“Indlela yothando iyahlaba” is a Zulu expression that means the path of love can hurt. It is a simple sentence, but it carries a deep truth about what it means to love someone. Love is often described as beautiful, warm and comforting, but nobody talks enough about the pain that can come with it.

When we love someone, we give them a part of ourselves. We give them our trust, our time, our attention and sometimes even our deepest secrets. That is what makes love so beautiful, but it is also what makes it dangerous. The person who can make you feel like the happiest person alive can also be the person who hurts you the most.

Sometimes love ends because two people grow apart. Sometimes it ends because of betrayal, lies or circumstances beyond their control. And sometimes, you can love someone deeply while knowing that they are not good for you. That is one of the hardest things about love: accepting that loving someone does not always mean you are meant to stay with them.

There is a saying, “Uthando aluboni” love is blind. When we are in love, we may ignore things that would normally concern us. We see the best in the person we love and sometimes convince ourselves that their mistakes will change. We hold on to memories, promises and hope, even when reality is telling us to let go.

But pain can also teach us. A broken heart can teach us about boundaries, self-worth and the kind of love we deserve. It can teach us that we should never lose ourselves while trying to keep someone else. Sometimes walking away is not a sign that you stopped loving someone; it is a sign that you finally chose yourself.

Love is not always about having a perfect ending. Sometimes, someone enters your life to teach you something, to change you or to show you a part of yourself you never knew existed. Even when the relationship ends, the lessons remain.

Indlela yothando iyahlaba reminds us that love is a journey, and every journey has its difficult roads. There will be moments of happiness, heartbreak, confusion and growth. But despite the pain, many of us continue to love because love is also one of the most beautiful experiences life can offer.

Perhaps the greatest lesson is this: love should not cost you your identity, your dignity or your peace. Love deeply, but never forget to love yourself too.

Tuesday, 4:44 a.m. I was doom scrolling on TikTok until I bumped into a video by @sun_wel.

The video shows a boy walking onto a stage to receive his award. It should've been a normal, proud moment, but as he walks up, you can hear boys in the crowd booing him.

And the reason? He’s gay.

Imagine working hard, earning second place, hearing your name called, and walking up to collect something you should be proud of. Instead of applause, you hear people mocking you simply because of who you are. Not because you cheated. Not because you hurt anyone. Not because you did something wrong. Just because you are homosexual.

And somehow, we are still expected to have endless conversations about the “boy child.”

We are constantly told that boys are being left behind. That we need to understand them, protect them, empower them and make space for them. But what happens when some of those same boys are the reason another child no longer feels safe being himself?

At some point, we have to stop confusing accountability with abandonment.

The boy child does matter. But being a boy should never become an excuse for cruelty. Masculinity should not be built around humiliating someone who is different. And being part of a group should not give anyone permission to gang up on the person standing alone.

What happened in that school hall is not harmless teasing. It is homophobia. It is bullying. And it sends a very clear message to every LGBTQ+ learner watching: You can achieve something, you can work hard, you can stand on that stage, but we will still find a reason to make you feel ashamed of yourself.

That is the part people need to understand.

The problem isn't that boys are struggling. The problem is that we too often centre their struggles while ignoring the damage they can cause to others.

There are young people who are trying to survive school while hiding parts of themselves because they are afraid of becoming the next target. There are students who sit quietly in classrooms, avoid certain corridors and think twice before expressing themselves because they know what could happen if the wrong person decides to make them a joke.

South African research and government sources have documented that LGBTQ+ learners experience bullying, discrimination and exclusion in schools, and that these experiences can seriously affect their wellbeing and academic lives. This is not some imaginary issue invented for social media arguments. It is happening to real students in real schools.

So yes, let's talk about the boy child.

But let's talk about the boy who is gay and is being bullied.

Let's talk about the boy who doesn't fit into somebody else's idea of masculinity.

Let's talk about the boy who is scared to walk onto a stage because he doesn't know whether his classmates will celebrate him or humiliate him.

And let's talk about teaching boys that strength isn't making someone else feel small.

Maybe the conversation shouldn't always be about how to save the boy child.

Maybe sometimes it should be about asking what kind of men are we raising?

Because a boy who needs to put another person down to feel powerful isn't being empowered. He's being taught that cruelty is confidence.

And I'm tired of seeing the people being bullied asked to be patient while the people doing the bullying are given endless excuses.

So, respectfully: fuck the boy child when “protecting the boy child” means protecting his ability to hurt other people.

It's about damn time we stopped centering the people who refuse to move forward and started making space for the people who actually want to build something better.

The boy on that stage deserved applause.

He deserved to collect his award without shame.

At 4:44 a.m., I thought I was just scrolling through another random TikTok. Instead, I ended up thinking about how many queer students have had moments like this and simply had to keep going.

There is a certain kind of loneliness that is hard to explain. It is not the loneliness of having nobody around. It is being surrounded by people and still feeling like you do not truly belong to any of them.

That is what being a floater friend feels like.

You know people from different groups. You can sit with almost anyone, have a conversation with almost anyone, and somehow always find someone to laugh with. You are never really alone, but you are also never completely someone’s person.

You float.

You move from one friendship group to another, fitting in wherever you can. Sometimes it feels nice because you are not tied down to one group. You get to experience different personalities, different conversations, and different kinds of friendships. But sometimes, especially when you see everyone making plans without you, you start wondering where you actually fit.

You start asking yourself questions you probably shouldn't have to ask.

If I disappeared for a few days, would anyone notice?

Who would I call if something happened?

Who actually considers me their best friend?

And sometimes, you don't have an answer.

The weirdest part is that people probably don't see you as lonely. They see you talking to everyone. They see you laughing in the corridors, sitting with different people at lunch, and greeting people wherever you go. They assume you have a lot of friends.

But having access to people isn't the same as having people.

There is a difference between being welcomed somewhere and feeling like you belong there. There is a difference between being invited because you're around and being invited because someone genuinely wants you there.

Sometimes you become a floater because you are afraid of being left out, so you make sure you can fit anywhere. You learn how to adjust yourself depending on who you're with. You become the easy-going friend, the friend who doesn't complain, the friend who can sit anywhere.

But constantly adapting can become exhausting.

You eventually start wondering what it would feel like to have one person who simply gets you. Someone who notices when your energy changes. Someone who saves you a seat. Someone who messages you first. Someone who would immediately know that something was wrong just because you were a little quieter than usual.

Maybe being a floater friend isn't proof that there is something wrong with you.

Maybe you just haven't found your people yet.

And until you do, it is okay to float. It is okay to have different friendships. It is okay not to have one specific group that defines you.

Just don't convince yourself that you have to earn your place in someone's life.

The right friendships won't make you constantly wonder where you stand.

One day, hopefully, you'll find people who make you feel less like a visitor and more like you belong. Until then, you're somewhere between everyone and no one and that doesn't make you invisible.

It just means you're still finding your way home.

There are songs that you listen to for a while and move on from, and then there are songs like Unforgettable by French Montana featuring Swae Lee — songs that somehow sound just as good years later.

I genuinely think this song is peak. The moment the beat starts, it creates a feeling that is impossible to explain. It feels like summer, happiness, late-night drives, parties with your favourite people, and memories you wish you could relive.

Swae Lee Made the Song Feel Immortal

The biggest reason why Unforgettable is so special is the emotion in Swae Lee’s voice. His chorus is so smooth and catchy that it stays in your head for days. French Montana brings a laid-back confidence that matches the production perfectly, creating a song that feels effortless.

The beauty of Unforgettable is that it doesn’t try too hard. It’s not a song you need to overanalyse — you simply feel it.

A Song That Defined an Era

Some songs become part of people’s lives, and Unforgettable is one of them. It reminds people of a specific time, a specific summer, and specific moments they never want to forget.

Years from now, I truly believe people will still play this song and feel the exact same excitement. It is the definition of a timeless hit — a song that simply never misses.

They call us birds as if we are people who have no sense. As if staying, forgiving, and loving someone through their mistakes makes us weak.

But are we really birds?

Or are we simply human?

Humans are built for connection. Once we create a deep emotional bond with someone, walking away is rarely as easy as people on the outside make it seem. The memories, the vulnerability, and the version of them we fell in love with often become difficult to let go of.

We stayed because we remembered their kindness. We held onto the apologies, the promises, and the little moments that convinced us that maybe this time would be different.

The truth is, our brains naturally become attached to inconsistency. Moments of love after moments of pain can create a cycle where we keep waiting for the next good moment, hoping that the person we love will return to who they once were.

Maybe that was our mistake not loving them, but believing our love could be enough to change them.

Love can support growth, but it cannot replace the work someone has to do within themselves. A person can be surrounded by patience, forgiveness, and understanding, and still choose not to become better.

So are we birds?

Maybe not.

Maybe we are just people who saw the good in someone and believed it was strong enough to outweigh the bad.

There is beauty in having a heart that forgives. There is beauty in choosing love.

But there is also wisdom in understanding that love without respect, honesty, and change can slowly become a place where you lose yourself while trying to save someone else.

So yes, they can call us birds.

But perhaps we were never foolish.

We were simply people who loved deeply, hoped endlessly, and had to learn that the same compassion we gave to others was something we deserved to give ourselves.

Anxiety never knocked before entering my life. It slipped in quietly, disguising itself as overthinking, being “too sensitive,” or simply caring too much. I did not realize that little by little, it was taking pieces of me I once recognized.

It took my peace.

The ability to sit in a moment without thinking about what could go wrong became something I missed. My mind turned every possibility into a problem, every silence into a question, and every small mistake into something I replayed over and over again.

It took my confidence.

I started questioning things I used to do naturally. I wondered if I said the wrong thing, if people secretly disliked me, or if I was somehow not good enough. Anxiety has a way of making you doubt yourself even when you have no reason to.

It took my relationships.

Not because I loved people any less, but because anxiety made me distant. Sometimes I did not know how to explain what was happening inside my head. Sometimes I isolated myself because being around people felt like too much.

It took my sleep.

My body would be tired, but my thoughts were wide awake. Scientists have found that anxiety can make it harder to fall asleep and stay asleep because the body remains in a state of heightened alertness.

It took my time.

So many hours were spent preparing for conversations that never happened, worrying about situations that never came true, and fighting battles that only existed in my mind.

But anxiety did not take everything.

It did not take my hope. It did not take my ability to heal, to grow, or to become kinder to myself. Research shows that anxiety can be managed through approaches like therapy, healthy coping strategies, social support, and sometimes medication.

I am still learning how to live with a mind that worries a little louder than others. Some days are harder than others. Some days I still lose battles.

But every day I wake up and choose to keep going, I am reminded that anxiety may have taken many things from me but it never took me.

There is a strange kind of grief that comes with loving an artist who disappears. You keep waiting for the next album, the next era, the next sign that they are ready to return. But with Frank Ocean, perhaps the silence is the message.

Since Blonde, fans have spent years searching for clues of a comeback. Yet maybe one of the clearest messages was delivered before he ever left — hidden in the vulnerability of Seigfried.

The song feels less like a moment of confusion and more like a conversation between two versions of Frank: the artist the world desperately wants and the person quietly searching for a life beyond him.

“What if I leave everything behind? What if the life I’m living isn’t the one I’m meant to have?”

Choosing Peace Over Perfection.

The lyrics “I’d rather live outside, I’d rather chip my pride than lose my mind out here” feel like the most honest moment in Seigfried. To me, they sound like someone who has reached a point where success no longer means happiness. Frank seems willing to sacrifice his status, his image, and everything people admire about him if it means protecting his peace.

When he says “Maybe I’m a fool,” I don’t hear regret. I hear someone questioning whether choosing a simpler life over a celebrated one makes him foolish. Society tells us that once you have fame, money, and influence, walking away would be irrational. But perhaps the real bravery is admitting that those things are not enough.

“Maybe I should move and settle, two kids and a swimming pool” is not a dream of a superstar — it is the dream of an ordinary person searching for stability, love, and a quiet life.

To me, this is where Seigfried becomes less about escape and more about self-preservation. It is a man realizing that he may have spent years becoming someone the world loves, while still searching for the person he wants to be.

A Fond Farewell to a Former Self

When I hear “This is not my life, it’s just a fond farewell to a friend,” I do not interpret it as Frank Ocean saying goodbye to music itself. I interpret it as a man saying goodbye to a version of himself that no longer serves him — the version built around expectations, fame, and the constant need to create.

The word “friend” is what makes the line so painful and beautiful. A farewell is not always filled with hatred or regret. Sometimes, you can love something deeply, appreciate what it gave you, and still understand that it is time to let it go.

To me, Frank is not mourning the life he had; he is simply acknowledging that it may no longer belong to him. “This is not my life” sounds like someone looking at the world they built and realizing they are ready for something quieter, something more authentic.

Perhaps that is why this moment in Seigfried feels like the emotional heart of the song. It is not about disappearing — it is about having the courage to choose yourself, even when the world wishes you would stay the same.

The Bravery of Letting Go

The final word that lingers in Seigfried is “brave,” and to me, it changes the entire meaning of the song. It suggests that walking away from a life everyone admires may require more courage than staying in it.

When I hear “it’s just a fond farewell,” I don’t hear bitterness or resentment. I hear gratitude. A person looking back at a chapter of their life, appreciating everything it gave them, while accepting that they have outgrown it.

Perhaps the bravest thing Frank Ocean could ever do is not make another album, not because he has nothing left to say, but because he has finally chosen to live for himself rather than the expectations placed upon him.

Maybe his silence is not an absence. Maybe it is his peace.

And maybe the “fond farewell” was never a goodbye to us — it was a goodbye to the version of himself that the world had grown attached to.

Perhaps we have been waiting for Frank Ocean to return because we believe his story is unfinished. But maybe Seigfried was never the beginning of a disappearance — perhaps it was the quiet acceptance of a new life. A life where Frank Ocean is no longer defined by what he creates for us, but by what he chooses for himself.

If this truly was a fond farewell, then maybe the most loving thing we can do as listeners is not ask him to come back, but to be grateful that he was ever here at all.

You called me every day. We slept on calls. You texted first. You said I love you like it was easy, like those words weren’t heavy enough to alter somebody’s entire emotional landscape. You made room for me in your routine, in your conversations, in your late nights, and somehow still had a girlfriend. That’s what makes it insane — I wasn’t imagining things. You built the connection brick by brick, then stood back and acted shocked that I lived in it.

The apology came late, almost as if time could soften what happened. But some things don’t need explaining because intent is obvious. People know when they’re crossing lines. Nobody accidentally creates emotional dependence in someone, hears their fears, learns their wounds, and still chooses to keep playing. That’s not confusion. That’s convenience.

The cruelest part is that you met me when I was honest. I told you about my life, the parts I don’t hand out easily, the parts that are already bruised. I trusted you with things that already hurt me, and somehow you found a way to make them hurt more. You saw where I was fragile and still pulled. That’s a choice. It says something about a person.

And somehow, even after all that, you still had the nerve to say you loved me in front of other people — like repeating the lie publicly makes it cleaner. Like I’m supposed to hear that and not remember the random night you switched up, the night you made me question everything, including myself. It’s almost impressive: how someone can say I love you and make another person feel worthless in the same breath.

Maybe that’s what really hurts. Not that you chose someone else — but that you let me believe I was something real while you were rehearsing a version of yourself you could present to everyone else. I was the emotional draft. The secret chapter. The practice run before your public relationship.

You didn’t lose me because you were straight. You lost me because you were selfish. There’s a difference.

And that’s the embarrassing part: I still think about you sometimes. Not because you were worth it, but because betrayal is loud. It echoes. Especially when it came wrapped in nightly calls, fake tenderness, and words you should’ve never said if you didn’t mean them.

You fumbled me for heterosexual PR.

Hope the press release was worth it.

How can leaders find over R100 million to build a wall, but struggle to find enough money to build universities, improve schools, fix toilets, or create jobs? Young people are unemployed, students are fighting for funding, and families are struggling every day yet the answer is suddenly bricks and concrete?

South Africa fought too hard against apartheid and segregation for us to stay quiet when walls start going up again. Whether they call it a “safety barrier” or not, the message it sends is loud: hide the poor instead of helping them. Instead of solving crime by investing in communities, education, and opportunities, they are choosing to build barriers.

Crime won’t disappear because of a wall. Poverty won’t disappear because of a wall. The suffering in Khayelitsha won’t disappear because of a wall. If anything, it just hides the problem from people driving past.

We need leaders who build universities, homes, and opportunities—not walls. Because no matter how tall that wall is… it still won’t give me a degree.