You had me at goodbye...

I love to write ,yes, but even more than that , I love  to read. I'll read anything from the  back of a milk carton to The Complete Works of William Shakespeare via the African Writers Series.  In the era of social media we find many  'writers' because we are given space for our 'status update ' and while most people display unpalatable narcissism  and horrendous grammar others with no great effort  pen down the most captivating observations of life.  One such  person is Maropeng Ralenala. Pinch me twice and slap me silly...this girl is good.  I enjoy her banter so much I knew  I had to have her in my little piece of the world.  And this my friends is how she has become the first ever guest blogger on Sleepless in Polokwane.   Ladies and Gentlemen I give you:


YOU HAD ME AT GOODBYE
By Maropeng Ralenala

It’s 17:10 and I am standing in the longest knock-off hour checkout queue at Woolworths Foods. I am wanting to kick myself for it, questioning why I didn’t plan to get to the shops early enough to avoid the infamous maze long 5pm queue. You know, the kind that begins at the frozen foods section, long before you even reach the demarcated checkout lanes. Whilst contemplating all of my regret and self-created misfortune, the queue shuffles along slowly but steadily. Eventually I reach the beginning of the actual checkout railing and as I look up ahead, I am at least glad to see that all of the tellers upfront are operating during this peak-shopping hour. Along we continue shuffling.

As one does when having to walk through any Woolies Food store checkout lane, you have got to prepare yourself for battle… for you and your fellow unsuspecting checkout-ees are about to enter the Sugar Warzone…

Blood-sugar spiking hand-grenades of red and gold-wrapped fudge and nougat bars explode in all directions, as you duck and dive for your life. Creamy Lindt chocolate rifles fire ruthlessly at your exposed wounds; liquorice torpedos launch from their twisted black hiding places threatening detonation. Carbine cartridges fire carb-loaded ammunition of savoury crisps. Marshmallow machine guns lay in wait, disguised as pink and white clouds of innocence, firing only when you’re close enough for the perfect aim. And just when you think you’re about to make it out unscathed and alive, bright rainbow-coloured gummy candies landmines await you right at the end of the queue to blow up what little self-control and dignity you have remaining after walking through the valley of the shadow of sugar death. I watch the lady in front of me in the queue crash and burn, going up in flames as she succumbs to a hand grab of Hazelnut Ferrero’s, a peanut crumble and a slab of caramel chocolate; I want to cry out, tell her to stay strong, but it’s too late, she’s bleeding from too many places now as she finally reaches for a tub of jelly snakes; they watch her coyly from behind their transparent plastic cage, hissssing at her, ready to strike her fatal blow. I watch her throw it all into her trolley, her trolley filled with leafy green vegetables and lean meats. Another one bites the dust. Another casualty of the ruthless Sugar War.

The queue suddenly begins to feel like it’s refusing to move. So in an attempt to distract myself from the surrounding sugar ambushes, I begin to aimlessly look around at the people surrounding me.  A lot of mommies with their children, some young adults looking tired at the end of a work day, a middle-aged couple walking side by side through the store without any exchange of words. And then I turn to look behind me… and spot the most beautifully wrapped man standing right behind me in the queue. I hardly even notice what his face looks like. I turn back forward very quickly to not stare at his dressed perfection. But I had to look again, get a better glimpse of the exceptional style and panache I had just witnessed. He was a very tall and lean, dark-complexioned man, looked maybe just a tad older than me, dressed a.b.s.o.l.u.t.e.l.y impeccably. He quite literally looked like he had stepped right out of a Vogue Hommes style guide. I tried to get a proper look, but also didn’t want to be inappropriate and have him catch me staring, so I just played the sneaky side-eye trick; the oh I’m-just-looking-at-something-next-to-you-not-at-you maneuver.  So I did, and after a full appreciation of this stranger man’s suave, I wanted to exclaim out loud to him, “Wow, you are really dressed well!” But I stopped myself.

If this was a woman I wouldn’t have hesitated for a second- I compliment stranger women that are well-dressed all the time and anywhere. But somehow I knew that saying the same to this man would be perceived somewhat differently. Just because I’m a girl and he’s a guy. I felt so disappointed as we kept going onwards in the queue, thinking how I really just wanted to be kind and compliment his efforts, but that such a simple spontaneous compliment now had to be thought through for the potential consequences it could yield, consequences I wasn’t interested in entertaining.

Now I would never normally afford this much pre-thought to interacting with the opposite sex; I usually freely and spontaneously enjoy interacting with them, whether stranger or familiar. But as we stood there, with nothing else to do, I just began to contemplate all of the unspoken intrinsic complexities of boy-girl interactions, considering the potential traps that a well-intentioned gesture could create.

He might think that I’m trying to get his attention, am using the compliment as a means to chat him up, or any other possible myriad of societal boy-girl scripts that follow us everywhere we go, particularly in a world where sincere kindness has become a myth, where hidden ulterior motives are the prevailing reality. That me saying “Hey, you look really nice” might just as well be a frontage for “I wanna have your babies.” :-/ But, I think to myself, perhaps he’s an evolved mature gentleman who won’t immediately jump to the conclusion that by saying he’s dressed well that I am secretly wanting to take those beautiful clothes off of him; for I certainly wasn’t. Or what if he would try to start up a new conversation after I compliment him? I noticed that he didn’t have a ring on, but I just hoped that he wasn’t available in whatever form and wouldn’t care to cross any lines of interest if I was to try and be nice to him. Because despite how great he looked, I had no interest for a suggestive door of any sort to open up.

We were now finally edging very close to the end of the queue, and I began to feel insolent towards the invisible barriers between our mars-venus male-female planets. And so, as happens whenever I feel caged in by societal expectations, the rebellious anti status-quo impulse in me decided not to conform, and so I slowly but boldly turned around and looked at him straight in the eye.

“Hi, I hope you won’t mind me saying this, but I just wanted to tell you that you have amazing dress style.”

He looked back at me with first a surprised look then a mischievous smile, and mumbled “thanks”, but so quietly under his breath that I could barely hear it. I smiled in response and turned back forward. I felt so proud of myself; I was true to me despite the risk of unwanted social innuendos. It felt good to be genuine and well intentioned regardless of how it would be perceived.

It was then finally my turn as I reached the tellers and the display  screen red arrow indicated that a teller was now available and the robotic voice dictated that I was to proceed to “te-ller-num-ber-four”. I walked to the till and paid for my groceries. As I finished and was walking away and then out of the store, I silently congratulated that stranger man for not being opportunistic like some tend to be, as all women regularly experience, who would have turned an innocent gesture of kindness into extraneous opportunity. You see Maropeng, I began telling myself, don’t make assumptions about people that way, many will surprise you! And then, as I reached about a few meters outside of the store, I heard hurried footsteps coming closer and closer my way, together with a call out: “Heyyy, sorry…”

Oh no, I thought, as I pretended not to hear it. It was too good to be true, he’s going to try and start up another conversation after all, isn’t he? The simple moment from back in the queue was about to be ruined. I immediately wished I had trusted the cautious inkling to keep the compliment to myself. He eventually caught up to me and I couldn’t pretend not to notice him any longer, “Hi, hi sorry” he stuttered.  I stopped and I turned towards him, a little sad that my niceness was about to be jaded. “Hi”. He said again. “What’s your name?” he asked with the same interesting smile, as I thought, great, well here we go Maropeng, you should’ve known. “It’s Maropeng,” I say, trying to be polite in return. “Oh, OK Maropeng. I’m Khutšo. Uhm… I just wanted to say thank you properly… your compliment really took me by surprise back there.” “Oh, no problem at all,” I replied. He smiled a big smile and nodded his head, pausing, then mischievously added... “Uhm are you rushing off to go and make dinner for Mister Maropeng?” Seriously? I think to myself almost wanting to say it out aloud with laughter, how disappointingly predictable. “No. There’s no Mister Maropeng.” I say, smiling knowingly at the blatant tactic. He smiles even bigger at my response and then says, “Well, I hope you have a lovely evening.”

I hope you have a lovely evening. Wait, huh?? Confused, I quickly reply “Thank you, you too.” He then began to walk off heading towards the parking lot, as I was too.

Wow. OK. Just a sweet friendly guy then, he really just appreciated the compliment. It IS possible to share simple kindness with an opposite sex stranger without it being turned into something sinister. I felt so impressed by the brief, mature and genuine encounter; that, as far as he displayed at least, he didn’t assume that I had additional motives through my kindness, nor did he himself try for anything when he could have. How wonderful to experience, how refreshing indeed! Restoring my idealistic hope that a stranger guy and girl can in fact enjoy and appreciate genuine kindness between each other.

So why is it then, that I quickly reached for my super-lustre shine lip gloss in my handbag, and flash-fixed my hair, quickly before reaching the parking lot…

"A bit of sugar, a little spice , but mostly all things nice" Maropeng Ralenala 

Mad Drama for your Mama...

Note:  this piece must be read with  the accent of an inner city African American woman from the projects.

See, what ha’ happened was.

Last Tuesday  I took a trip to the hair salon to fix the hot mess on my head. So there I was sittin’ in my chair, Hakeem detanglin’ my hair, mindin’   my own damn business when suddenly there was a screeching sound us.  Someone was a getting a beat down…

Lo’ have mercy.

See, the nail technician, let’s call her Peaches, has been knocking boots with her customers’ husbands.  Turns out while Peaches is fixin’ your nail extension and listens to you going on about your life she be thinkin’ how she can get herself some of what you got. Mmhm.   So this customer in particular, let’s call her Shaniqua, done gone and found out about Peaches and her husband and she is not the type of sister to fix  this  sorta thing behind closed doors.  She came into the salon and gave Peaches a beating right in front of everybody. She be hurling insults at Peaches like “ you B***h”  this will stop you from  f******g around with my man”.  Now I don’t know if maybe Peaches got her a death wish but she say “no it won’t, I am not leaving him.” Shaniqua got so mad, she was madder than befo.  She was a hufffin’ and a puffin’.  She had smoke comin’ outta her ears and s**t.

Sistuh. Honey. Gurl. It was hot  up in there…

Maybe you wonderin’ what me and the other folks was doing while this was goin’ on.  Well, Hakeem just he just  kep’ on creaming the relaxer and I was just lookin’ on, shocked outta my mind but laughing on the inside. ( kikikikiki) .  One guy was lookin’ at a magazine actin’ like he don’t see what’s goin’ on.

Now, Peaches got herself free and locked herself in the bathroom. Now, I don’t wanna judge but she was looking like a hoodrat running away from the landlord.  Shaniqua, while fixin herself said  “ you best be ready to live there forever ‘cause I aint goin  nowhere”.   Now Hakeem , he leave’me to  give Shaniqua a talkin’ to after she say she was gon’ go campin’ at his salon forever.    Hakeem, he talk to her , he says “ ma’ am , this here is a place of work, please could you  sort your problems somewhere else, maybe you could go home and talk to your husband ‘’.  Shaniqua wasn’t having none of that, she say “No no I’m done talkin’, I’m gonna whip is a** too”.  Shaniqua was real mad.  She did walk away though shaking her head fixin’ to go beat down her husband. 

Peaches also came out of the bathroom going on about how she wa’nt about to stop knocking boots with Shaniqua’s husband cause she say Shaniqua too full of herself.  She smoked two cigarettes and walked away looking over her back just in case…

I sure wonder who got to the brother first.

Now, I am not one to stick my nose is other people’s affairs but this one darn gone and followed me.  I walked out, hair fixed, bouncing like the girl in the shampoo advert, going back home, grateful for my comparatively drama free life.

Note: This is a true story that happened where I get my hair done at the corner of Voortrekker and Thabo Mbeki in Polokwane. Montel Classiques is what it’s called.  It’s a fantastic salon.  It is clean, beautifully decorated, they have a speed point and drinks and such. Very comfortable. It is usually peaceful sans Peaches and Shaniqua drama.  Hakeem himself is a hair genius, he took me from being a straw haired girl to a lady in Ebony magazine. 

The little blog that could...

A little over a year ago I sat in front of my computer and googled  " how to start a blog?" .    I followed the prompts  and poof just like that Sleeplessinpolokwane was born.  I did this because I hadn't not written a fun piece in a very  long time.  See, once upon a time  I was a journalist.  Though it was by job to write I still found time to write for leisure and I  had a great time doing it. Then one day I got a very serious job as  communications manager in  government and well I wrote a lot but there wasn't much creativity in it.  I worked all day, weekends and public holidays too. Whatever time I had to myself I spent sleeping and re-hydrating.  One day, I woke up and realiszed that all my journals were empty, my little note books had half baked pieces  jotted down on now off-yellow paper.  This made me sad.

So, that is  why I started this blog.  I wanted to write for me.  I wanted to write for fun.  I wanted a place where I could write and not judge myself  harshly or at all if my grammar  or spelling was incorrect or untidy.   I wanted a safe place to work on my creative muscle.  What I did not anticipate was the love I have received from publishing Sleeplessinpolokwane.     Oh my  word...what  validation.  Even the idea that people stop what they were doing to read my banter about  nothing and everything moves me.  Then  people read and they laughed and nodded their heads and left comments and asked their friends to read and they laughed and nodded their heads and left comments and asked their friends to read. And poof  I became a bona fide blogger ( I think) with an audience.

This is what we have done together your and I.

Number of  posts published:  31

Most read post:  Dear Love...this is where I live.  ( E V E R Y B O D Y  loved this )

Least read post: Easy soup for those with too much on their plate.

The funniest post:  The single girl's guide to load shedding and Chronicles of a formerly slim girl ( now I am a monkey at the zoo)

The saddest post: Chronicles of  a formerly slim girl ( I wear black because).  This post resonated with a lot of women.  I learnt that weight issues are not only fat people issues.

The most popular theme:  Love issues and  weight issues. ( Hmm I wonder why?)

Most Creative: My winter , my lover .  This post has the best imagery and it takes the mind to a very beautiful place.

Best Picture: The one posted in Let's do it in the morning.

Best  comment:  "Thank you for  this blog , I feel like you live in my mind"

My favorite post:  Dear Love...Your GPS works so well.

I must say though that its not easy to manage a blog.   They say a blog must have a particular focus or  niche but I just write what I like.  They say writers must have deadlines and be sure of their audience.  Well, I don't got none o' that.  Sometimes I just don't  feel like writing.  Sometimes I don't have the energy nor inclination or worse sometimes I have nothing to say.  Consistency is the most important  element it but it is also the most difficult part.  But you just have to keep  going.   "I- think- I - can. "

I am grateful to you for reading my blog.  You give me courage to keep  writing.  I have learnt through some of your responses that  we have similar fears and pains, that we celebrate the same things.   You have  allowed me to let my guard down to bear my soul only to find that we  mirror each other more than we think.

I feel like somewhat of a journalist again. A creative one!   

I am yours and you are mine and we remain Sleepless in Polokwane.

When sleepless in Polokwane...this is where I blog!   ( Okay fine yes...I made it a bit neater for the camera kikikiki)