i have overcome so much, felt so much, cried too much and i could easily categorise these but this time? this time it's heavy, it's fast, it's happy, sad, angry and scary, it’s just a stack of contradictions you can’t really box. we lack the vocabulary to articulate what it means to be approached by anchors of non-existence, it’s just knowledge reserved exclusively for those who cannot report back. but, the severity and intuition of this approach remains undeniable.

i’m stranded in an emotional turmoil and i can’t escape. it feels like suspension. i initially thought it was metamorphism, as one does upon reaching a point of burning out but no, i believe it's something more final. the symptoms are loud, the dreaming has ceased, the desire for external connection and flow has evaporated, and the emotional baseline that i once had relied on has dissolved.

maybe it might be a new psychological level entry into a higher plane of consciousness or what i have presumed as my final realization of how i feel, a literal, quiet march to the light, to the end.

villages live in a patriarchal system where everything is black and white, no pink, yellow or rainbow in the middle. the boys herd the cows, do yard work, play soccer and go swimming in the river and the girls do the housework, cook and play with dolls… everyone has role based on their gender assigned at birth. fluidity or being beyond the binary is an unknown.

i came out via facebook in 2019, i was 12 and everyone in my family was happy for me. we never talked about it, they just showered me with love and moved on. i dived deep into my sexuality and identity and by 2022, i identified as non-binary.

after that, the conversation of initiation school felt weird to me because i am to become a man from being a boy but i wasn’t a boy. i was non-binary. i went anyway because i felt they would be no point of telling my parents that i don’t feel or want to go. everyone was happy, i wasn’t… i was just there. i wasn’t sad though. i just did it because there was no other door. ever since then i haven’t gone to ezilalini. the binary gets thicker when you become a “man” traditionally, you are expected to attend traditionally ceremonies around the village, there is segregation — older men have their corner, wives, young men, boys, girls etc. but none of those align with me.

there is no saying no, they (men of the village) come and invite you with no accept or reject option to come and you are simply bound to go.

this forced participation created a heavy, suffocating ache. it transforms kwaMakhulu — the place that felt like a break from everything — into a landscape of anxiety. i am trapped into a cruel paradox where the home that holds my sweetest memories and carries the most important puzzle of my family is the exact same place that demands i erase who i am.

to go home now means wearing a mask that suffocates me. it means sitting in corners meant for other people, responding to titles that don’t belong to me, and watching the people who i love and love celebrate a version of me that is entirely fictional.

the weight of this rigid patriarchy, wearing the guise of tradition, forces an unfair heartbreaking choice upon me. i have to now choose between my comfort and my culture, between my identity and my family. there is no middle ground, no shade of yellow or pink where i can just exist.

if i choose my family and culture, i must accept the daily trauma of going back to the closet, being misgendered and boxed into a traditional masculinity that feels like prison.

if i choose myself, i am forced into a self-imposed exile, cut off from kwaMakhulu, from her garden, the laughter of my cousins and extended family and the soil that raised me.

traditional patriarchy and masculinity doesn’t just build walls around the village, it builds a wall between me and the people i love. it is devastating to realize the price of admission to my own family home is the erasure of my truth.

i am still me. i still love the warmth of full house, the morning coffees and evening laughs by the fire, but… i cannot sacrifice my own soul just to make the village comfortable. until there is a door that allows me to enter exactly as i am, ndishiyeka ndizilela ikhaya.

i am left mourning a home that is still there, but a home i cannot reach.

then came the summer of 2016, and everything changed. my dad relocated for work, and my mom's job became insanely busy. four months flew by without us seeing him, or having those sunny weekend chill parties we used to love. i unexpectedly started to miss it all — the loud radio, the dancing, the shared smiles, the smell of my mom’s cooking & my dad’s braai, and the scent of fresh-cut grass from my dad's saturday routine. even the flower garden nestled between the laundry rail and the kraal, began to wilt. it finally clicked to me that things were no longer the same.

but as it clicked, i realized we didn’t have to stop having our weekend chills. one afternoon, i plugged in my wired earphones and switched on zabalaza by thandiswa mazwai. tears immediately left my eyes and it wasn't because i fully understood the song’s deeper meaning, but because of the heavy memories it carried. yhat night, i fell asleep listening to nizalwa ngobani? on repeat. it kept the vivid image alive of my parents dancing, singing along the chorus and smiling at one another.

when the summer of 2017 finally arrived, my dad came home. he brought a brand-new cd, and i was so excited to get my hands on it. but that friday, the heavens opened and it rained heavily. disappointment washed over me, and i cried all friday evening.

my dad noticed and asked, “ulilelani na, ubungandikhumbuli na mntwanam?” (why are you crying, did you not miss me my child?)

i responded, “ewe bendikukhumbula tata qha kuyanetha, eyonanto ebendiyingxamele ibikubuyisa iweekend zethu sisonke.” (yes, i missed you, dad, but it is just that it's raining. the only thing i was eager for was to bring back our weekends together.)

the next morning, the soulful voice of simphiwe dana woke me up. i instantly checked my bedroom window, but it was still pouring outside. confused, i ran out to the living room. there they were — all three of them, my mom, dad, and sister, snuggled up in their pyjamas hosting a massive indoor picnic. my dad looked up, smiled and said, “rain is just another kind of fun. indoor picnics are better anyways no ants.” i smiled back. everything instantly felt the same again.

ever since that rainy weekend, our relationship has been amazing. even after i came out in 2020, our bond kept that exact same flow of love and easy vibe. now, every single summer, he sends me four new jazz albums to listen to. jazz is permanently woven into the fabric of my life.

he introduced me to the classics: simphiwe dana, hugh masekela, thandiswa mazwai, mandisi dyantyis, busi mhlongo, miriam makeba, and thandi ntuli. in return, i introduced him to the new generation: bongeziwe mabandla, zoe modiga, kujenga, msaki, and buhlebendalo and iphupho l’ka biko.

on our last weekend together, we were listening to zoe modiga and he was in absolute awe. he complimented how amazing my taste in music is and i could see how the proudness in his eyes.

for most of my life, i lived in the blurred lines between spirituality and religion, never quite knowing where one ended and the other began. in a community where education is a hard-won privilege, awareness is often a luxury we can’t afford. christianity — in all its varied forms — was the only map provided to navigate the soul. but as a queer person, that map always led me to a dead end. i was always searching for a God who could see me, but all i found was a reflection that didn't match my own.

my "third eye" didn't open in a cathedral; it opened through the frequency of neo-soul. i became obsessed with the "coolness," the effortless flow state, and the deep peace radiating from the artists. i wondered: where do they go to find this?

i started my first pinterest board, scrolling through images and descriptions that felt like ancient whispers. then, it hit me with the force of a revelation: i am Black. there is a vast, vibrant life for a black person that exists entirely outside the borders of christianity. i didn't fit into the church’s narrow definitions anyway, so walking away felt less like a loss and more like an escape.

i began to dive deep into African spirituality, jazz, and the roots of neo-Soul, chasing a sense of belonging that had eluded me for years. the more I read, the "Blacker" i desired to become. i fell in love with vernacular texts and African ideologies.

but as I leaned into my truth, my life began to spiral in the eyes of others. my parents, caught in the grip of "typical parent syndrome," feared i was losing my way. i started questioning everything. the queer boy who used to be at choir practice twice a week began to vanish. i stopped going entirely because the pews started feeling like cages and the sermons like lies.

as i dug deeper into our ancestral roots, the weight of colonialism hit me. i realized how Christianity was used as a tool to erase the very spirituality that once sustained us. that erasure unlocked something in my subconscious. i realized that the "God" being marketed to the world — a distant, punishing figure — is not my God. i feel no connection to him. my God is Her is He is They.

i am Black, therefore i am Bantu. i am Yoruba, Orisha, and Vodun. i am the sweetness of Oshun, the duality of Mawu-Lisa, the sovereignty of Nyame, and the rain of Mbaba Mwana Waresa. i am Ntu—the universal force. my God is Black because i am Black. my God is the black soil of Africa mixed with the essence of black blood spilled by the swords of Christianity.

my God is the bones, arrows and beads we wear; the music we make which they laugh at as we sing; the animals we live with as they call us a jungle; the uneven teeth, smiles, eyes; the bodies that are still museums; the hair they call dirty and everything Africa offers. i am the riches of Azania, the Nile River of Egypt, the diamond of Congo & Botswana, the quartz of Madagascar because my God is.

my God is the rhythm of my own heartbeat, finally beating in time with my ancestors.