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american cultural imperialism and my psyche? curios, suspicious, unmasked

Its curious. i haven't written or opened this blog in over a year and i'm looking at my past writing style with curious suspicion. Style might not be the word but my voice in earlier essays sounds uncomfortably american. i'm embarrassed to realise that my many years of consuming american popular culture, often without much thought, has implanted an identity i have no business embodying. I chalk this up to my childhood of course. My siblings and i raised one another. We were home alone for most of our childhood while my parents worked ridiculous hours at low-paying jobs, leaving us with triple-locked doors and a TV that played too many american children's programmes. Regardless, in those pockets of time my pan-African father was around, he instilled pride in our culture and black africanness. He would remind me of our setswana heritage and had a policy that we should leave the english language we were taught in school at the gate. As soon as we entered our home, setswana...
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i'm getting outdated and i love it

In this whole fiasco about the fourth industrial revolution, getting future-fit with tech skills and the rave about learning how to code, I'm making a conscious decision to remain in the past. If I'm to be understood as a machine/computer by much of the thinking of the 4.0 IR then I would like to be counted as one of those computers whose software upgrade did not take. In a couple of years, I will be outdated and, I'm fine with that. I don't even think about my processing of this is at all revolutionary, bloomers probably felt this way when the global socio-economic structures began morphing in the 70s-80s. Perhaps this is how I stop using 'smartness' to justify my existence, maybe. Lovingly, Inolofatseng, an anti-millennial millennial. 
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anti-capitalist consumer

I fell into the rabbit hole of pop culture and found myself listening to the new Beyonce album while writing the literature review for my thesis. I am not even capable of simultaneously listening to music and writing but here we are, Beyonce has activated this latent skill within me. Sure, I am rhythmically wiggling in my seat as I write, but it is totally without my consent.  Because you see, these lyrics are adding to capitalist black feminism discourse, which I am obviously on the opposite pole of.  My enjoyment of 'Renaissance' is a delicious irony as I write about social and economic sustainability, from a leftist perspective, of urban renewal projects. I would be feeling a good dose of internal conflict if I hadn't resigned myself to the gloomy fact that I, indeed am an anti-capitalist consumer of capitalist content, and to a small degree, lifestyles.  Being in congruence sure feels nice. 
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i dont want to live anymore

 I've been feeling this way for long enough to want to write about it.  I deadass would rather not be alive. Being me is exhausting. I feel too deeply. I don't have enough time or space to process half the shit I feel. 80% of the time I'm not even sure if what I'm feeling belongs to me.  Being so...emotional is too lonely to bear. Perhaps I would be inclined to carry on living if it felt like I wasn't alone in this.  Because I'm alone, I have to die.  ✌
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Deading nun-mode, deading another identity

To celebrate three years of celibacy, I've decided to have The Sex. I'm taking this up because I've realised that I'm so attached to the 'horny celibate' identity that it's causing me unnamed suffering.  I'm scared of letting go of this about myself. It somehow feels like by no longer being celibate I will now 'have' to take on the title of hoe...again. A title that carries so much shame that I can't bear to act out my very strong sexual urges with a willing participant.  I want to have sex again, but I don't want to want to have sex again. I have reached an impasse with my internalized misogyny :(  Dit is 'n bitjie rof! Shamefully, Inolofatseng
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I laugh at funerals

I've never really understood why I laugh at inappropriate things. Until last night. I'm quite simply a rascal.  I'm so in tune with the cosmic giggle that when others see suffering, I see grace and perfect karmic unfolding. Why would I not laugh when my soul can sense that through whatever perceived pain there are potent seeds for awakening? I mean, I'm here with my evolving consciousness precisely because I have experienced great horrors-none of which I would trade back. Fantastic as spiritual awakening has been for me, I am however also aware that this ethereal point of view only honours a partial reality. If I'm to pay homage to my humanity, I need to allow my (human)heart to break in the face of suffering. And breaking it has beeeeeeeen doing. Now, I cry at least once a week even though my inner heart has never ceased to giggle. Joyously, Inolofatseng. R. Lekaba [R is for Rascal]
Location: Johannesburg, South Africa
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I'm not a womxn but...

i'm still kinda sorta a womxn😖😖😖 this confession follows despite my recent exit from the gender binary system. My 'coming-out' as an androgynous ET was in the form of a wholesome Instagram post explaining succinctly why I have no business being a womxn, regardless of how i'm perceived. This declaration of independence ushered in a superficial feeling of freedom. Indeed, i felt my proverbial wings unfold gracefully and prepare to take flight as a result of my now publicized gender nonconformity. I say 'superficial' not because it's fake,  but rather 'cause it's legit not that deep. See, i have a highly developed skill of living in the clouds and ignoring 'reality'. Hence, i mostly go through life evading the thousand and one ways in which my subconscious still embodies the conditioning of the patriarchal, misogynistic gender binary.  For instance, a couple of days ago I was reflecting on how freeing it is to finally withdraw my participatio...
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