment - but it helps with the pathos so indulge me.

so let's get on with it... and i hope you enjoy what i've got to say... i know i do ;-)