… and then I kissed her (I)


“I’m sorry for all the shit I’ve put through,” I started as she unlocked the door to her apartment. She was startled at first but she relaxed when she recognised my voice.


“What are you doing here?” she turned around as I took the last drag of my cigarette. She was a mess, but then again, so was I.


“I’ve been waiting for you. Y’know…”


“No, I don’t.”


“I though we could talk, since…” Didn’t know what else to say, so, I took a couple of steps in towards her.


“Look, it’s almost six. I’ve had a long night. I need to shower and the sun’s gonna rise real soon.”


“Sunrises were our thing.” I smiled hoping to disarm her but she looked me dead straight in the eyes.




“Okay, I get it. But please… let me in.” For a second, I was expecting her to slap me across the face like she had done the night before but she ushered me in. I knew her apartment like the back of my hand. Everything was exactly like how I last saw it, almost a year ago. We used to be inseparable but now things were painfully different and we hadn’t spoken since. Well, not really as there was the episode, last night where we exchanged profanities, poured drinks on each other and we were eventually kicked out of the bar where Dev’s farewell party was being held. She said she’d stopped counting the days since we last spoke because apparently the minute you stop counting the time after a break-up, you get over it quicker. She probably got that from those girly magazines she read, it’s a load of bull. From the profanities she hurled my way the night before, she was suppressing it all.


I went to the kitchen and found her fiddling about with some glasses. I sat on the counter – I knew she hated that.


“Want something to drink?”


“What do you have?”


“The usual.” She held up a botlle of whisky.


“Sure. No ice.” I chuckled. She measured out the liquid into two tumblers and slid one across the kitchen table, just out of my reach. So, I got off the counter, grabbed the glass and took a sip, “maybe I’ll have some ice.”


“Fresh out.” she shrugged.


I followed her to the lounge, she was on the couch flipping through a magazine, aimlessly. I started to playing around on her iPod and The Cardigans came on. 


“How did you get here?”


“Cab. You?”


“Oh, they let me in after you disappeared. So, I got a lift with Zee and them.”


“That’s cool…”


“Yeah…” I caught her mouthing the part where the song goes:


and if you want me I’m your country


 before she took a sip of her whisky. She turned to me “so, you’re here?”


“Yeah, I came to apologise and see if-“




“That’s the thing, though, I came here so we could-“


She didn’t let me finish, instead she went on this rant about how I couldn’t blame her for thinking that I had all of last night’s events planned. Granted, I’m not too keen on Dev’s pretentious crowd but the minute I found she was going I knew I had to be there and do something, the only thing was that I didn’t know what I was going to do but whichever way I ended up where I wanted to be, at her place with Nina Persson and company providing an apt soundtrack.


“You can’t act like that especially after you disappeared on my ass a year ago!” She got up to light a cigarette and stood at the balcony.


… to be continued








Content Protection by DMCA.com

Guilty Cubicles

Him: Ouch!
Her:  What’s wrong?

Him:  That hurts.
Her:  Should I stop?

Him:  Fuck! Feels like someone’s throwing marshmallows at me.
Her:  Excuse me?

Him:  It hurts.
Her:  Like marshmallows? You can’t be serious.

Him:  What? It hurts. OK!
Her:  Right. Um, should we try it a different way? Not that there is.

Him:  No. Thanks. That’s it for me. I just need a smoke.
Her:  Well, you do know we don’t give out refunds.

Him:  Whatever, you look like you need the money anyway.
Her:  Gee, you’re the one who wanted this, okay. I’m just doing my job.

Him:  Yeah, sorry. Maybe another time?
Her:  Great, another satisfied customer. Got a light?

Content Protection by DMCA.com

Bandz A Make Her Dance?

… if you haven’t heard this Mike WiLL Made It production, where have you been? 

It was Aristotle Onassis who once said that if women did not exist, then “all the money in the world would have no meaning.” He was right. Matthew Fitzgerald declared that women unconsciously package themselves as commodities with make-up, jewellery and shape-revealing clothing forcing men to rely on attraction tactics such as driving expensive cars and bragging about present or future earning power just to catch one. But lately, some men are just taking the whole money thing to another level.

Just ask Ava, see, for 2013 we decided to come out of the woodwork and start frequenting the compelling world of the café-cum-club, as they serve better cocktails than coffee, and we all know that it really does go down in café-cum-clubland, at night.  One of the most familiar figures to be found in the poorly maintained minimalist setting that is the café-cum-club is the adventitious male of a certain age, dressed to fit in and believed to possess infinite riches. This type usually travels alone or in pairs, huddled around the small tables and trying not to look uncomfortable in the post-modern chairs while sipping on draught and perhaps the single malt, puffing away on cigars. Their favourite activity is to infiltrate groups of younger females and offer them alcoholic beverages in the hope that one will return his kindness with sexual favours. The women usually accept, give them a bit of attention and then go about their night.

But, when the desired female is with male company, these men get crafty as they assume she is already being bankrolled for the night by said male company – which, by the way never happens when we go out with Try, we always pay for him *Oi! I have a girlfriend I spend on – Try* So, in Ava’s case, the older man ordered a waiter to deliver his intentions: a black bill holder with a wad of cold hard cash and a note that read:

“For you, baby gal… too fine!!!”

At the same time as the Juicy J track blasted over the speakers. After thinking about it, she turned it down – yes, yes we were all bummed – and we left.

The following day, she deserted us for a solo lunch – more like a regretful lunch – at a bar when she turned and saw the same man from the night before. She had a plan. He noticed her and decided to join her table and to absorb her bill. They conversed, had drinks until he suggested they dine in another part of town. Like any single girl these days, she secretly took a picture of him, his car and registration, sent them to me and headed for more drinks, food and “honest” conversation. They then moved back to our side of town – for more drinks – until he had enough, the charade was on for six hours thus far. He looked at his watch, then asked for the bill before stating his vexation “so, Av, can’t we go to your place so we can get it on? It’s getting late.”  She looked up from her phone and dryly said “no” then she continued to IM me about how she thought that a guy she referred to as “Zen Master”  *don’t ask*  was in the same bar and what she should do to approach him. The man abruptly left her. Unperturbed, she called me telling me to come over as she had a backlog of cocktails waiting to be consumed and we could look-out for Zen Master together. I came running.

Peacocking – men who believe the biggest myth in the history of attraction and finances are prone to succumb to it. Yes, money attracts women. It’s a genetic urge. Since the dawn of human existence, the human female, like females of pair-bonding animals wants copulation with the best male, in other words, the man that could provide goods and services to her and her sprog. However, with the introduction of the monetary economy, women have also evolved and realised that all they need is money and they have developed a way to ensure that they get it. The simplest way being toying with the idea that a man may have a chance in bedding her only if he spent a bit – or a lot – on her. Some choose to give it up for reasons one will never wholly understand, while others want not to as they are familiar with the low-investment mating strategy** that is characteristic of the peacock.  Flashy spending may get a woman’s attention, but that’s where it ends. She’ll still go for someone else, like Ava and her eternal lust for Zen Master *or a pool boy like most bored housewives do when their husbands are at work – Try*, and the peacock is back in café-cum-club land throwing racks.

So really now, who’s fooling who?

**low-investment mating strategy of peacocks, explained by Jonathan Beber "once a peacock has impregnated a peahen, his job is done.  The peacock doesn’t stick around to help raise the offspring."
Content Protection by DMCA.com

Girls Who Drink Beer…

are off-putting, approachable, manly, turn-ons, unattractive, brave, disgusting, desirable, trashy, wife-material, wild, down-to-earth, secretly lesbian, one-of-the-guys, broke, hot, drunks, faking it, fuckable… really?

This past Sunday evening, I was somehow talked into joining Try and his friends for a game of poker – an STT to be exact. Okay… so I willingly went, but only because I really miss playing poker offline. Anyhow, from the sound of it, Try had told his buds that we was bringing along a friend, which they probably interpreted as “male-friend” – and even if he told them my name, they’d still think I was a guy – because when it was time to get the drinks going round, one character called Ace (who I assumed was the host) apologised, zealously for that matter, as the only beverage being served was *drum-roll* BEER. I replied “that’s OK”, smiled, grabbed a cold one and posted blind while a debate – where the aforementioned adjectives were thrown around – brewed.

Maybe it’s because it’s liquid bread – women are known for their love-hate relationship with carbs – or the fact that it’s associated with trucker cap wearing pot-bellied men with plumber pants, but girls who consume it are always and without a doubt gawked at… same for men who have an affinity for so-called “pink drinks” but that’s another post.

“Sorry, still can’t believe you actually finished a whole beer and you’re getting another one,” that was Si, after my first beer of the night.

Ace’s spirited apology should have prepared me for his opinion on the matter.”Well, it all depends on what beer it is and what she’s using to drink it. A girl that drinks like Amstel, Heineken, Peroni and stuff is okay but [milk] stout and [Carling] Black Label is like hard-core, man. Nah man, she’d probably beat me up. Same for a chic that drinks from the bottle or a quart.” 

Then there was Paul, the token Pom. “Half a pint is cool, yeah. A full pint means she’s trying to be a man, but two half pints is cool.” That doesn’t make sense since a full pint is cheaper. “Well, I’m paying and those girly drinks are bloody expensive, mate. Beer is cheap, so I can always afford to take her out.” Figured Paul’s just intimidated by a girl with a pint.

“Girls who drink beer actually know a bit more about what they like to drink than the ones who drink them pink drinks. They are sexier, more confident, fun and independent than say the girl sitting at the bar pounding back margaritas for no other reason than to get crunk.” That was Joey, who I think is confused, maybe girls drink beer because they like it and anyone can go on a getting crunk on beer mission – it may take longer, but it works – and a margarita is not a pink drink.

“Well, fellas,” finally, Try’s turn, “think about it… Girls who drink beer aren’t offended by the multitude of sexual innuendos and jokes that are inevitable when us guys get together and drink, aren’t you C? You can party with her and get garage pies or McD’s at 3am.”  No comment.

“Then there’s the belching…” What? It comes with the territory. “And what about your love-life?” Ace. Just. Had. To. Go. There. I went all in.

Well, it’s true that guys say they want to date some who drinks or can drink beer but they hardly ever do and the ones that do, tend to ask you not to do it when his friends are around *Ava knows all about that – Sang*. The down-side is that you’re most likely to be friend-zoned, even if they say you’re likeable and fun to be around. The other nightmare is that the guy you’re secretly crushing on is hitting on a Cosmo-drinker only because you’re with your guy pals – since your gal pals would rather die than be out with you drinking beer- and he usually thinks you’re doing one of the guys you’re with… *Sometimes, I like to think he’s thinking he doesn’t have what it takes to hang with me so that’s why he’s going for Ms Cosmo.. but yeah, just a dream – Ava* 

This whole beer-drinking girl stigma even has women meeting up in secret, practising and giving each other advice on how not to look trashy when drinking beer… I kid you not, saw it advertised in a forum. There seriously is no other way to drink beer than to drink it and savour each sip – me and SJL tried it in wine glasses, felt weird. The only trashy thing is a drunken mess – man or woman. So, drink what you want. If you want an apple Martini, have one. If you want a draught , then have one too. There’s no point in ordering something wondering if you’ll come off as attractive or not.

Besides, we all know beer’s the taste that stood the test of time.


– Coin

Content Protection by DMCA.com

Sho’t Left | After Roboto

…those are the terms you usually hear in a taxi, here.
No, not a cab where it’s just you and the driver, the mini-bus ones that range from new Quantums to very old types which you cannot make out what make it is.

The taxi’s that most South Africans use as a primary mode of transport, the ones that went on strike after the announcement of the Gautrain and BRT.

The taxi’s whose violence is legendary.

Those that drive bad and stop almost anywhere without warning because the passengers tell the driver to stop there.

The ones with the passengers that stare at every passing car and won’t open the windows on a rainy day and it smells like freshly relaxed or permed hair.

The taxi where the person next to the window has smelly feet and refuses to open a window.

The ones where if you’re sitting in the front you’re forced to count everyone’s fare even if you aren’t too sure about it yourself.

The taxi’s that know their way around rush-hour traffic.

Yeah, the ones with the drivers from hell!

I usually sit in the front to avoid having to shout out any of the commands to indicate my stop, but, if I’m unfortunate I usually sit at the back and pray and hope that someone is getting off where I need to get off.

In my experience of taxis, I’ve rarely seen the drivers as most people say they are, except in the case of the woman whose R50 got ripped because the driver didn’t have change. The last few times I’ve been in a taxi, the one driver tried to sell me Golden products, the other lectured me about how important it is to stay in school, another tried to sell me airtime and most of them are rather helpful.

The worst thing about taking a taxi is sitting next to someone who feels like they have to tell you their life story! And they won’t shut up! You can’t tell them to stop since they’re pouring their heart out and you become the joke of the rest of the passengers and they snigger because they understand how you feel after a long day.

But for all bad taxi experiences, there’s always a funny one that makes you take a taxi again so one can have a story to tell, because after all, don’t we live to tell stories?

Unfortunately, this didn’t happen to me nor  Coin  or Try but to *dramatic music* Sang.

She decided to take a taxi from work – since her lift club left her behind as she took too long to pack up her belongings. So, at that time of the day, her only option was the comforts of the aforesaid taxi’s – although she had hoped that one of the new ones would come by first, but instead it was a jalopy. She gave her signal and it stopped. She climbed in and saw that the only available seat was next to the slide door that didn’t close properly and left a gap so she had a lovely view of the tarmac at the step. Now, Sang, being who she is, was probably being harassed by Coin to “get back to chat”, which she did once the vehicle drove off. It drove in a manner that vehicles of its type do, swerving and driving on the yellow line until it did a rather interesting manoeuvre that left the passengers swaying and Sang’s delicate fingers lost grip of her shiny mobile which fell on the step and tumbled down through the gap it went.

Unlike her reclusive friend, who would have looked up and mumbled “oh!” and anticipated that another passenger saw what had happened and stopped the taxi. Sang shouted “Stop the taxi!” and like a Tom Cruise (or even Will Smith, these days) in a traffic scene, she opened the door with great force, jumped out and dodged the on-coming traffic while running in heels, to get her precious cellphone which was at the mouth of a drain. She took a deep breath and picked it up and saw it was still on Yeigo with ten “oi’s” from Coin and told her the story.

For those who haven’t been in a taxi, what are you waiting for? BRT and Gautrain are coming, taxi days are numbered… or not!

– Ava

Content Protection by DMCA.com

Hash-Tag Boner

There’s this one clumsy error that occurs: when a man allows his mind to wander, provided his visuals are alluring, and should he entertain these thoughts long enough, blood subsequently drains from his brain and engorges his nether regions. That process was the bane of my adolescent life, especially Math with the bosomy  Miss Harpin . This one cursed day, she called me up to the board to complete a sum – which I actually had the answer to – and just as I was about to get up I realised I had the biggest boner ever! I tried sticking my hand in my pocket, to tuck it into my boxers – a rather futile attempt to avoid embarrassment – but that one touch had me coming in my pants. Needless to say, since that day I learnt to control it and never have a public boner again. Ah-huh… a boner aka woody, hard

-on -call it what you may – it’s awkward! Unless you’re Ava, who still maintains it means “a crush on a trombone player” *shakes head*

Which brings me to this –> # – the hash *no not that kind!* or hash tag… originally used as a simpler of writing the pound symbol, because let’s face it, “£” is pretty hard to pen, especially in a hurry; it’s also used as a symbol for number and in IT-land it’s used for metadata, which is a way of grouping information related to a keyword or term to be found by browsing or searching when required. Hashtag friendly social networks like Instagram, Twitter and tumblr (to name a few) use it just the same and as for Facebookers *cough* there’s a reason children in schools are being taught the phrase “as useless as a hashtag on Facebook” as part of the comparative.

… now combine the two, “hashtag” being the modifier and “boner” being the head of the compound, and you get an Information Age pandemic!

I noticed this in March, around the time Coin and Ava realised that Goop was and still is the word, just before their first “electronic shutdown” meditation hour. They handed me their mobile devices – as they are wholly incapable of turning them off – killed the mains, which meant no TV, radio or pc. So, I headed to the nearest pub and scrolled through the social network feeds and discovered they were abuzz with #… what Josh describes as “the battlecry to hipsters”.

I decided to join a table of three hipster-looking people and got their opinions on hash-tags on four popular social networks:

On Instagram: Nomsa “some of them just don’t make sense, hey! Like this other day, some girl posted a pic of this grey looking beach, think Coldplay’s “Yellow” vid and the tags were insane! Stuff like: #bikini #love #instafun #instagoodtimes #instaholiday #instamemories #instasex #instaon #instathe #instabeach #instasexonthebeach #instasandinmyass #RSA #WesternCape #CapeTown #DA #PatriciaDeLille #HelenZille.. like what the fuck? Really now?”

Angela “I hear you can like use up to 30 but that’s still like a lot!”

Fifher “Like make it stop, already! I swear this over tagging is caused by FOMO or something!”

On Twitter: Nomsa “Wow! Thank God for the 160 word limit!”

Angela “More than two tags is an eye-sore. I can’t read a tweet with a link and more than two tags.”

Fifher “Few are useful, some are funny but most are just marketing douchebaggery”

On Tumblr: Nomsa “at least like they’re only visible on the dashboard and like at the bottom in tiny writing and not in your face?”

Angela “what’s tumblr?”

Fifher “The people here can use tags well, except when they mistag and like under the porn tags you get like a pic of this random coffee cup”

On Facebook: Nomsa “like hashtags on Facebook, especially when the post isn’t like a feed from a hashtag friendly site linked to FB, kill me!”

Angela: “I’ve seen them, but what are they for?”

Fifher: “people on Fb have no business using a hashtag unless it’s succeeded by a numeral and they intend to say ‘number one’ or something.”

… straight from the hipsters.

With that in mind, I came up with a definition for “hash-tag boner” :

 1. when an obscene amount of hash-tags are allotted to a single post

2. a way to ruin a perfectly good picture on Instagram

3. a way to render one’s tweet illegible

e.g Coin had this super cute pic of a gooseberry up but her hash-tag boner totes killed it OR Fifher’s constant hash-tag boner is seriously like so newbie.

From my experience with boners,  they’re best kept hidden otherwise they’re awkward and if one must, stick to three, since well… omne trium perfectum *hahaha*. Really, no one wants to be remembered for having a public boner.

Trust me, I still bear the emotional scars.

– Try

 This was first published on May 21st, 2013 w-a-y before Facebook had hash-tags.
Content Protection by DMCA.com


It was after a wonderful Sunday afternoon that a little girl decided to push her way into the world. Little did she that she had chosen the most inconvenient time to take her first breath, for when she first showed the signs that her arrival was due it was midnight.

Panic! Ecstasy! What to do with the other child? That she didn’t know but what happened at the hospital just after 02:04am would determine her name…

The baby had come out all bouncy and healthy and the parents were happy, but there was still a bit of a commotion in the room. So, as the mother was asking her husband to call the family and inform them of the new arrival, the nurse was asking what the name of the child would be… Please note that these were the times when mobile telephones did not exist. The father filled in his pocket for some change and the mother shouted that he should hurry up… So he said:

“I don’t have a coin!” Which is what the nurse heard and what was penned.

None of the parents weren’t too happy about this but it grew on them…

– Ava

Content Protection by DMCA.com