Love nest, hell’s window

heartEvery now and then a guy comes along and rips your fragile heart apart, with no sense of decency what so ever. I thought I found my diamond crusted guy candy but as it turns out he was merely a blood diamond. Blood diamond you ask, yes, he was nursing his broken heart due to his previous girlfriend’s  philandering ways. To my ignorant self all I could picture was Oscar Wilde sternly reminding me that”a heart was made to be broken.”  So here I was new in town being introduced to this blood diamond by a friend.

Blood diamonds are cute, fragile, still mourning their exes, a tad bit emotional however they ooze strength and are Über romantic. As I wag a finger, darlings blood diamonds have alarm bells written all over their sexy ass however all we see are hearts gliding on a halo with our inner voice digging the grave. They are couth, cultured, gallantry but honey however tempting grab your red soles and shut the door or you in for hell of a ride. Blood diamonds are usually on a rebound but they are in denial, dropping phrases like they cool, they over that hood rat or they will be on some I’m ready to mingle the world is my oyster.

Yeah right! Sounds tempting but all they are is an emotional mess and the only thing you will be good for, is handing him a shoulder to cry on, when the chips are down. The next thing you know he’s back on 5th avenue with his ex-girl with a baby on the way, for real, ask Iggy Azalea about her ex bae Nick Young. That’s what’s up, As soon as he gets back on his feet he’s gone and all you were good for is getting him prim and proper for his new lady. Well for Nick he’s sitting there massaging his ex-girl’s four months pregnant belly while Iggy nurses a heartache. Now that’s a blood diamond for you he wrings you emotionally dry while he scouts the woods for his match, even that rock on Iggy’s finger will mean nothing when he’s through with his shenanigans. He may appear to have the perfect cut and trimmings of a carat but no good comes from pocketing him, ask anyone trying to sell a blood diamond. I had my fair share of a blood diamond but thank goodness it didn’t include a yearlong engagement.

My blood diamond wasn’t your typical tall dark and handsome, we dream them out to be, oh mara he was debonair, an erudite, in my eyes he was the pyramids of Giza and Picasso’s painting wouldn’t do him justice. A son of the soil deeply rooted in African consciousness with a smile that would grow flowers, he was my Bugatti Veyron. In him I saw angels dancing, we were the X in the alphabet, number II in roman numerals. Our hearts spoke in one voice, my heart beat was his heart beat and each kiss nourished my soul. He was my king and I, his queen.

Our hearts collided, like two rivers merging we became one, drowning in pain, our love was written among the stars, with the moon our guide, we were merely distant shadows in the desert, heart ripped to shreds, like pieces of glass piercing the ground; from loves nest to hell’s window.

All I can say is that this man had my heart; I was captivated and moved by his aura. Ok, certainly I worshiped the ground he walked on, though I wouldn’t say he completed me mara complimenting he did. He had me wrapped around his finger, phela ne ke le maratong you can’t blame the heart for having a mind of its own. Assuredly I had the list and he had more ticks than I had anticipated, he was my gift and I, his angel. Was he the one who got away hardly, he was never mine, and in his own words “ke ya goe rata but I’m not ready for a relationship” simply put thank you but your services are no longer needed. Mind you I was fascinated by his world hence I cooked, shared his bed, played scrabble and listened to his constant ramblings from Ngugi Wa Thiong’o to Thabo Mbeki; I was in love and enjoying every minute of it.

I did what every woman confined in a relationship would do; now where did I fail him? I didn’t you see, I presume he was getting hooked to this Venda Chiquita and hence he thought it best to erase me from the equation or I would assume I was just a number to him, a distraction maybe or better yet guess he truthfully wasn’t ready for a relationship due to his past experiences, I’m clueless. All I knew for certain was that I was being dumped, flushed down the toilet like yesterday’s garbage. I was caught off guard and it felt like my breath was being sucked out of my lungs by a vacuum. I held it together though my tears were gazing through my pupils and fighting it out like Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield, I refused the urge to shed a tear. I couldn’t let him see how wounded my heart was.

Then he dropped the famous line “let’s be friends”, now that got me irate, you see, to be frank It isn’t easy being friends with the one you love; phela when I see him my cookie crumbles my body begins to sing in a language that’s incomprehensible, oh yes, more or less like that feeling one gets when listening to Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s get it on’.

Why you calling it off? Well my dear I did mention I wasn’t interested in a relationship. Well darling you could have reminded me about that part when we were having mind blowing sex, or when we were lip locked and you were declaring your love and affection, or how about when you whispered those three damn words ‘I LOVE YOU ‘while you held my cheeks affectionately with your eyes lost in mine. Maybe then I would have remembered about the ‘no relationship clause’. Alas as you wish your command has been duly noted, in essence I did let my heart get consumed and sucked in the love bubble, I let my defences crumble down and all it took were those three damn words ‘I love you’ after which I was putty in his hand. I caught the love bug and ooh my smooth operator played the cards flawlessly, I was the apprentice he the master, he kept me sane and centred and now he has a new protégé; from loves nest to hells window.

The basic universal principle uncontested of any relationship has to be communication. It’s an element that keeps the fire burning amongst couples, it’s that GPS that gets you back on track when we of course. However in Iggy’s case ‘Trust’, once that’s broken that car is going nowhere but rather finding its place in a scrap yard. I loved my blood diamond, but his definition of a relationship and love as juxtaposed to mine I presume differed. Should they have been outlined surfing this wave will have been much smoother. I agree they were outlined but then again in retrospect the use of the word ‘Love’ created a misperception that consequently drove me, from a love’s nest to a hell’s window.

My blood diamond packed up his bags and left town, hence I have no idea how his life panned out. We were just two different people who tried it out and whatever it was didn’t work out as expected. I’m still clueless as to the term ‘relationship’ as per his reasoning and in his thoughts guess we were just friends with benefits. I’ve had my share of a blood diamond hence I’ve learned to keep my distance, however a diamond is a diamond whichever way they may be packaged.



A friend quite recently stated, “I believe life is what you make of it, I do want to make the best, I just often have no clue how.”

One moment in time we each find ourselves contemplating one question, what is my purpose? It’s that moment where it feels like you at a dead end and you can’t figure out which path to take cause in all essence, we questioning our true identity. Purpose is that fire that burns our ambition to life, that flicker of hope that flames our destiny, however how many of us have lost the glimmer of hope guiding our purpose. Cause most often when we get to a certain age and all is not going according to plan where does one go searching for that purpose, the compass to our forever after. For others it’s all cut in stone however for the unfortunate it means doses of depressive episodes, countless mantras and yoga.

I’ve recently been popcorn binging on the movie Dr Strange and it had me questioning, my place in the universe, in short my purpose. It’s like this, I grew up wishing I could get to my twenties the phase of legality, freedom and maturity but having passed that phase and the thirties came knocking with a varsity qualification and keys to my pad, I realized the days were every bit monotonous, it was the same routine every day, wake up go to work, back home, eat, sleep for seven days a week, 365 days in a year.

Surely there’s more to life than this, I watched the movies the man who knew infinity and Gifted and believe you me, had I known I’m a genius, I would have been milking it for what it’s worth. Then I tried singing in the shower and the pigeons ducked for cover, finally coming to terms with the realization that when they were dishing out the creativity, talent and genius gene in Genesis, I was definitely last in line.

Then I picked up ‘The monk who sold his Ferrari’ by Robin Sharma and I was gobsmacked to my senses, from then on I’ve learned that we all have a purpose and my belief is that we all matter, that every one of us has a part to play in the universe. That one can’t do without the other hence we constantly striving to find our place in the book of life, others pace the Buddhist mountains for sanity or we lose our self in life help books and if it all fails we drown in the pool of depression; that’s purpose, the grey line between sane and insanity; the yin and the yang in our spiritual identity

what maturity has schooled me is that purpose is that compass within that guides you to being the greater you, you most probably can be. It reignites that determination and tenacity within the path to success. We sometimes forget that the universe is not only about the Graham Bell, Einstein and Ramanujan, every one of us matter in the cycle of life. Whether your place is amongst the stars like Stephen Hawking or bones amongst the sand like homo Naledi; we all matter.

So dear you, the next time you doubting yourself and trying to figure your place in this planet, remember even roses have thorns and the path to greatness is not always clearly defined, cause if it was, wouldn’t life be so much easier and in a way boring. The beauty is in the journey, if climbing Mount Everest was so easy would the outcome be as electrifying but then again some say luck at times has something to do with it, but didn’t a wise man say luck is opportunity meeting preparation, in short it was destined to happen dear you, because you are greatness personified.

(Purpose=ambition + determination) with that equation the world is your oyster darling you.

Like Albert Einstein once said “The world is not dangerous because of those who do harm but because of those who look at it without doing anything.”


Picture credit:



I remember a friend saying catching fish is a tedious, exhausting process that requires a bucket load of patients as she perked her well rounded pearly bits, having read the old man and sea by Ernest Hemingway I tend to agree. This thought came to mind as I decided to lay off Ms Conservative and bring out the maverick within by getting rid of the list and testing the waters by being open and receptive to cupid’s law of attraction. With that I began tapping away on the keyboard browsing through dating sites, within minutes my profile was uploaded, with a few compromises cause when you go fishing you do need good bait, a girl can’t be bringing home a barracuda, now can she?

Since this exercise was being done out of curiosity, I didn’t mind the waiting, as I had no idea what to expect. The partner proposals began popping up and my inbox was getting busy though I vowed to be lenient in the partner search I found myself doing the ticks and crosses. Firstly if the profile picture failed in tantalizing my tingly bits it went under the burner, the job title and grammar didn’t go unnoticed either. For a girl looking for love, I surely am picky but darling, I can’t be sitting there talking about the weather when he’s clueless about current affairs.

After sifting through the inbox I came across a potential, I call him half and half as he’s a half breed, a looker, judging from his profile picture. We began chatting, I was his Nubian princess and he; charming and mature. However our fairy-tale was short lived as I dropped him like a hot brick after he sent through his latest picture, and the first thing that came to mind was a glimpse of Dennis Rodman doing a slam dunk. Truth be told, I was baffled at how he went from Michael Ealy to Dennis Rodman in sixty seconds.  Later, when he dropped an invite for coffee, I took a rain check and I doubt he and I will be an ‘US’ or ‘We’ in this or next lifetime.

It rang true the notion that profile pictures at times rarely provide a true reflection of the man in the mirror, that we put on masks to paint a picture of wishful thinking as a gesture of acceptance and acknowledgement, to fit the ideal expectation. Truthfully, it purely boils down to branding, the imagery you portray to the audience should be representative of your character. If your intention is to attract a cultured, ambitious, intelligent lady your image should do well in attracting such a lady, they do say a picture tells a thousand words.

Branding is as important individually as is in business, as a result a dating profile should do well in attracting the ideal partner and for that to happen it should filter through to presentation. If your profile picture had a picture of couth suited up well groomed James Bond dear future bae I really do expect to be sitting across a mellowed version of James Bond and not John Malkovich being all feisty in the movie RED. Please, don’t get me wrong it has nothing to do with titles and the car you drive but just living up to the persona you have painted, it’s just old school wooing through a futuristic vortex. Surely you can’t go to war empty handed, you need to dress the part or else how are you to be taken seriously.

Online dating is proving quite an experience and my profile is still active, I’m very much curious as to what the cat will drag in, however if I do remember clearly, curiosity did kill the cat.

picture credit: psyblog



I humbly apologise, I’ve been absent. Writer’s block? That and life’s thorny potholes. Writing is therapeutic but when emotionally drained one fails to string sentences together, choosing rather to over dose on self-help books with endless moments of sighing and breathing techniques. I needed some time out, that pause moment, some stillness. Until George Bernard Shaw slapped me back to reality by reminding me that “life isn’t about finding yourself, life is about creating yourself.” That I decided to dry the mascara, get back on the horse and pat that afro.  
Since my last posts life has been somewhat interesting and I intend to share. Well no marriage proposals but rather some teary eyes with bucket loads of giggles. 
It’s great being back but remember if you ever find yourself down and out, a bit overwhelmed, instead of popping the pills, binging on junk food and getting intoxicated, just remind yourself that the sun always shines after a storm and where will the stars be without darkness. You are loved, and you say you not a diamond well diamonds are sifted through layers of sand, you say you not gold, well darling ask a miner how bad it is down there. You see you perfect the way you are, you just need some polishing once in a while to bring out that effervescent sparkle. 


My apartment is what I call my island of solitude. It’s comfortable, with a certain air of tranquillity, an aura of silence wrapped in a blanket of peaceful symmetry. It’s a space I loose myself, a place where I transcend to my inner self. Here, within these walls, I find balance, there’s harmony; I’m complete. It’s my sanctuary, well, until recently. 
My home has been invaded by an army of bird mites, believe you me I had no idea these parasites existed. After surfing on google they are usually found where birds and their nests are located, and in the few weeks after birds leave their nests they infest the home in search of blood meal from humans and the bites from bird mites cause severe irritation.
Growing up it was the usual cockroaches and rats, where grocery shopping will entail the occasional can of Doom in the basket and rats did the occasional scram around the house, as I did the jumper, with mommy doing the run around with a broom trying to chase it out. 
However fast forward years later and I’m face to face with the goliath of parasites. I had no idea such things existed and lord behold I can’t stand them. Each time my weave brushes my skin I’m reminded of the horror awaiting me at home. Lounging on my beloved couch means a game of footsy footsy with creepy legged crawlies. I don’t know what’s worse cockroaches, rats or a tsunami of bird mites. 
I’ve recently spring cleaned every corner of my apartment but to no avail. They just literally parade around the space like the own every inch of it. I can’t stand walking through the front door, cause all that awaits me on the other side are these little buggers waiting to wrap me to a parasitic embrace. 
As a single lady on this solo path I confided on Google, and she graciously pointed me on the DIY path, as a result with my butt and twins out, drill in hand, tapping in sync to the notes of confidence, I was ready to do the Rambo on this mites. Okay well you got me, I kinda called the handy guy to get rid of the bird nest and drill every hole within the vicinity of the nests shut, and when that was done, I spring cleaned every corner of the pad. 
Alas two weeks later these buggers are still here, crawling up my skin, leaving me sleep deprived, and waking me up to a round of scratching and cussing.
I’m in captivity, held hostage in my own home and google is failing me terribly. I’ve run out of options and though apparently it takes three months to get rid of the infestation after getting rid of the bird nest and the spring cleaning, my patience is wearing thin.
Truth be told I can’t stand any of them and I want this horror story to end. I want my apartment back, no wait I demand my apartment back. I played the kind host by allowing birds to nest on my geyser compartment and I’m thanked with bucket loads of mites. Talk about my generosity being trampled on.
Truth be told that In all honesty I have learnt a lesson, I’ve grown to understand that life throws punches, and mites can throw even bigger punches. As I sit here soothing my itches I realise sometimes as humans we undermine the strength in Gods little creatures, and every itch I scratch or each one of them crawling my skin they remind me that even they have a place in this circle of life. 
That we all trying to merely survive, and find our place in the universe. I took away their hosts and they lashed out by invading my home and as I scratch my way through sleepless nights, endless spring cleaning and the endless itches it reminds me that we all have a place in this planet and weather you’re a mite or human your part in this puzzle is as significant. 



Chasing the white picket fence was the dream, however in all honesty the grass is not always greener on the other side. In reality the white picket fence was just one disheveled fixer upper, in need of some TLC. The heart wrenching cracks stripping the paint of the walls, the dilapidated walls, screaming for redemption and vibrating echoes of hunger. Cleansed by the cries to the ancestors, for seeds of prosperity. With my feet embracing the corridors of history, the white picket fence reminds me that reaching the top requires, backtracking in a Zola Budd, for those who have paved the way for my success.

I’m one of those individuals who hustled their way through varsity. Holding down a full time job while attending evening classes. I had no intention of playing the note of seduction for a blesser or marrying my way out, of this valley of poverty. What I did however, was work my way out of this dusty street of the ‘have not’ to the white picket fence by the Jones and every day I realized how sweeter life would have been with a trust fund. Being groomed for a family business, an uncle with connections, keys to a car, or a house by the sea side. I would have been, ‘privileged’, a contrast to the aura of black tax.

Black tax is that cloud that hangs over our heads while sipping a glass of red surrounded by picturesque mountain views. It reminds us of our past, as we sail the seas of success and it’s that hustling mentality that fires us up, all because we simply fear the Mandela’s slipping through our fingers. The fear of seeing ourselves crawling back to our parent’s nest, masked with shame. Black tax reminds us of the road we’ve traveled and it reassures us that history can’t be repeated.

Some of us are not privileged which means the first pay check has already been budgeted for, by our parents; sister needs shoes, brothers fees have to be paid, mommy has church commitments to sort out, dad’s car has broken down or the plumbing needs to be fixed. Black tax hangs over our heads like a dark cloud and follows us like a shadow.

Don’t get me wrong black tax is gruesome, taxing but therapeutic. It means climbing the ladder of self and success with those who have selflessly sacrificed for our achievement. It entails acknowledging their hand, as we build our family empire. Majority of us were raised by single parents, mommy the unpaid housewife, who’s never held down a job and when hubby walks out she looks to her kids for sustenance. Or how about mommy selling fat cakes on corner crescent to pay for schooling. I’ve played a role in that script and in so doing realized the power of education. It dawned on me that wearing that black cloak is not about ‘me’ but rather about ‘us’, like my dad who never graduated said, ‘ your qualification, is my qualification.’ Hence it is the greatest gift we can offer ourselves, and in so doing we iron these creases of dependency and promote financial emancipation, which signifies the importance of chiseling our own destiny.

However this is a narrative, those who are privileged fail to comprehend, the reality that by the time some of us graduate we faced with mountains of commitments. Hence we forfeit the first car, the travelling and shopping sprees. As a result don’t be alarmed when upon receiving that paper, I cancel on party time. The truth is, by the time siblings tuition fees are paid, there’s still NSF and student loans to figure out. Then baby comes along and baby daddy does the runner.

This condo maybe a fixer upper however I intend throwing some paint and pruning the bushes one step at a time. The cycle has to end eventually however adding some color on this picket fence requires a certain measure of investment. Bridging this gap entails some ounce of sacrifice, as a result the kids will be raised by granny dearest as I climb the ladder of success for and with family. It is the words of Confucius that remind me that, I should have, the will to win, the desire to succeed and the urge to reach my full potential as the tools to fight this battle of social inequalities. Bridging this gap starts with us, and as we pave the path for the millennials let us remember that social empowerment is rarely about me or you but rather about ‘us’ as a collective. let us preach the importance of education and in so doing foster a generation driven by tenacity and the will to succeed, generation who dare to break the norm and strive for the impossible.



A dear friend of mine the other day coerced me to buying shares in an exclusive hotel that is soon to be built. I must admit I was a bit skeptical however she nudged, and I budged. The process was emotionally gratifying and emancipating. I’ve always been adamant on us Africans being owners of trade, gone should be the days of servitude and financial slavery, where we dependent on the West for an empowered Africa. It is from this time Jesse Williams voice vibrates in my ear as he reiterates;

“Dedicating our lives to getting money just to give it right back for someone’s brand on our body when we spent centuries praying with brands on our bodies, and now we pray to get paid for brands on our bodies.”

His words a reminder of the dark cloud of brand addiction engulfing our society. The white veil, that was once bathed with purity, with fears that our blackness would taint it, has us financially blinded, as we walk this path towards financial deprivation. We have been left cash strapped knocking on loan sharks trying to make ends meet over papa le morogo (grits and greens) and every month we have debts chained to our necks suffocating us all in the name of being, ‘Trendy’.

“We’ve been floating this country on credit for centuries, yo. And we’re done watching and waiting while this invention called whiteness uses and abuses us, burying black people out of sight and out of mind while extracting our culture, our dollars, our entertainment, like oil, black gold. Ghettoizing and demeaning our creations, then stealing them, gentrifying our genius, and then trying us on like costumes, before discarding our bodies like rinds of strange fruit.” – Jesse Williams

In the ghettos, mothers exploited by their sons cashing in on the Carvela craze, that birthed the Izikhothane phenomenon. Dressing up our manes with weaves that costs more than the standard wage, the booze we drink has more to do with the price tag on the bottle, rather than taste lingering on our pallets.

“It’s our money and we can do with it, as we please,” you say. True, nothing wrong with that, but wouldn’t the idea of being a shareholder, sound sweeter. The black market in context is a huge chunk of spending power, yet majority of us are dangling on the lower level of the salary scale. Surviving from hand to mouth, with plastic urging us towards the finish line.

Surely, being able to afford these caliber of high end brands, is an affirmation, that we do possess the financial instruments to get in the investment ring. With punches being thrown from the West and East we have the will and possibility to hold our own as the African continent and it means projecting economic ideals that are pro African emancipation. This can only be achieved by breaking the walls of fraudulence and promoting entrepreneurship.

My belief is us urging ourselves towards financial freedom, where we build each other without undermining the other. By inhibiting the entrepreneurial spirit displayed by the Jews, Ethiopians, and Muslims. It will mean erasing the spirit of narcissism, individualism and rather work together as a collective.

There is black money and yes, there’s fear, however the unexpected is always gripped and riddled with a certain measure of anxiety. It can be done, but achieving this objective entails working together as a collective for us to reel ourselves from this oppressive mentality.

Great minds are a marvel when working together and we have both the ingenuity and tenacity to get it done.  We need to be owners and not just players hence my respect for entrepreneurs like Meck Khalfan, David Thlale, Aliko Dangote, Khanyi Dhlomo, to name a few.

It all starts with an idea and each of us believing in each other to carry this vision forward. It’s all great to wear the red soles, drive the German sedan however there is so much greatness and pride in celebrating the made in Africa label. In doing so we emancipate ourselves, groom Africa to stand on her own and be a force to be reckoned with, within the global market. Yes Africa, it can be done, and we don’t have to start big but like I did, just a step at a time.


Image credit- Pintrest

“Black folks have had to deal with being called monkeys for a long time and dehumanization has always been a method of racism and subjugation of black people.” – John Legend

Growing up I had no I idea what racism was. I failed to comprehend the hush tones of hatred and resentment, whispered by the elders every-time a white man walked by. I knew I was black my classmates were white, we conversed together, played together and when we hurt ourselves on the playground, the blood lines were similar; my blood was red, his blood was red- we were human.

The daily commute from the ghetto of Soweto to the pearly burbs rarely crafted the egregious racial storm polarizing the political platform. I was young and naïve, and our history books failed in deciphering the political pandemic. It’s only when I grew up and I heard Steve Biko emphasizing with a measure of intrepidness that “Black man you on your own” that my curiosity was awakened. From then on I began sifting through our history, trying to connect these black and white dots and I realized then as I realize now that we are worlds apart and our path to democracy is tainted and stained with emotional and toxic racial landmines. All because, of this myopic mentality being displayed on social media;

Penny Sparrow, “…..obviously have no education what so ever so to allow them loose is inviting huge dirt and troubles and discomfort to other. I’m sorry to say I was amongst the revellers and all I saw were black on black skins what a shame. I do know some wonderful thoughtful black people. This lot of monkeys just don’t want to even try…… From now I. Shall address the blacks of south Africa as monkeys as I see the cute little wild monkeys do the same pick drop and litter.”

Vanessa Hartley quoted as stating “they like stupid animals. We should tie them to a rope. To many Africans flocking to Hout Bay. Draw up a petition. Soon there will be nothing left of Hout Bay.”

These racial outbursts wrapped with hatred, spit with anger and animosity are proof that democracy comes at a price. It is these type of perceptive ideologies that are volatile and down- right disruptive to humanity.

It is heartening that the road to equality and freedom is tainted by such absurd thoughts, that the idea of mingling with ‘them’, with ‘us’ appears infuriating and humiliating.  However these turn of events lay bare the question of intent; intent for them to iron these creases stemming from years of political infringement, hatred and social injustices.

Forgiveness is thorny, like climbing Mount Everest – not everybody can commit to it; it’s emotionally exhausting and challenging. Hence for us to co-exist, will entail addressing these racial symptoms because spitting venomous hatred, by calling me a monkey is duplicitous and sickening.

Racism is a ‘culture’ and erasing years of etiquette requires psychological intervention. Eradicating this stigma of hatred for ‘them’ requires a certain measure of dialogue. Saying, “I’m sorry” won’t cut it. We need mutual engagement, we need social rehabilitation where we get to voice out our discomfort and truthfully offload our emotions to each other. So that going forward ‘I’, ‘We’, get to comprehend this hatred being inflicted on me, on us- people of color. I believe one doesn’t just wake up and deduce another to the barbaric term of monkey, such analysis should logically be justifiable.

Straying away from the norm is hardly an effortless game of hop scotch but requires doses of therapy, the victimizer acknowledging the wrong by finding the will submerged within the abyss of forgiveness. It means ‘you’ white man being aware that your smile and calling me mam is not enough. A platform should be provided where these individuals provide answers for their statements. They shouldn’t be given a slap on the wrist but the courts should see to it that they are held accountable. Just as the drug addicts attend rehab, such individuals should be compelled to attend counselling sessions where we may get to understand the reasoning behind their anger and resentment. It means them addressing the hatred hibernating within. By doing so, they get to address their wrongful actions and we start dissecting these racial symptoms or else this will be a never ending cycle of us blacks being victims of such heinous, flagrant acts of verbal diarrhea, that are hurtful, demeaning and should have no place in our society.