I really am a terrible friend to my other "friends.”I put "friends" in inverted commas because, upon reflection, I don't know if I even consider them that. How could I, when I treat them the way I do?

I love them. I truly do. But I cannot bring myself to be a better friend to them. I know that makes me a horrible person because I have the capacity to be an exceptional friend. The problem is, I am equally capable of being a terrible one.

In my friendships, I play favourites. It is painfully obvious who falls into which category.

For my favourites, I show up. I call them every week. I make them things. I buy them gifts. I invite them everywhere. I cry when I think about their funerals. The thought of losing them genuinely makes me feel like I would need to be institutionalized. They are my everything.

But my least favourite friends? They receive none of this. They are an afterthought. I only remember I have other friends when my favourites are offline, too busy, or otherwise unavailable.

It is an hierarchy that I have created. And now, it feels impossible to dismantle. I tell myself I cannot help myself,but that excuse is wearing thin. Because it is not a lack of awareness that traps me; it is a lack of action.Knowing exactly what to do and still refusing to do it is a cruelty I can not rationalize away.

Now that I am aware of this, I want to peel off my skin, jump into a fire, and die because I know exactly what it feels like to be the floater friend. The second option. The friend who is only remembered when it is convenient. I have been that person, or worse—I have been the person with no friends at all.

Yet, here I am, treating the people I claim to love exactly the way I was once treated. It is a humiliating reminder of how easily we become the people who hurt us. I promised myself I would never become them. But I did.

Confession

Here is where the accountability stops being useful and starts being unbearable: I know what I would have to do to be better. Call them more. Prioritise them. Give them the same bandwidth I give my favourites.

But when I look at that list of actions, I feel nothing. No urgency. No guilt strong enough to override my inertia.

I am simply just a horrible friend. Because even when I do recognize it, I still have little to no interest in changing. That is the part that truly damns me—not the inability to be better, but the lack of genuine desire to try. I know I have the power to be a good friend. I am actively choosing, every single day, not to use it.

There is no tidy resolution to this. No, “but I'm working on it." I am just sitting here, aware of my own cruelty, and doing nothing. That is the truth. That is who I have become.

I am a terrible friend.

I am Venda by name. My first name is Tshivenda(Rofhiwa),which makes the complexity of my identity even more pronounced. In grade 11, I had a Venda maths teacher who would speak to me in Tshivenda,and I would respond in Setswana. Every time,he'd tell me, "Amba Tshivenda," and I simply couldn't. The language is a tongue twister for me, and my Tswana accent is too strong. I understood him perfectly,but the words wouldn't form in my mouth.

When I visited Venda. I spoke English the entire time. I was so embarrassed that I never went back.

The Politics of Blood and Ancestors

Isintu- a Nguni term that to "culture" or "custom" carries the weight of our ancestors' expectations. In my family,isintu dictates that if your father has not introduced you to his ancestors,abakwazi- they do not know you,therefore cannot protect you. So,it's your mother's ancestors who watch over you.

So I can not claim to be Venda. I am by blood,yes. But traditionally,I am not. My father's ancestors do not know me,I do not carry his surname. And yet,society tells me otherwise. Every time I tell someone I am Motswana,they argue: " No,you are Venda because your father is Venda."

This is isintu politics. The unspoken rules that dictate who we are allowed to be. Based on patriarchal lineage,ancestral recognition, and cultural performance. It's a system that reduces identity to a singular inheritance,ignoring the beautiful complexity of who we actually are.

A Disconnect On All Sides

I felt disconnected from my Tswana side,too. I don't feel Motswana enough. I do not speak the language fluently because of the Johannesburg influence of mixing languages. On top of that,three languages were spoken under one roof. I lived with my Swati grandmother,my Mosotho nanny,and my Motswana mother.

I never had a chance,shame. I was bound to mix languages. Especially Setswana le Sesotho. I cannot speak one without adding the other.

And I did not grow up going to North West either. The first and last time I went there was in 2016 for my aunt's wedding. Instead, I grew up going to Eastern Cape, ezilalini or eMdantsane because I have a Xhosa cousin. I was more exposed to Xhosa culture than my own. And, this manifested into imposter syndrome. Every time I was around Batswana ba bang,I told them I was Muvenda. And when I was around Bavenda,I was Motswana.

Both statements are,and both feel like lies.

The Shame of In- Between(ness)

I feel shame because I cannot connect to either culture deeply. Every time I say I am Motswana instead of Muvenda,vice versa, I feel like I am stripping away part of my ancestry. I cannot tell you anything about being either.

But being Xhosa?chile,I'll tell you everything you need to know.

The disconnect runs deeper. Growing up,I was more exposed to my grandmother's Swati family than my grandfather's Batswana family. All the weddings I attended were either Swati, Xhosa, or Zulu weddings. The only Tswana wedding I attended was my aunt's.

Being from a predominantly Nguni family while being Motswana and Muvenda? Ne ke sena chance for reals- I did not have a chance.

Reclaiming my identity

I am twenty one now,and I am relearning Setswana and Tshivenda. I am learning both cultures' histories,songs,and dances. It's an attempt to build a bridge between who I am and who I'm told I should be.

And guys,can we stop with this isintu politics?it's creating identity issues for some of us. Why can't I be both Mostswana and Muvenda?

And besides that,why do I feel so much guilt for not claiming my grandmother's cultures - Swati and Pedi? Why can't I be all of it? Why can't I be Motswana, Mopedi, Umswati,and Muvenda all at once?ke be 4 in one? Why can't I embrace cultural ambiguity?

Identity is not a zero-sum game. It never has been. We are shaped by every language spoken in our homes,every relative who raised us,every culture that touched us. My Swati grandmother, my Mosotho nanny,my Motswana mother, my Venda father - they all made me who I am.

I am still struggling with cultural identity. Some days I feel like I belong nowhere. Other days, I realize I belong everywhere.

I had wine in my hand and sorrow in my chest when 'Bag Lady' came on shuffle. Erykah wasn't just singing,she was calling me out. Which made me sit with all of it-the emotional baggage,the mental baggage,the spiritual baggage I've been dragging around.

The next day,that thought followed me into a phone call with my ex.

We were discussing why neither of us fought for our relationship. Midway through,I realized we both had baggage that was too heavy. There was no room to add more to it. She told me that she was relieved that we'd broken up,and I couldn't blame her,because I was too. Relieved that I quit before things got heavier. Relieved that I never had to unzip my bag and face the contents. Relieved that I escaped before my insecurities surfaced,before I had to put my abandonment issues into words.

But why do we do this to ourselves?

Why do we drag this bag of our past into every room we enter?Into romantic relationships, friendships,jobs. Everywhere. I am too anxious to start anything. I let opportunities slide because I've deeply internalized my childhood wounds that I have come to believe I'm not good enough,not smart enough,not pretty enough. I haul that pain with me daily,a familiar weight I do not know how to put down. And because I carry it,I do not fight for anything. Not for love,not for a career,not for myself. And deep down,I am convinced that someone else out there can do it better.Someone who is more deserving,more capable,without my cracks,without my bag.

So here I am,tipsy on wine and truth, listening to Ms Badu,realizing I've been hauling this invisible suitcase my entire life.And the worst thing is that we notice this bag dragging us down,and yet we justify why we hold onto it. "To protect me," we say.

But protect us from what exactly?From letting ourselves welcome love,because we fear not being loved in return. From seizing opportunities,because someone once told us we'd never amount to anything. We carry other people's pain. We let them project their fears onto us. We let our past write our future,page after page,year after year.

But what if we just stopped?Stopped trying to be "perfect." Stopped letting the world define us. What if we started taking care of ourselves,loving ourselves unconditionally,and easing up on the harsh judgment we'd never direct at anyone else?

Hi,I am Lesedi Makhene.

From today,I am choosing not to let my past define me. I am choosing to let love in,even if it destroys me. It would be a privilege to be that deeply hurt,because it would mean I truly dared to love someone. I am choosing to be more gentle with myself. More forgiving. I am choosing to love myself fully, messily,without reservations.

The bag won't dissappear overnight. The wounds won't heal in a single evening. But tonight, I am putting the bag down. Just for a moment. Just to remember who I am without it. And maybe tomorrow,I will pick it up again. But now I know that I have a choice to pack light,or even leave it behind.

I was fourteen when I lost my mother.The most devastating thing that's ever happened to me.Her death put me in derealisation for two years. Nothing felt real,I could see the world,but I could not feel it. It felt like I was living in a dream and kept waiting for someone to wake me up and say, "This isn't real. You can come back now." But no one came. And when I finally came out of it,my world crumbled. My mom was really gone. And I was alone in this.

I am my mother's only child. There is no one who shares this pain exactly the way I do and that's the loneliest part.Losing a parent comes with a loneliness that no person,no passing time, and no place can fill. No matter what I do,that part of her she took with her stays missing,it doesn't heal. It's just there-an internal void that just never fills.

"I named you Lesedi because the moment I held you in my arms,I knew that you would be the light of my life," she told me.I believed her.She was the sun I orbited.So when she passed away, she took that light with her. Not out of cruelty,but because it was hers to give and hers to take back. I understand that now. But understanding does not fill the darkness that swallows me daily. She was my light,too. She was my everything, and I still feel that ache and the fear that reminds me that I am alone in this. It has been seven years since she passed.

Seven winters of chasing a flame that no longer exists.

I run toward it in my dreams.

I reach for it in our old photographs.

I listen for it in her voice notes.

It's not there,I cannot find it.

And there will always be a darkness that follows me around,no matter how far I reach,no matter how desperately I run towards it. Because the light I am reaching for isn't out there anymore. It was her. And she's gone.

I miss my mom bahlali.

My late mother was the sweetest soul I've ever known. My mother gave me my softness. My devotion. She gave me my love for music. I smile like she smiled. I laugh like she laughed,and oh,her laughter was contagious. You could be in the worst mood,and she'd start laughing,and suddenly, you were laughing too,not even knowing why. Everybody loved my mom. She reminded me everyday that my skin is beautiful.That I am smart. She would pray over my hands every morning before school and tell me that everything I touched would turn into gold. She always made me feel like I was destined to take over the world. She was truly my world. I miss her every single day.

Grief is just love with nowhere to go

-Jamie Anderson

My mother wanted to name me Naledi(star). But then she saw me and changed it to Lesedi. What's funny is that some people still call me Naledi to this day. And I think it's beautiful that both names stuck with me. I got to be her star ,and her light.

Do other Lesedis and Naledis experience this too? Let me know!

And then she appeared,pressing against every carefully erected wall I had built.

God,this woman.

She says the right things at the right moments. Not in a calculated way,nothing feels performative. It's as though she possesses some innate understanding of the exact frequency my soul needs to hear. Each conversation deepens my curiosity until I find myself consumed by the desire to know all of her. Every thought,every memory,all of her. I want to be the only one who knows her. It's selfish,I know. But I cannot help it.

Her mind is as beautiful as her face. And her voice.My God,her voice. I could listen to her speak for eternity and still crave for more. She listens with attentiveness that makes me feel seen in ways I never knew I needed. She is intelligent,effortlessly funny, curious,and impossibly gentle with me.

She occupies my mind completely.

I find her in everything. In the books I read,in conversations with others,in the songs that play on repeat. She has become the lens through which I experience the world. My one and only desire is to love her. I want the corny,cinematic love. The kind they write songs about. I want the whole world to know about her. The woman who has me writing about her every single day. The woman who makes me this happy.

We went on a date.

It was,without question,the best date ever!

We went to dinner. I was so nervous my palms were damp against the menu. The lights were dim,the music was loud. We could barely hear each other. So she slid out of her seat,settled beside me,took my hand,and pressed to kiss it. Right there in the middle of all that noise and dimmed lights. It felt surreal. Like watching a scene from someone else's life,expect I was in it.

Our food arrived shortly after.She took my plate and sliced through my medium-rare steak with theatrical disdain. "This is basically raw," "Uzosidla one day." And yet,when I lifted that same condemned piece to her lips,she opened her mouth without pause and ate it. That,I think,is the quiet poetry of intimacy: we critique the meal,but we still trust the hand that feeds us. She poured my wine. She is a gentle woman,the kind who makes sure I enter the room first,and if I try to let her go ahead first,she fixes me with that "ngena mfazi" look that tickles me so much.

After dinner we saw a movie.The movie was a blur from the opening scene. Her head rested on my shoulder, warm and heavy in the best way, and suddenly, I couldn't tell you a single line of dialogue. My entire focus narrowed to the rhythm of my own breathing,was it too loud? did she notice every rise and fall of my chest beneath her cheek? We stole kisses here and there, quick and soft in the dark, but each one only made me hungrier. I just wanted to turn to her and keep kissing until the credits rolled and the lights came up and the world forced us apart. I didn't, of course. I let her lie there, let the film play on, and let myself ache in that quiet, pleasant way. Because I was with her,my beautiful girl.I was exactly where I wanted to be.I loved every second of the day with her,and I haven't stopped smiling since.

She sends me little vlogs. Glimpses into her world that I watch on repeat,committing every frame to memory. She is devastatingly beautiful,and sometimes,it genuinely unsettles me. Not because of her,but because I know how people react when they see a stunning,tattooed woman draped in boys' clothes.It stirs something primal and possessive in me. I know I am not the only one who notices her brilliance. But at least I am the only one who gets to hold it.

The most beautiful part is that I do not have to shrink myself with her.

Not even a little.

I tell her "ke kwatile" every single day because I miss her every single day. "Ukwateleni manje?You are always upset with me," "Uyahlanya yazi baby." And I laugh and say, "tsamaya geh"

This is our language. Our rhythm. Our little back and forth that means nothing and everything all at once. She never asks me to be softer,quieter,or more palatable. She matches my intensity. In the middle of our ridiculous banter,I realize she is exactly where she wants to be. With me.

I love our little routine.

I wait for her to get home after her night shift. I wait for her call,the one where she complains about work,always beginning with, "Yeah,today they got their money's worth." And then,mid-sentence, she falls asleep.

She calls me a creep for listening to her breathe.I don't care. It's my favourite part of the day.

I really am crazy about her.

P.S. Guys,this is not your sign. No,your soulmate is not on Substack. She won't admit this, but ubaby manifested me,and we just happened to meet on Substack.

P.P.S. Shout out to . She doesn't know this, but we wouldn't be here without her.

For the longest time, body dysmorphia dictated my relationship with intimacy. I am a brown-skinned girlie, and while I never consciously hated my complexion, I struggled profoundly with how dark my vagina was. I felt dirty. Undesirable. As if my melanin was a stain I couldn’t scrub out, no matter how much I washed. That self-consciousness curdled into self-loathing, and over time, hating that part of my body made me resent my skin colour itself.

Being around lighter-skinned women—my aunts, my mom, and my cousins constantly made me feel like an outsider. Not through malice, and not because anyone said a cruel word. It was just conditioning. The mirror we were handed reflected lighter skin as softer, more feminine, and more worthy. I internalized the hierarchy so deeply that my natural pigment started to feel like a mistake I had failed to correct.

Because of this, I became a "touch me not." I was so convinced of my undesirability that I couldn't get aroused. My body froze up, anticipating rejection before it ever came. Yet, paradoxically, I often had sex to prove to myself that I could be desired. I treated my body like a prop in a scene directed by the person I was sleeping with rather than a home for my own pleasure. My arousal became dependent on their validation.Which meant the moment they proved they wanted me, my job was done, and my own pleasure was abandoned. This created a toxic cycle: either total numbness or a desperate, dissociative performance. There was no middle ground. No curiosity. No softness. Just survival and validation, back and forth, until I wore myself out.

All of that because of colourism.

We don't talk enough about how colourism lives in our bedrooms. A 16 year old girl learns to be ashamed of her own body before she even knows what to do with it. I was 16, googling how to make my vagina lighter, because colourism taught me that darker equals dirty.I wanted to bleach the evidence of my ancestry out of my most sacred space.

“How to make your underarms lighter.” “Brightening cream for dark elbows and knees.” Young Black girls are sold brightening creams before they are ever sold confidence. They sell us the problem and the "cure" in the same aisle. It is a billion-dollar industry built on the foundation of a teenager's self-revulsion. We learn to hate ourselves in pieces.Ankles, knees, underarms, vulva. There is no part of us too private for their profit margins. They package our shame in pretty packaging and charge us for the privilege of feeling unworthy.

I am happy to say that I am healing. I no longer hate my skin complexion. But healing didn't come from finding a cream that finally worked. It came from realizing I didn't need to be fixed.

And yes, the article "my pussy is black because I'm black" changed my life. That sentence is radical precisely because it is so obvious, yet society has made it feel like a rebellion. It stripped the moral weight away from my melanin and handed it back to me as a biological fact, not a flaw.

Now, I am learning to reclaim my own touch.Not as a test of desirability, but as a declaration of presence. My body is not a project. My darkness is not a flaw. It is the earth, the deep sea, the rich soil where my pleasure finally gets to grow.

You speak of "deliverance" like I was born from a broken womb. Like I entered this world already needing to be fixed. "You must be born again," you quote. But what if I don't want to be un-made just to fit your mold?

I know some of you mean well when you say "God can break these chains." But have you truly stopped to ask how your prayers land on my skin?

Because to me, it doesn't sound like freedom. It sounds like erasure. Like you are denying my true essence and painting over it with your narrative. Like my gayness is a stain to be scrubbed out. So you hunt for excuses:

"Maybe her father wasn't around." (he was)

"Maybe she was hurt as a child." (I wasn't)

"Maybe she just hasn't met the right guy."

Funny thing,the "right man" is the one who showed me I wanted none of him. Then what?what excuse is next? Oh, the classic "Born in sin."

"The heart is deceitful above all things," you say. But whose heart?yours or mine?

And when the reason fails,you reach for hell. But hell doesn't scare me. If I go to hell for loving a woman,then I will gladly embrace the pits of hell.

Let me tell you what heaven actually feels like:

Heaven is the way she says my name, like it’s a prayer she actually means.

The weight of her against me, like the world finally settled.

Her breath on my skin when she pulls me close and the air goes still.

The way she holds me like I was never lost to begin with.

Her lips.God, her lips. Like pressing my mouth to the inside of a rose petal, warm and impossibly gentle.

When she kisses me, the world stops trying to save me.

When she holds me, every prayer for my deliverance becomes distant, foolish noise.

I love being a lesbian woman. I am not lost. I am not waiting to be found by your version of grace. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

So before you lift your hands to pray for me,ask yourself if you are praying for me or praying over me. Shrinking me into a story that was never mine.

The only weight I need lifted is the weight of your pity. And the only deliverance I desire is from your prayers.

"Chomi wa nyala?"

"No, ke promise ring."

Promise ring?ke promise ring ya eng yanong?

I'm sorry,but I still don't get it. To me,a promise ring feels like the commitment version of "chomi,I'll call you back," and we both know that call never gets returned. It's giving "wa tena,tshwara ring ke ye nxa" energy. A cheap way to shut you up for another 5 years while he "figures things out."

What happened to engagements? You know,the thing where a man gets on one knee and actually asks you to marry him?Or Even before that,what happened to le ngwalo? When the man writes to your family and lets them know he's serious and we all get to read his letter and laugh while saying, "uyak'thanda lomfana yazi oe."

A promise ring to me looks like a tool to cage a woman from dating other people while giving her just enough hope to stay. It's like putting a "reserved" sign on a table you're not even sure you want to sit at.

And my people, le lona la dumela? tjo!

If a man truly wants to marry you,he won't give you a placeholder. As people say:

"If he knows,he knows,if he doesn't,he's stalling."

Look,I'm not saying every promise ring is malicious. Some couple use them as a symbol while they're in school,saving or waiting for the right time. Fair. But let's be real,most of the time, it's a soft commitment for people who want the benefits of being "taken" without the pressure of actually committing. So here's my 2 cents: if someone gives you a promise ring at 28 and talks about "someday," moshape ka yona.Not literally beat him up,obviously. But definitely reevaluate if you want to spend your time waiting for a man who's allergic to the word "fiancé"

Engage me,or leave me alone. Simple.

The moment I realized I was losing myself in my relationship, I ended it. And it was the right decision.

I could blame it on my attachment style and call it a day. “I’m anxiously attached, that’s just how I am.” But is that the whole story?

For me, falling in love meant tying my whole identity to my partner. I made her my world. I stripped away my own interests, the way I spoke, the way I dressed, and slowly became her. I barely recognized myself when I was in love. It felt safer that way. If I became her, I didn’t have to show her me. The dark parts. The depressed girl on antidepressants trying to cope. The parts I’m ashamed of and convinced would make her leave if she saw them. So I centered her to run from myself. To stop remembering who I was when I was alone. But centering someone else to avoid myself backfired. My emotions started depending on her mood. I micromanaged her tone, her time, her silence. If she went hours without texting me, it felt like proof I wasn’t important. If she lived her life outside me, I wondered why I couldn’t be enough to fill it.

I tied her love for me to how much of her life she gave up for me.

And the relationship got worse. My depression got worse. My anxiety spiked daily. I started drinking more. All of it because I had made her my whole world and forgot I was supposed to be in it too.So I broke up with her because I couldn’t live like that anymore. I realized I needed to learn how to stop centering love and stop running from myself. For the first time in a long time, I made a decision to pour into me instead.

It’s been over a year since the breakup, and honestly, my mental health has been doing way better. The quiet is no longer uncomfortable, and I can hear myself again. Being alone doesn’t mean being abandoned.

And it’s becoming clear to me that maybe di taba tsa marato ke di tlogele for nou - maybe I need to leave relationships alone for a while. I don’t want to keep using love as an escape hatch from myself. I want the next time I love someone, it’s from a place where I’m already whole. Where I can be devoted without disappearing. Where I can love without making it my whole identity.

If you’ve ever felt like you became a ghost in your own relationship, I want you to know it’s okay to need space to find yourself again. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do for someone else is to step back and become someone you can stand to be with yourself.

I don’t know how to love someone without being devoted to them. It consumes me. It blinds me. I don’t recognize myself in it. Devotion paralyzes me. But I don’t know how to love without it.

What does that say about me? Why do I lose myself in love? Why does every relationship feel like a test I have to pass, a debt I have to pay?

My devotion stems from fear. I need to show someone I love them more than anyone else in their life ever could. Like if I just love hard enough, long enough, loud enough, they’ll stay. I’m terrified that when they leave, it will prove what I’ve always suspected: no one else will ever love me. I don’t believe people are capable of loving me as I am. So I overextend myself to earn it. I water myself down to be palatable. I become a mirror, reflecting back whatever version of me they want. I tie my whole identity to them. I sacrifice my soul.

And for what? To be left anyway. To be told I was “too intense,” “too much,” “too available.” The same devotion I used to keep them becomes the reason they go.

But who am I when I’m not devoted to the people I love? I honestly don’t know. Without someone to pour myself into, I feel empty. Like a cup with a hole in the bottom. I’ve built my worth on being needed, being chosen, being the one who stays. If I’m not proving my love, am I even loving? If I’m not suffering for it, does it count?

It’s starting to suffocate me. I’m starting to hate this part of myself.The part that mistakes self-abandonment for intimacy. The part that thinks love is a contract: I will disappear, and in return, you won’t.

I want to learn how to love people without drowning. But I don’t know how. I don’t know how to exist in the middle space between detached and dissolved. I don’t know how to start believing that someone could love me and my intensity, not despite it. I want to love without keeping score. Without putting on an act. Without making myself small enough to fit in someone else’s hands.

I think devotion is my greatest flaw. But maybe it’s also my greatest strength. Maybe the fact that I love this hard means I’m capable of something real,I just haven’t learned how to aim it yet. How to hold it. How to give it without setting myself on fire to keep someone else warm.

I’m still learning. But I’m tired of disappearing in the name of love.