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Tag: lobola

HOLAA Loves: Cindy and Lunga’s Nuptials, tradition and modernity meet

  •  Posted in Blog, HOLAA! Loves, Sex, Relationships & Love
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By HOLAA ed, In this short photo essay we are allowed a sneak peek into the wedding of Lunga  and the person she calls ‘her butch’ Cindy. The pair are both from Mohlakeng, Gauteng South Africa and met on the 5th of November 2009. They got engaged on the 25th of December 2011, with the […]
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Je suis tombée amoureuse de la manière dont tu as vu mon désir. De ce que tu écris à propos des femmes. De ce que tu écris à propos de moi. http://holaafrica.org/2017/10/20/a-toi-une-exploration-du-desir/A toi : une exploration du désirA toi : une exploration du désir en AnglaisPar Anonyme et AmourachéeMon amour.Mon cœur se serre douloureusement dans ma poitrine et j’ai l’impression qu’il est à la fois trop gros et trop étroit. Cela fait maintenant un moment que je t’observe de loin.Au début, intriguée, captivée par ton charme.Tu me rappelles une fille que j’aimais. Une fille que j’aime toujours. Tu lui ressembles beaucoup à cet instant précis, alors que tu te balances au son de la musique, tête inclinée vers le sol, comme si tu étais quelque part d’autre.Je suis tombée amoureuse de tes cheveux et de l’encre sur ta peau. De tes gros foulards et tes jupes courtes. Je suis tombée amoureuse de la manière dont tes mots conversent avec les miens comme s’ils avaient une fois dansé sur de la musique Soul, se caressant les doigts et internalisant un profond désir d’être vu et aimé, de voir et d’aimer.Je me mets à imaginer le labeur de ta respiration et la douleur profonde que tu ressentiras lorsque tu penseras à moi.Je me mets à imaginer qu’au début, nous serions toutes deux timides. Mais nous nous souviendrons de la valse passée de nos mots nous nous rappellerions que nous ne sommes pas inconnues l’une à l’autre.Je m’imagine que nous passerions les dimanches après-midi ensemble, au lit que tu respirerais profondément mon parfum, que tu me dirais que je suis la seule à m’exciter autant pour toi et tu me demanderais de le refaire. Je me souviendrais de nos mots valsant ensemble et je coulerais à flots.Je m’imagine que nous perdrions des semaines entières.Mon amour.Je suis tombée amoureuse de la manière dont tu as vu mon désir. De ce que tu écris à propos des femmes. De ce que tu écris à propos de moi. Je suis tombée amoureuse de la manière dont je me retrouve dans une autre personne. De l’amour infini d’une peau noire sur des femmes noires.Mon amour.Je suis tombée amoureuse de moi et ainsi, de toi.J’ai imaginé les mots que tu écrirais à mon propos. Et maintenant, je les écris pour toi.Wanja almost passed Kiserian in the stairwell. It was the quiet ‘you’re late’ that alerted her to her girlfriend’s presence. Wanja stopped in her tracks, and a scream settled in her throat. ‘Am I?’ Wanja asked, trying to feign nonchalance. Kiserian stood up slowly, quietly, and walked to the door and stood there, waiting for Wanja to open the door. Kiserian definitely had a key but everything she did was calculated. http://holaafrica.org/2017/10/19/wanja/WanjaBy Chediac HigashiWanja walked quickly, the stones on the road poking her through her thin-soled shoes. The air was merely cool but because of the pace at which she walked it became cold against her skin, nipping at her nose and cheeks. Despite this, Wanja was sweating. Her armpits were moist and itchy, this was due to something else. It was the time of the evening just after sunset. The light left the most of the world but not all of it, enough for people to start turning on the lights in their houses. There were no streetlights on this road, but there were kiosks on one side and taxis on the other. There were houses behind the kiosks, towering over them like mountains. A mix of the luminescence from these structures offered enough light. There were a lot of people on the road as well, that’s the thing about these kinds of areas, so many people. The people on the road, were of no interest to Wanja, her eyes were set ahead, to the little curve in the road. Once she got there she would know. Wanja got closer to the bend and began to slow down. The change in pace was out of fear and necessity, she was approaching ‘mama mboga’ and she knew she had to get spinach for tonight. She knew what they were having for dinner every night. There was order. There had to be order. It was the order that gave her comfort. That meal timetable, and the chore wheel were the things that were constant. Wanja stopped at the shop and flashed her smile. That winning smile that few could resist. The smile that hid all the secrets and made everything else irrelevant. ‘Naweza pata spinach ya twenty, tafadhali?’, she asked, already rummaging through her bag for her coin purse. ‘nikukatie?’ the young lady asked, picking out spinach leaves that amounted to thirty shillings. The question was more rhetorical than anything, people who came to buy vegetables at this time of the day were not interested in cutting their own vegetables. Wanja was not paying attention to the woman anyway. She was looking down the street at the windows in her flat. Their flat. The windows were dark, the fluttering in her heart settled, somewhat. She looked at the woman cutting her vegetables briefly, and then fixed her eyes back at the windows. She was sure the lights would go on at any moment, and her fluttering begun again. The sound of the knife cutting through the vegetables was like a metronome, counting time, counting down to the minute she would see that white fluorescent light go on.Wanja began the last leg of her trip, her eyes fixed on the windows, waiting for the indicator. The stairwell was not very well lit, every house had the switch to their hallway light and not everyone was willing to pay to have other people see where they were going. Wanja almost passed Kiserian in the stairwell. It was the quiet ‘you’re late’ that alerted her to her girlfriend’s presence. Wanja stopped in her tracks, and a scream settled in her throat. ‘Am I?’ Wanja asked, trying to feign nonchalance. Kiserian stood up slowly, quietly, and walked to the door and stood there, waiting for Wanja to open the door. Kiserian definitely had a key but everything she did was calculated. The duo walked into the house in silence. Wanja knew the drill now, there would be silence until Kiserian talked. It was not always like this, but, Wanja could not remember a time when it was not. Now, Kiserian was always angry or sulking or distant. It was always something and Wanja was always on eggshells. The thought of leaving had crossed her mind, why not? What was keeping her here? Was there enough love left between the two of them to justify staying? The silence in the house was deafening. Wanja went into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Procedure was calming, it always was. As she moved around the kitchen, Wanja was aware of Kiserian moving around the house doing things, things unknown. Kiserian was a shadow in in the background silent but ever present. Wanja wondered how long this episode would last. Most importantly, what had she done wrong this time? As she cut the onions, she let the tears come, it was part of the ritual, use the onions to hide the tears. Wanja had learned to hide her pain in so many ways. Kiserian plopped herself in front of the television and waited for food to be ready. Silently flipping through the channels. She was not watching the television, she was using the television as another weapon. Everything was a tool, if you were calculating enough. That night as they lay on opposite sides of the bed, their phones illuminating the dark, Kiserian finally broke the silence. ‘I want this to be over’, she said in the direction of her girlfriend. This was not new, Kiserian broke up with Wanja at least twice a week. She knew Wanja could not leave, Wanja knew she could not leave. This was part of a play, Wanja was meant to wail and beg. And as her tears flowed down her cheeks, Kiserian would use that opportunity to tell her everything that was wrong with her. Kiserian would list off, from the top of her head, the reasons why she could not possibly stay together and then finally, as Wanja heaved and dried her tears she would ‘give in’In the dark, Kiserian waited for the water works to start, waiting for the drama to start. And then the response came. ‘Okay’, Wanja said. She said it not in a small timid voice, it was not shaking with emotion. The voice was firm and resolute. Kiserian was taken aback, ‘I mean, you can’t even get home before me, you cannot take care of me,’ she said to the mound that was Wanja. Wanja got up, put on the light, looked her girlfriend in the eye and said, ‘I am not good for you, so I am leaving’. She then took down her suitcases and began to pack. For the first time in a long while, her hand was steady and her heart was settled. This piece forms part of the #QueeringTheCloak series which is part of a larger project exploring sexual, emotional and physical violence in queer women spaces on the continent. The project seeks to essentially ‘pull back the cloak’ on shame and silence around this violence.For all the articles and pieces on #QueeringTheCloak click here.Also an article on 11 Signs You Are being Gaslight in a relationship and another 10 things the author learned from someone using gaslighting as an abuse tactic. For more on supporting people here is a piece on supporting someone in abusive relationship and also a piece where the woman says At least she didn’t hit me”. There is also a piece by a woman who writes a letter to her ex abuser’s new girlfriend. Also some healing words for after the relationship is done. *leave a comment on the post, you can write it under a different name and your email will not be published.*To submit to HOLAA! email submissions@holaafrica.orgWhat does breaking your virginity mean when you are queer? (Podcast) http://holaafrica.org/2017/10/18/holaa-loves-what-does-breaking-your-virginity-mean-when-you-are-queer-podcast/HOLAA Loves: What does breaking your virginity mean when you are queer? (Podcast)Question: If you have never been penetrated but have had tonnes are you still a virgin? What about touch me not dykes and gold star lesbians? What is their virginity status? Also, what about the fact that you can lose your hymen from riding a bike?At the end of the day what does this virginity thing even mean for everyone let alone queer women? We sat down and spoke about being queer and ‘losing your virginity’ with our faves from Zambia and Botswana!For more our podcasts click here. We have one on getting head, one on faking orgasms, one on femme invisibility and even one on sex and mental health.black-lesbian-magic: Red is the color of love! ❤ Congratulations to @rondabmua and her wife @tahirame_!! 💍💐____________________________#bold #red #love #wedding #lgbtwedding #queer #qwoc #qpoc #blacklove #lgbt #lgbtq #lgbtqia #loveoutloud #blacklesbians#QueeringTheCloak get up from the table she love is no longer being served - Nina Simoneradtasticly-anomalous:s u n d a z e with this lovely lady make my heart melt like a popsicle on the Fourth of July😊😊😊😊radtasticly-anomalous:s u n d a z e with this lovely lady make my heart melt like a popsicle on the Fourth of July😊😊😊😊radtasticly-anomalous:s u n d a z e with this lovely lady make my heart melt like a popsicle on the Fourth of July😊😊😊😊weare52pc: Quote shared by Njoki Kavoi #WeAre52pc
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