It is a lonely Sunday evening, and the marks for the module worth sixty percent of your final grade have just been published on Blackboard or some other common app. You are well aware of this, and have been housing an insidious dread the entire day. A dread so heavy that it anchored you to your bed while you scroll on TikTok to satiate that gnawing feeling in your stomach. You know how unfortunate it is that you missed out on valuable study time, and you know that you could have gone on a walk to decompress, yet you can’t help but lay still, silent and absorbed in the online realm until it becomes easier to exist.

Liking a cohort of hilarious comments on an arbitrary twelve-part story time, the thought rises calmly to the surface of your mind:

“I wish I was dead.”

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It is likely that most of the people in your life are passively suicidal. It is less about wanting to hurl yourself in front of a moving truck while crossing the street, and more about entertaining the slight relief that envelops you from humouring the thought. One probably doesn’t even want to, really. Or even if they do, it’s not as if they would. It’s more-so about overhearing the words in your own head—a strange relief, like a catch released. A bitter luxury to withdraw into.

It isn’t socially acceptable to talk about this, because of the taboo around mental health and mental health issues. Especially when considering the ’sissy’ narrative that characterises Gen Z. But, and allow me to speak freely here, if there was a way to passively and nonviolently opt out of living today, a surprising amount of young people would. Especially those between the ages of eighteen and thirty five, the “new” adults of our generation.

The world we live in today is literally hell on Earth. There are racist, money-hungry pedophiles in the highest positions of authority on Earth, the CIAs plan to destabilise Africa through Twitter diaspora wars, dating discourse and desensitisation is working, ninety percent of the clothing you can buy commercially is made out of plastic, a two minute scroll on TikTok could easily consist of a 24-karat-gold-hot-honey-lemon-pepper-Dubai-chocolate-labubu-glitter-dumpling-fried-cyan-boujee-chicken-imeeting-imayelana-nani-plantain review one moment, and live footage of a child being decimated by heavy artillery fire by an Israeli IDF soldier laughing maniacally the next. And Donald Trump is still alive.

The real world isn’t any better than the digital world either, the very real effects of late-stage capitalism are tightening their grips on our lives and making the very fact of existence an inconvenience. A family member of mine recently got employed after two months of unemployment, because her previous job literally cost her more money than it was providing her with. Women aren’t able to go outside without making sure their banking apps are hidden or that your family has your location because there is always the chance that you could get kidnapped today. The Madlanga Commission keeps proving to me that you are safer calling your local neighbourhood watch for help than calling our designated South African Police Service. But make sure you still perform well in your finals and stand out by getting at least four distinctions, because there aren’t enough Universities to absorb first years. Wouldn’t want to have to defer your application. It doesn’t really matter if you get into university anyway because there are people who went through seven years of medical school who are sitting at home right now. but hey, try to graduate. Also don’t expect to be able to support yourself financially right after graduating. Or, at all! Oh and don’t expect to buy a car. Let alone a house.

Life looks bleak. Not just in South Africa, but everywhere. If you were to ask a young person where they see themselves in the next five, ten, twenty years they would probably respond with something along the lines of, “I don’t know where I see myself right now.” The last time they felt present in their body was ten years ago!

So of course, when an unregistered medicine randomly hits the feed and promises to help you manage your stress better, lower your cortisol levels and help you get more than four hours of sleep at night, the youth is enticed. In fact, the youth jumps.

Do not misunderstand me, I am not a naturalist and am not against using medicine as a means of making your life easier. I just think it says something when so many people jump at the first opportunity to relinquish control over a really large aspect of their life, their emotions, for even just a second. It speaks to just how exhausted we all are, but also how we do not have anybody to speak to.

I think this is why it is so easy for us to fixate on things like dating discourse or TikTok drama—because it gives us a sense of control. Autonomy. Ironically, I also think that dating has become a socially acceptable way of self-harming. Have you come across a meme that mentions something along the lines of venting about an awful event or situation in your life and a mutual responding “real” to it? It is this phenomenon of people offering companionship instead of support or, what is often most necessary in that moment, criticism. Community is often a big reason why people remain in dynamics that do not serve them. Factor in the popularity and normalisation of “situationships” in our culture, and the way we’ve managed to make that something we are able to relate to one another with, people can sometimes choose to stay in unhealthy relationships because it is one of the only socially acceptable ways to self-harm. One of the only ways to manifest the dread of all the chaos and uncertainty in our world.

It is difficult to mention the topic of declining mental health (mental health in general) to our physical communities without being drowned in Bible verses and other well-meaning platitudes about how everything will get better. It is difficult to mention these subjects without it being interpreted as an active desire to not want to live anymore and being referred to Weskoppies. The loss of third spaces, and subsequent invention of the digital third space, creates a hollow version of community—one of the only forms of connection young people have nowadays.

Gen Z, ma2k we are going through a lot. I myself do not have any answers or solutions. I’m in Matric, so I haven’t smiled in months. What I do know is this (and you might not want to hear it, but:)

Put your phone down.

I’m serious. Delete TikTok. Delete that thinkpiece, because none of it is real. Take a deep breath and realise that the algorithm incentivises people to take advantage of your insecurities. Your boyfriend does not hate you because he forgot to peel your orange for you. It is a skit. Seemah and Ghost Hlubi getting back together is none of your business. It is a skit. You know what is real? The fact that you are alive.

I mean this with all the sincerity in my heart; so long as you have breath in your lungs, you can change your circumstances. You can take a step closer to where you want to be. You can try again. There are many people out there right now in better positions than you are, but who are lying on their deathbed wishing for just one more day.

Social media will have you outraged over a hypothetical situation, a situation that has literally nothing to do with you, that you miss the beauty around you. It is no wonder our bodies are in a constant state of sensory overload. TikTok will have you believing that rubbing a piece of glass for seven hours a day is more fulfilling than absorbing and truly sensing the world around you. Your emotions. Your friends. Your family. A walk. A swim. A good cry. A run. A good meal. A book. The album you have been putting off. Struggling. Failure. Jealousy. Laughter. Satisfaction. All of what makes us feel truly alive.

I do not have the answers. But I do know this.

In your quest to discover who you are and where your place is in this world

Do not forget to feel.

Do not forget to live.

I write this essay bedridden due to a nasty fall I experienced earlier this morning. I was waking up, and skipped over the usual five minutes taken to “defrost” and shake off the sleep from the previous night. I walk straight to my bedroom door and greet my younger sister, who is standing in the hallway, stretching right after I say “good morning.” As quickly as those words escape my mouth, my vision goes black and I soon realise that I am falling. I haven’t fallen on the ground in a very long time, so beyond being very debilitating, it was a little embarrassing. The way I fell did nothing to alleviate that feeling either. I fell backwards, straight onto the tile flooring of my bedroom, and landed on my back.

The air was knocked straight out of my lungs. Beyond the pain, my body felt as though it was drowning. Everything was moving painfully slow, as I lay on the floor keening in pain as my mother and sister stumble over themselves into my bedroom. Definitely not a fun experience. I am bedridden for a few days. There is, however, a bright side to this ordeal. I now have a well of time at my disposal, specifically to write. To understand this essay, you will require a little bit of context;

I had installed a lace-front wig for my Matric Dance in May, and for some time afterwards I decided to wear my cornrows out. I have always loved wearing cornrows as a hairstyle, and have never questioned their beauty and utility as I wore them. Until recently, where one day I was asked a most confusing question by a friend at school.

“Chom when are you gonna install? ‘Cause I see you have your wig lines in!”

I explained to her that this was the hairstyle and that they were cornrows, not wig lines. It was a harmless interaction, but I was left quite unsettled by it. I found myself in a deep rabbit hole, wondering about my relationship to femininity, beauty and respectability as a young black woman. What is black womanhood, and who gets to be considered beautiful under it? How do black women engage with the social capital that is beauty?

Also,

Why is it no longer socially acceptable to go outside in cornrows!?

To give this essay some structure, I will be dividing it into a few sections, each with their own point to advance. They will be as follows: An analysis on the history of Black women and womanhood, modern-day Black beauty standards in relation to hegemonic white supremacist beauty standards, and finally, assimilation, palatability and a way to move forward.

I’m going to take this time to make something quite clear—I love all black women. This essay is not a critique on any particular “type” of black womanhood. My business is not in policing black women, or critiquing the ways in which we survive in a world that is derivative of our suffering. This essay is an investigation on what determines which type of Black womanhood is valued and which type is not.

It is a known fact that during Apartheid, and even further back—during brute colonialism and slavery, black women experienced unimaginable cruelty from white slave-owners. During Slavery, Black women were sent into plantations alongside their male counterparts, to toil under the scorching Sun. Black women were denied political, economic and social rights during Apartheid.

On top of this, black women casually experienced sexual and physical violence from not only their captors, but from their black male counterparts as well. A black woman could have experienced anything from extreme sexual violence, rape, medical neglect, forced breeding, experimentation, strenuous physical labour and the list truly goes on.

Black women not only suffered the most under these heinous conditions, but their suffering directly sustained them. This entrenched a cyclical pattern of the institutionalised abuse of black women, justified by the economic boost that slavery provided through cheap labour. A quote from an article published by UNESCO reads:

“Within this context, then, the enslaved black woman was super-exploited and existed in the deepest end of the slavery enterprise. The colonial system extracted more wealth and services from her than from her male counterparts. She was the main source of the sustainability of slavery. Her fertility and maternity, plus arms and legs in the field, combined to create the super-slave in the mind of enslavers.”

One must consider the social conditioning used to actively justify the abhorrent treatment of black bodies during Apartheid and the Antebellum-era. Of course, the economic benefits of slavery were often weighed over and above the humanity of the enslaved. However, to truly reinforce the legitimacy of this cruelty, some form of social justification had to be created and perpetuated.

A crucial part of this social conditioning was to strip black women of their humanity, and this was specifically done through stripping them of their womanhood. In the time of Apartheid and Chattel Slavery, the dominant gender system revolved around the Victorian-puritan ideas of white womanhood, the default womanhood. Succinctly, they revolved around the idea that womanhood was something that ought to be protected, kept pure, delicate and cushioned. Now, how could that society maintain this dominant gender system while simultaneously assaulting and brutalising black women? Make their identities inseparable from Black men.

To take away the patriarchal womanhood of the Black enslaved woman was part and parcel of the project to justify the cruelty enacted on her. She was seen as a worker before she was seen as a woman. Combined with eugenics and medical racism, black women were perceived as being physically stronger, more able to withstand pain and stress, and more naturally suited for hard labour than any other woman in that society. Enslaved black women were put in a precarious position—forced to perform the labour of men whilst exposed to gendered violence.

And as such, all the stereotypes around blackness and black women identity arose. The “mammy” trope, the “sapphire” trope, the Strong Black Woman. Black women were, by these systems, not just subhuman, but sub-woman. As they endured simultaneous hyper-masculinisation and over-sexualisation, black women were not literally made into men, but they were refused the protections that came with recognition as legitimate women under apartheid and colonial rule.

Today, this history alone immediately puts Black women in a position where they have to prove their womanhood, whereas white women remain the idealised woman.

In modern-day (Western & Western-leaning) society, there are particular traits that are unique to emphasised black femininity that Black woman are expected to adhere to. I believe that those traits all orbit the current dominant representation of Black femininity: the baddie aesthetic. You know what I’m talking about:

There is one specific aspect of this aesthetic that I want to focus on, and that’s hair.

Hair has always been a political statement in precolonial African society. It was used to convey important information regarding the social standing of the members of a particular community, like rank, royalty, emotions, ethnicity and even marital status. It has always been inseparable from identity.

There is a particular “neatness” and styling required when it comes to our hair, one that (like most things) is derived from Eurocentric standards of beauty, cleanliness and femininity. I want to use two examples to illustrate this: First, the natural hair discourse sparked by the iconic @lipglossssssssss. Lipglossssssssss posted a video detailing how she wanted to start wearing out her natural hair in public without any form of manipulation, like combing it out or defining it. Right now, black women everywhere praise her for it. Back then, she quite literally divided the black facet of TikTok. She sparked all sorts of discourse about what it means to radically accept wearing your natural hair, and majority of the discourse consisted of backlash for this decision.

The second example is this video of a Nigerian woman being scolded in her workplace for wearing out her Afro. The condemnation was so rife that her boss paid for her to go and get her hair plaited in braids (which of course, she did not.)

There is a very deep-seated devaluation of natural hair within the black community. Even the Second wave of the Natural Hair movement of the 2010s gave rise to the awareness of the heavy texturism that existed within its spaces. As such, it is not surprising that even when natural hair is praised on Black women, it is often only looser textured hair that is subject to that praise, rarely 4C.

And never cornrows.

In South Africa, the country I was born and raised in, this is especially the case. The baddie aesthetic is positioned as not only the most aspirational form of black femininity, but also a lifestyle. Texturism among South African Black and Coloured communities remains a major issue. Length is also something that exists in natural hair discussions. The longer your hair is, the more likely it is to be perceived as beautiful, healthy and attractive. Shrinkage, on the other hand, is not perceived as a sign of healthy hair (even though that is exactly what it is) and rather a downside of wearing out your natural hair. Even noticing the way we speak about hair length is the Black community, referring to our hair as “ear-length” or “chin-length” implying that our hair grows downwards. Our hair literally defies gravity, it grows up and out. It crowns around our head. Just one more way we unconsciously rely on western metrics for our value.

Now, I am of the belief that wigs and lace-fronts are not a sign of self-hate and should not be treated as such. It is the over-reliance of them as a hairstyle, and the often prerequisite devaluation of natural hair in favor of them. As a black woman, your hair is deeply political. So whatever hairstyle we choose to wear is never perceived neutrally. Black woman deserve the right to exist outside of the realm of politics, and that will only begin if we interrogate the reasons why we value certain hairstyles and why we devalue others. The “straighter” and “looser” your hair is, the more valuable it is in the eyes of society.

That said, there is a notable growth in natural hair acceptance within the Black Community. One way this is seen is through Braids and how other protective styles have seen a lot of new creativity since the 2010s, with new hairstyles consistently being created by Black women. Knotless braids, Jungle braids, Fulani braids and all their variations are examples of the shift that Black women are making to accept their natural hair. There is also a growing trend towards using kinky straight or yaki bundles for installs, lace-fronts or sew-ins. This may seem insignificant, but if it is true that the mainstream ideal of femininity that Black women are expected to perform has historically been built around Eurocentric norms, to utilise hair that reflects the pattern of your natural hair when it is blown out or combed is a form of resistance from that. It is rebellion, and it is a step in the right direction.

You cannot speak about Black femininity without mentioning colourism. Colourism, especially in the context of South Africa, is a more insidious form of bigotry because it keeps getting dismissed in Black discourse spaces. Light skin in South Africa is a form of social currency, especially in light of the xenophobia that has plagued our country for many years. Lest we forget that darker skinned South Africans were literally being harassed for their documents just a few weeks ago!

In the context of western beauty standards, it is totally unsurprising to see lighter complexions be valued over and above others. Countries like South Africa and Nigeria are known for their long history of skin bleaching culture. Even if we were to expand our scope to a global scale—if we look at South and East Asian countries like Pakistan, South Korea, skin bleaching remains a prevalent issue in the entertainment and beauty industry.

This prioritisation of fairer skin tones on a global scale reflects the dominance of Euro-American culture and standards of beauty, which literally reward and encourage the abandoning of any beauty framework that exists outside of Western ideology. And there are many.

It is clear that the mainstream depiction of Black femininity is largely derivative from or replicative of colonial, western beauty standards.

My previous article spoke to the consistent devaluing of African forms of knowledge, consciousness and reality. It spoke to the external erasure of African culture through Western dominion. This article speaks to the subtle erasure of African femininity through self-policing and the overarching principle of white conformity.

It is important to understand and acknowledge the reasons that inform the decisions to assimilate. Whether you are code-switching, twanging or bleaching, Assimilation to white normativity is often a life or death decision, whether that be physical death or social death, for Black people. It has been the difference between employment and unemployment, exclusion and acceptance. To reduce assimilation to vanity is intellectually dishonest. Most often, it is survival.

But, survival often masks preference, and I think that is why this conversation is so difficult to have. Questioning what we label as the standard in this case is to ask whether the woman staring back at us in the mirror is the one we discovered, or were taught to recognise. No amount of assimilation will mask one’s Blackness, no amount of assimilation will make our existence more palatable to the world. Africans need to radically embrace ourselves, and continue to become the arbiters of our existence. The namers of our reality.

I will still be wearing wigs, and cornrows, and braids, and sew-ins, and my Afro.

That is not the point.

The point is that every Black woman deserves to know that they can walk out of their house with her hair exactly as it grows from the scalp and still be read as complete. Black women deserve to revel in their womanhood outside of white supremacist capitalism. Not political. Not unkempt. Just complete. Black girls and women deserve the freedom to be ordinary.

Beauty and femininity are products sold to women every single day. Like every product, they are designed with a particular customer in mind.

And the customer is always white.

Around the late 70s to early 80s, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o made the radical decision to stop writing fiction in English and to write in Kiswahili and his mother tongue—Gikuyu. In 1977 came a major turning point. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o co-wrote the famous play Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want) not in English, the norm at the time, but in Gikuyu. Its popularity caused an uproar. Ngũgĩ alarmed the Kenyan government and was subsequently imprisoned without trial. While imprisoned, he wrote his first novel, Devil on the Cross (on toilet paper), in Gikuyu. His first full novel in the language.

This disobedience cuts to the heart of decoloniality. Disrupting what is perceived as the norm, as what is acceptable and standard to society. Ngũgĩ, through this act, reminds us that agency is always given to the one who gets to determine what stories are legitimate, who gets to name. When understanding the system of knowledge in the global community, marginalised peoples do not choose what is put in their history. For too long, the Global North has asserted and proliferated a dominant Western barometer of assigning knowledge, of determining what histories and narratives matter.

Du Bois describes the term Epistemological Apartheid as “The process of devaluation, marginalisation, and limiting the epistemologies, cultural resources, and ways of knowing from those of racially minoritised backgrounds.” This sentiment is especially relevant when assessing intellectualism, spheres of discourse, and modern-day academia. Intellectualism very efficiently serves as an outpost for colonial thought, hundreds of years after the end of colonialism.

Modern-day South Africa is the endpoint of the failure to quash colonial thought and practice at the root. It is what results when a colony breaks free from the shackles used to bind slaves on plantations, but not the rhetoric that allows the reality of the colonised to be determined and narrated by the coloniser. This sentence introduces the premise of this essay: the coloniality of knowledge.

The coloniality of knowledge is a term describing what it means to see yourself through somebody else’s perspective. During the brute era of colonialism, African people were not only stripped of their land, property, and material wealth, but they were stripped of their ability to name the reality around them. In her essay, Can the Subaltern Speak?, Gayatri Spivak interrogates the idea of the marginalised (the Subaltern) truly having their voices heard in dominant systems of knowledge and power. Knowledge is a medium used to assert oneself clearly so as to avoid being misconstrued. It is also a means of perpetuating power, rule, or defending oneself. By this, it is clearly seen that knowledge is not a neutral thing.

At the core of knowledge is language. Language is a crucial means of perpetuating not just colonialism, but coloniality. This is especially relevant in the context of South Africa, a nation with twelve official languages (ten of which are African) but with the concurrent failure to institutionally integrate them into society, barring English, Afrikaans, and maybe IsiZulu. Conversations surrounding business, politics, economics, and social welfare are all conducted in English, an example of the ever-enduring nature of the impositions of colonial languages in previous colonies.

At the intersection of language, colonialism, and knowledge is power, the power of the arbiter. The power to determine reality, to name. The way society determines what knowledge matters is hinged on western dominance and Euro-North American frameworks deciding what can and cannot be considered legitimate knowledge, an idea that is projected and perpetuated in modern-day discourse spaces; this essay serves to interrogate this phenomenon.

Epistemic violence is the work that decoloniality is interested in. It is imperative to distinguish decolonization from decoloniality. Decolonization is the historical process whereby the colonies and the colonized people gained independence from colonial rule, whereas decoloniality is the intentional study and practice of doing the work to acknowledge, engage with, and rectify the remnants of colonization. Decoloniality will be discussed in further detail, but it is the foundation of this essay and, crucially, the foundation of any sustainable structural reform not just in South Africa but in Africa itself.

Epistemic Violence can be described according to Spivak as “the imperialist erasure and subjugation of non-Western knowledge systems.” When colonialism was brought to Africa, its domination required a whole new way of thinking. To propel colonial project, the very definition of rationality, necessity, and what is “good” and “civilized” had to be changed and adapted to suit the agenda. One example of this is the importing of colonial languages, briefly mentioned earlier. Colonialism came with fundamentally different concepts that were incompatible with precolonial African languages, so to proliferate those ideals, African languages had to be eradicated. To fragment African identity, the binding thread, language, had to unravel. The most efficient way to achieve this was through importing colonial language, making it the standard, forcing assimilation, and criminalizing resistance. A South African example of this idea is seen in the harrowing event—The Soweto Uprisings, where hundreds of black schoolchildren protested against the racist Afrikaans Medium Decree of 1974, which forced all black schools to use Afrikaans and English in equal terms as languages of instruction.

For South Africa, the end of Apartheid meant the end of political subjugation of African peoples; this did not mean the end of cultural subjugation. To survive, South Africans were forced to assimilate, abandon their cultural identity altogether, or embrace it only in the comfort of secrecy in their communities. African culture was never the norm, and that sentiment is still being perpetuated today. “Coconut” discourse in South Africa highlights the growing appreciation of the inseparability of language and cultural continuity. To embrace South African Blackness, one ought to learn their Vernacular Mother tongue. The erasure of African languages through the prioritization of English as the medium of instruction, with relatively few academic textbooks printed in vernacular languages, etc., actively fragments collective Black identity, truly. How does one collectivize, bond, and relate to their counterpart when they cannot speak their language? The single indisputable bond between Africans?

Furthermore, African languages are fundamentally undermined in this process. This is seen through the commonly held notion that to teach your child African Languages is futile, as the only means of self-determination is by moving in the world as an English-speaking African. This is problematic, of course. The universalization of Euro-North American metrics as not just a measure of intelligence, but as a measure of reality, keeps African minds under the foot of colonization. Language is a deeply political means of shaping the way people view reality and themselves. This phenomenon of language Apartheid, as a result of colonization, took away the colonized’s ability to name the world, as proposed by Fanon. This is true in the sense that African people literally couldn’t name their World, but also in the sense that to be able to name something meant you had autonomy over it. To “name” in this sense is to determine, to arbitrate and to decide. It is to determine your reality. Crucially, to “name” is also to legitimize and reinforce. So when colonization denied Africans jurisdiction over their life experiences, the ability to name their realities, and the opportunities to contribute to their own epistemologies, it meant that Africans had to experience life through the lens of somebody else or in accordance with somebody else’s epistemology, succinctly described as existential epistemology.

I invite you to consider how African knowledge and epistemologies, like oral storytelling, are often considered or described as local, traditional, indigenous, etc., whereas Western forms of knowledge like religion, medicine, science, etc., are posited as universal and all-encompassing. The world itself is structured around a Euro-North American framework of understanding what knowledge is, what kinds of knowledge matter, and who gets to contribute to this knowledge. This rigidity mandates conformity from Africa and any other non-Western epistemology.

This conformity can be seen in our education systems today. The South African education system is, still, a largely colonial institution. In a research paper published by Savo Heleta titled “Decolonisation of higher education: Dismantling epistemic violence and Eurocentrism in South Africa”, the South African education system is described as being “largely reflect[ive of] the colonial and apartheid worldviews (Ramoupi 2014:271) and is disconnected from African realities, including the lived experiences of the majority of black South Africans.” Universities continue to impart knowledge that reinforces colonial thought, and crucially, the idea that in order for African intellectuals to succeed in the global landscape, they ought to assimilate to Western ideals of knowledge, of what it means to be valuable.

In March 2026, the Department of Education released a draft document proposing amendments to the CAPS education syllabus, specifically to make history a compulsory subject from grades four through twelve and to teach an Afrocentric history syllabus and move away from eurocentric ideals to reinforce Africa’s precolonial identity and sophistication. In the context of decoloniality, it would seem as though this long-overdue effort would move the needle in terms of decolonizing the education system in South Africa. It would raise prerequisite questions, however;

How are we to realize the ideals of the draft curricula if only one language is spoken in the classroom?

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o writes about the journey to transform the post-colonial Kenyan education system at the end of the 60s in his book Decolonising the Mind: The Politics of Language in African Literature. Ngugi writes that the transformation required looking at the curriculum in terms of the ‘relevance to our situation … [and the] contribution towards understanding ourselves’. Ultimately, the goal was to establish the ‘centrality of Africa’ in the curriculum. Many other African countries underwent similar decolonisation processes, where Universities and other academic institutions made vigorous attempts to decolonise the disciplines. South Africa ought to do the same in all educational spheres, lest we further entrench eurocentric colonial pedagogy in our education system.

The beginning of decoloniality lies in disobedience. To blindly accept the narratives you are taught is to sleepwalk into oblivion. As scholars of decoloniality, it is critical to interrogate the systems we inherit and to ask ourselves what determines valuable knowledge, who gets to choose which knowledge is universal, and who benefits from our believing certain lines of thought. Colonialism was never only a theft of land—it was a cartographer of the imagination, drawing borders around what could be known and who could be believed. It mapped our reality.

When the West denied the colonised agency and made them view and describe their own existence through a lens that was provided by the oppressor, it was not merely their perception of reality that was controlled, but their perception of themselves. The proof is seen in the way Africans continue to devalue our knowledge systems, our cultural practices, and it is seen in neo-colonialism and our diplomatic relations. Africans forget the Africa that existed before its name existed; Africans forget the essence of Africa.

It is clear that disobedience, then, is not destruction. It is cultivation. It is clearing the soil so that forgotten seeds may find the light again.

It is trusting that beneath the weight of inherited truths, other worlds have been waiting to breathe.

My mother.

I was raised by a woman who was not handed softness or the space to be gentle. I was raised by a woman with audacity and a harsh tongue, who moves through life like a man—tough and domineering. My mother has worry etched into her face, and has made grief a home in her chest. My mother used her bare arm strength to beat mielie powder into dinner for my sister and I, she did not have time to be tender. No, I was raised by a savvy woman, a business woman. A woman who knew when to flirt with the cop or bribe the electricity man. I was raised by a woman who howled in sadness, roared in anger and screamed with laughter. I was raised by a dynamic, volatile woman who was all but brittle. I was raised by a woman with shoulders carrying the worlds weight, with a back welded into a crescent because of how heavy it is to be her.

I am her pride and joy, evidence of the one thing she could never have been offered: softness. Don’t you see it? In the way that I write, the way I feel. The way that I move through life.

My mother is exhausted.

Winnie Mandela

I was raised by a daring woman. A woman who had lived the reality of what it means to get everything you have ever wanted at the cost of every single thing you had. Winnie Mandela, a black woman who underwent torture, public humiliation, harassment, intimidation, psychological and physical abuse all for the then-unsure dream that one day black girls like me would be able to exist outside of exhaustion. A woman who achieved this not because it was her duty, but because as a black woman you must work tirelessly until your bones are used to support the lives of every other person in society. Until you are critiqued for becoming hard to survive under a system that made you that way. Truly, Black women must slave away and pour every last drop of their being into society and not expect a thank you, not expect gratitude. It is your duty, black woman. You must serve, and serve, and serve until their world has sucked every last drop of life out of you. Your sacrifice is not appreciated, it is expected.

Winnie Mandela died exhausted.

Brenda Fassie

I was raised by a fabulous woman. A woman who shined through the darkness of a world that dug into her until they couldn’t anymore. I was raised by a revolutionary, a legend, forever changing the landscape of Kwaito. I was raised by a lesbian woman whose existence was the catalyst to going against the cancer of heteronormativity in Apartheid South Africa. I was raised by a woman who had to learn that she was a taboo. A woman who was the subject of inhumane press coverage, harassment and abuse. A woman whose international recognition was not enough to give her cries for help a spine. Was not enough to afford her the humanity of being taken seriously.

Brenda Fassie died exhausted.

Wives

I was raised by a quiet woman. A woman who once hated silence. I was raised by a woman who was told that her humanity was hinged on whether her Surname was preceded by Ms or Mrs. That was survival. I was raised by a woman whose existence was reduced to bride price, who was a means of an exchange between life and death. A woman who sacrificed her life to give it to me. I was raised by a woman who stopped dreaming. Not because they died, but because it hurt more to dream than the beatings, the cheating, the berating. “Bekezela,” the woman who raised me was told. And bekezela she did. Survive she did. Until a long silence. There is so much silence in our home now. Perhaps one day we will talk once more. Clothe things with words. Or perhaps we will never again be able to clothe things in words, things that have long been naked.

Wives die exhausted.

Immigrants

I was raised by a woman who was expected to perform a miracle with empty hands. I was raised by a holy woman. Holyness does not always look like turning water into wine. Holyness can look like being brave enough to flee from the destruction of war, into a foreign land with foreign customs, and labelled as an enemy, a cancer to get rid of. We define Holyness differently. I was raised by a woman who has to flee from a sea of bullets somewhere in the Congo, who will be killed by one shortly. The brain of a woman will hold more than 2,5 quadrillion bytes of information. 2,5 quadrillion memories (Sunday mornings, that first bloom of the harmattan, son receiving acceptance letter) that will never come to be again.

When you kill a woman, you kill all the stars in the universe.

Immigrant women die exhausted.

Sex workers

I was raised by a strong woman. A woman who was failed by life a long time ago. I was raised by a woman who was able to feign interest. To mask the desire to survive as allure. I was raised by the woman who was not afforded many choices in life. Who has had to teach her skin how to kiss the icy breeze that sheathes it, instead of reject it. I was raised by the woman who was not afforded grace, protection, safety. I was raised by the woman who provided for me in every single context. I was raised by the woman who wasn’t afforded sleep, the most basic of all human functionality. Grace. The woman who raised me has never known grace. It, too, can look different. Grace can look like a handful of coins handed to her, so she can have a day’s rest, before she has to get into her next dreaded car.

Sex workers die exhausted.

Domestic Workers

I was raised by resilient women. Women who scrubbed every corner of my life clean, who undertook the job title of “maid” but performed the duties of mother, teacher, cleaner, chef, confidant, homemaker. I was raised by a woman who was only allowed to exist in the shadows, whose presence never noticed but absence severely felt. I was raised by a woman who did all this, six days a week, to get paid not even enough to buy her child uniform for the new term. A woman who is made into a sponge, forced to absorb everyone else’s pain. It has been a long day. She takes three taxis home and prays to make it safely to kiss her daughter goodnight.

Domestic workers die exhausted.

Teachers

I was raised by an adaptable woman. A woman who was expected to breathe life into children under a system that didn’t prepare her enough to do so. I was raised by a woman who thought quickly on her feet, who was able to produce children with Matric certificates by teaching them with hand-me down books, sitting on hand me down-chairs. I was raised by a woman who dreamed for me a life bigger than the life she was handed. She learns English so that I can learn how to do a simultaneous equation. A woman who devotes her career to other children like me. To making sure that we grab the little education we have access to. The woman who raised me has had to nurture her creativity under unbearable pressure. Because still, devotion is not enough. Children need schools to thrive. Teachers need real textbooks. The odds are stacked in favor of failure. For her and I.

Teachers die exhausted.

Black South African Women

I was raised by black South African women. Of all backgrounds, of all shapes and sizes. I was raised by the woman who continuously provides for me. I was raised by the woman who nosedived into gunfire. I was raised by the woman who was denied of her right to love. I was raised by the woman who was never meant to be silent. I was raised by the woman who was the stars. I was raised by the woman forced to stand outside, at the mercy of cruel winds. I was raised by the woman who sees her daughter in me. I was raised by the woman who shows up. Day after day.

I inherit their plight.

I inherit the exhaustion.

The anger.

Black women are transgression and toil. To be a black woman in South Africa is to face sexism, racism, ableism, tribalism, colourism, classism, to be raped, beat, be burned to ashes and have nobody wonder about your absence. A black woman can carry the nation in the bend of her back and still be asked why she is exhausted. We turn black womanhood into mortar, into the thing that holds our nation. Black bodies are praised for carrying burdens that should never be theirs to begin with. I know this because they have raised me. I see it in them. This list will forever be non-exhaustive. There are too many names I do not know. Too many whose labour has been swallowed by history. So I write this as a record. An architecture. An ode. A lament.

To all the women who have held the sky above my head long enough for me to mistake it

for heaven.

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Warm.

What does it mean to be warm this winter?

I think about this in bed, and try to follow my racing mind. I think about a few things: the poverty crisis, anti-homeless infrastructure, systemic inequality. I frame this thought around intellectual curiosity, and I soon begin to realise how unchecked my privilege has been. Because make no mistake, to be able to intellectualise poverty is a privilege. To be able to engage with it as a distant, detached observer is a privilege. How privileged I am to say that I dissect poverty, but not live in it. Not function under it. Am not directly affected by it.

It almost makes you forget that you’re speaking about people who have a beating heart and blood running through their veins, who were once children with hopes and dreams. It makes us perceive poverty as many things; a prerequisite to capitalism, systemic oppression etc. which granted are all true, but we lose sight of who is at the heart of poverty: human beings. Often, this isn’t done out of malice. When the government and their parties (notoriously during election time) begin their campaigns on immigration, deliver bread to a couple of townships and kiss the foreheads of babies, these issues are drowned out. The immigration problem is framed as an explanation for economic inequality and youth unemployment, and not asylum seekers fleeing from the devastation that marks their countries. The poverty crisis is framed as a soot stain on the South African economy, and not the fact that forty million South Africans cannot even afford basic nutrition without sacrificing on other aspects of their lives to compensate. These issues are minimised by our very own politicians—was it not just three months ago Lesufi told those affected by the Joburg water shortages to “shower in hotels!”?

I serve this essay with radical intentions—to humanise those our politicians scapegoat. When systemic poverty is reduced to a laziness, motivation or personal issue, a very potent form of dehumanisation is perpetuated. Let me put it into perspective: South Africa has a population of roughly sixty million people. Of those people, forty million live in poverty. That means one in three people you encounter are living in abject poverty. It gets worse; twenty million of those people, with beating hearts and blood running through their veins, cannot even afford to eat enough calories to maintain a functioning body, let alone a healthy one. Poverty, inherently, is not normal, and never will be. Poverty on this scale indicates a crime against humanity. These numbers are colossal, they are prodigious. They are monstrous. These numbers indicate that if you are on this app, with a phone in your hand, in your bed with your thick duvets and hot water bottle near your feet, you are in the upper facet of society. You are one third of society awarded the basic right to live with decency, and dignity. To live in general.

One religious practice I enjoy conceptually is Ramadan—the act of fasting forces the body, mind and spirit to acknowledge what it means to lack. To step into the reality of what it means to go hungry for an extended period of time, even if not holistically or to the full extent. Still, I don’t think we will ever fully grapple with that reality until we are put into that position. Because even if we fast, there is still a warm meal and clean water waiting for me at dawn. I will still fast with warm clothes on my back, in a house made of brick and mortar. Forty million South African people, artists, musicians, poets, engineers, writers, mathematicians, composers, playwrights, politicians and doctors were stripped of that reality.

Poverty is murder. Poverty kills. It is a problem so dehumanising that it guts you from the inside out, killing your spirit. Do you think the man sitting near the robot with a makeshift cardboard home reminisces of his childhood? How his mother told him “Oh, mtanami! Uzoba i’engineer omkhulu kangaka ngelinye ilanga!” and dreamt for him a life bigger than the one handed to her? Or maybe I think of the mother who has to give birth in a squatter camp under a puny plastic roof, at the mercy of biting, howling winds. I wonder if she has any favourite songs, if she loved going to church as a child, what she wanted to be in this world. What about the prisoner serving a life sentence somewhere in the world for stealing his right to life, for ‘stealing’ what should be afforded to every single person breathing right now, for stealing just enough so they could make it to the next day? Do you think these people live life the same way we do? Of course not, but I mean: do they have the life force to appreciate the force that is nature? Are they able to ruminate on the small pleasures of life? Do they still wonder about their goals? How life must be so different now? Where it all went wrong?

Reader, do they dream?

No. Of course not. To dream, one must feel safe. One must be able to fall asleep to dream. it is a privilege to dream. Why? Because one must be warm. To write, one must have a pen. Paper. Life force. Warmth. To live, one must have what is necessary to survive. Food. Water. A body temperature of 37°.

How many artists have we lost to poverty? Lawyers? Architects? Authors? Teachers? Scientists?

Dreamers?

What does it mean to be warm this winter?

Certainty. It means that you know tomorrow is inevitable. You know that your days are survivable. You know that when wind bites at your skin, there is shelter nearby. That when your stomach growls, there will be food waiting. To be warm is to be protected from the violence of deprivation. I am warm. I don’t feel the full brunt of the chill of the psychological terror that is instability. Our politicians speak about poverty in statistics because they are easier to swallow than the grief of realising that millions of South Africans wake up already exhausted by survival.

I think winter exposes a lot of things. It exposes the cracks in walls, an open window, the holes in socks, a heater that’s a setting too low, the insufficiency of thin blankets against ruthless winds. But, more than that, it exposes the architecture of inequality. It shows us who gets to retreat into the safety of the indoors and who must remain outside. Who gets to experience winter as an inconvenience, and who experiences it as a seasonal threat to their life. I think that’s why I can’t stop returning to that word: warm. Warmth. How even in the cold, people continue. They continue loving, laughing, creating, raising, growing, stumbling, living. Beneath impossible conditions. A mother still braids her daughter’s hair the Saturday before school. A father still tells stories. A family still tunes in at 18:00 to watch the weeknight soapie. A child still kicks a soccer ball through dusty streets and imagines stadiums full of cheering people. There are still dreamers. Even in the cruelest conditions, even in the cold, humanity continues to dream.

Poverty doesn’t erase humanity, but it forces it to exist under unbearable pressure. Pressure that most succumb to. It is the duty of us, our government, our country to erase this pressure. I implore you to keep this in mind this election cycle, reader. And even if you don’t, remember this: It should never be a privilege to be warm.

Nobody should have to earn the right

to be warm.

“That is my greatest fear… that if- if I lost control, or did not have control…things would just- you know- I- would be…fatal.”

for your viewing pleasure 🪷

I am thirteen years old when I first listen to Ctrl. It is a scorching December afternoon, and my grandmother has taken her siesta. Out of boredom, I decide to take my phone out and play Candy Crush. (the only thing a thirteen-year-old could utilize her phone for then) I discovered that my phone had been loaded with a then-colossal amount of data—a whopping 200 megabytes, exactly. Severely overestimating the amount of data I had, I began to ferociously download as much music as I could. I didn’t know any music then, so I downloaded what I recognized from Pinterest. So, twenty minutes later, I lay satisfied on the couch with zero megabytes, 30 Rand deep in airtime advance debt, staring at the figure of an ethereal black woman seated in what seems to be a forest with dozens of old, broken, and ugly-looking computers in the background.

From the moment I clicked on the play button, I unknowingly opted into an everlasting connection with this album. Ctrl has always been the soundtrack to my adolescence, my life, even before knowing what “trivialize” meant or who Drew Barrymore was. Ctrl is an intricate exploration of vulnerability, growing up, self-worth, patriarchy, insecurity, love, shame, and adulthood, all bolstered by a unique, genre-bending sound palette and songwriting that can only be described as tender, beautiful, innovative, and brilliant. Ctrl was a cultural reset that stuck with us. Just like Frank Ocean and The Weekend, SZA was able to use her authenticity and non-conformist attitude to touch the hearts of our generation. It is through this that SZA was propelled to mainstream status, and her work on the LP widely and rightfully heralded as a modern classic.

The body of Ctrl

The vulnerability that SZA displays on Ctrl is striking and uncomfortable. She grapples with the whirlwind of growing up, loving men a little too much, shame and identity, being a black woman, and all the prerequisite experiences as a result of that. There is a common misconception that SZA fixates on her failed romances often in this album, and that the main themes she explores in Ctrl are centered around her relationships with previous partners. If one judges the validity of this claim by her most commercially successful songs, like Normal Girl or The Weekend, this may seem true. However, a closer inspection of the album reveals a complex exploration of other subject matter.

But yes, SZA absolutely explores her previous relationships in the LP. “The Weekend” is one of her most successful explorations of this theme. Shortly after its release, The Weekend was dubbed as the “side-chick anthem” of the 2010s. I want to provide a new angle through which we engage with this song and its theme. Many people miss the rudimentary point of this song—The reclamation of power. SZA challenges femininity by asserting authority over the relationship dynamic she sings about in the song. She expresses how she “doesn’t care” about whether or not her lover is out with somebody else, so long as he is “there by 10:30” and he meets her (to do other naughty things; “drop them drawers”) on time. This illustrates how SZA is well aware of the only redeeming quality of the dynamic, the sex. She doesn’t ask for anything beyond that, either. In fact, through those lines SZA makes it clear to her partner that that is all she seeks out of the relationship. There is merit to counter-considerations that propose that SZA experiences a low sense of self-worth that informs her decision to stay in an exploitative dynamic, and this seizing of authority is an expression of her denial and a means of coping. The beauty of art lies in its wide margin of interpretation. It is just important not to verge on infantilizing SZA in the critiques of the track, because part of growing up is being able to reclaim your mistakes and poor decisions, and crucially, understand that they are your poor decisions and mistakes to make.

Also, even if you do not buy into anything I have said, it is undeniable that SZA represents and gives voice to a perspective that is rarely covered in popular music without rife and misogynistic condemnation. There is value in that narrative being represented in such an artisanal way. And who is to say that exploring the impact of your previous relationships on you isn’t something to be respected? Love is arguably the most complex concept in our universe, and it’s difficult to ignore the misogynistic undertones of the critiques of navigating relationships with men that often frame women’s romantic choices as either naïve or morally suspect, while affording men far more emotional leeway. What SZA does in “The Weekend” is sit comfortably in that gray area—neither fully endorsing nor outright condemning the situation she describes. Instead, she inhabits it. That, in itself, is radical. She allows contradiction to exist: desire alongside detachment, agency alongside vulnerability. In doing so, she resists the pressure to present a polished, morally digestible version of womanhood.

Much of the music on Ctrl grapples with existentialism, not just as it relates to love, but life itself. On “Prom,” SZA laments the very real, very terrifying reality of what it means to grow up. She discusses the pressures associated with growth, ranging from getting “better” and maturing to needing (and forgetting) to call your mom often, and the shame she feels when she falls short. The song ends on a solemn note with SZA saying “it hurts” and how she cannot “stand” the pressure to figure herself out anymore.

In Ctrl (deluxe), SZA explores this same theme on “Miles.” SZA’s first bar on the track is a striking one: “Wish I could be a little more mature.” This opening line sets the stage for the emotional journey that this one-minute, ten-second song embarks on. SZA explores feelings of inadequacy and indignation with herself. She speaks about how she consistently feels as though she falls short of what is expected of her, questioning why she can’t be like “anybody else.” She also subtly explores her relationship with marijuana in this song, and how she often uses it as a crutch and a means to feel good about herself. She realizes this, saying how she “thinks [she] looks good but [she’s] really just high” and projects that frustration into a net frustration with the rules of society. SZA explores a reliance on weed for daily functioning in a couple of her songs, namely Jodie, Percolator, and Broken Clocks. Digressing, SZA is “sick” of listening to everybody else, of her own pride, of having to be nice when she feels otherwise, and the world. She is sick of conforming and having to play a caricatured version of herself to fit in. At the end of the track, SZA reaches a conclusion, but not before bravely admitting her fear of moving forward now that the certainty of her identity (or what she thought it was) has been stripped from her. She says, “time keep movin’ forward, forward.” signifying the realization that regardless of SZA’s readiness and fear, time and life will move on for her.

SZA expands on the substance of Ctrl by often taking on a feminist stance. In “Drew Barrymore,” SZA sarcastically apologizes to her metaphorical lover for not being the conventional or feminine caricature society expects women to be. She bitingly apologizes for not being more “ladylike” and for not “shaving her legs at night.” This non-conformity that SZA recognizes is simultaneously the thing she resents most about herself, especially in relation to her lover’s new lover, citing how “she’s perfect” and she “hates it.” SZA’s lover has fallen in love with a woman who perfectly captures the traits SZA misses in herself, perfect femininity—something SZA simultaneously rejects but craves. I think Drew Barrymore speaks to a lot of us woke women who reject fully the regressive and oppressive gender norms that inform a woman’s position in the world, but do sometimes daydream or fantasize about being enough for somebody. As a black woman, you are immediately masculinized and simultaneously fetishized by society; rarely are we allowed the room to just be accepted for who we are. That often leaves us in this strange limbo of knowing that the system is inherently harmful but feeling pressures to assimilate to it regardless. In the age of intellectualizing every single aspect of society, SZA names this cognitive dissonance and how one can still fall victim to the very systems they condemn and will never fit into, and how that’s okay. How it is a part of growing up and adolescence and self-discovery.

As SZA grapples with her lover and her lover’s lover, she begins to identify where her gripes lie: herself. She says what is one of my favorite lines in Ctrl is: “‘Cause it’s hard enough you got to treat me like this / lonely enough to let you treat me like this.” SZA faces that she plays a role in her own suffering, and even goes as far as to redirect her question about being good enough for her lover (“Am I warm enough for ya”) to how she feels about herself; “Warm enough outside, inside me, me, me!) SZA questions a lot here: whether or not the dynamic is enough to fulfil her, whether she is happy with herself, and everything in between. This should not be confused with a radical realization of self-worth, however, as if you’ve ever been in love with someone who isn’t good for you, you know that things are rarely that clear-cut and obvious. No, in fact, SZA doesn’t even pretend to want to leave her lover; she merely starts to question if the dynamic is serving her. I appreciate this track in the way it depicts separation: messy, utterly too slow, and complicated. The track ends on a pensive note; the repetition of “warm enough, outside, inside” signals to the listener that she is ruminating on the thought. This points to the bigger picture of indecisiveness, self-pity, confusion, and self-awareness.

I think one of the most intriguing songs on the LP is “Garden (Say It Like Dat).” This track is quite close to my heart, because it names and explores an issue I’ve had for the better portion of my adolescence: the fear of being vulnerable, of being perceived, and simultaneously craving closeness. I cannot overstate how much I, and probably every hyper-independent black girl out there, relate to every single bar on Garden (Say It Like That). SZA begins the track with an interesting verb: “need.” I say this because she makes clear the first principle of this song, the need for human connection and a partner. Someone to “ground” you, to “love you even if it rain” and to love you despite you being “difficult.” Thinking logically, the one thing that would make a deep connection difficult to establish is a withholding of vulnerability and consequently connection, and that is the exact idea she grapples with next. SZA expresses the fear of her partner “finding out who she really is” because of her biggest fear: that he’ll never love her. This fear develops in the song and subsequently shapes its progression.

SZA then says in the chorus, “Oh, do you mean it when you say it like dat? / Oh, I believe you when you say it like dat / You must really love me,” implying that she is finally coming to terms with the fact that she is loved by her partner. That is, until we get to verse two. SZA begins to discuss her insecurities with her partner, detailing how she feels insecure about her body and “booty,” and starts to spiral. She indirectly accuses him of cheating (“Prolly hella positive ‘cause she got a big booty.”), a defense mechanism shielding her from vulnerability, then feigns indifference towards him and the relationship as a whole (“I know I’d rather be paid up.”), another defense mechanism for her to avoid disclosing how she truly feels. Then, crucially, a volta. She breaks and admits to him why she had said the things she said: “You know I’m sensitive ‘bout having no booty / Havin’ no body, only you, buddy.” She finally names the insecurity and “opens her heart up” to him. SZA is deeply vulnerable in admitting that she only has her partner to not only love on, but to keep her insecurities at bay. To validate her by loving on her. That is not only an incredibly scary place to be in, but an unimaginably intimate one, too.

SZA highlights that the only way to connect with our partners is through the recognition and subsequent admission of the things that plague us most. SZA showcases how isolating it can be to fear vulnerability, not just in this song but in the body of Ctrl as a whole.

Another song I find extremely fascinating is “Wavy (Interlude).” To be frank, I think this song is manic as all hell. In the first two bars, “I think I’m bad as hell / I got issues, out of line,” SZA contrasts two very different states of being. As a woman, to look at yourself in the mirror and have it dawn upon you that you are indeed, bad as hell, is a serotonin-flooding, euphoric experience. It is sheer confidence. The sudden switch to “I’ve got issues” right after that, a realization laden in shame and isolation, is extremely potent. SZA even recognizes how random or startling that was, saying she’s “out of line” straight after. SZA furthers this idea in her verse with James Fauntleroy, describing how she’s “been going crazy” but is trying to just “take it slow.” I don’t think there is some obscure meaning behind this track beyond the sheer insanity that is a prerequisite to your 20s. Ask any 20-year-old you know. The 20 Somethings are a time filled with uncertainty, confusion, fun, experience, heartbreak, grief, love, and life, an absolute rollercoaster we have the privilege of going on. Speaking of 20 Somethings…

“So that’s what I think about control. And that’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it!”

Ctrl culminates in the quarter-life crisis song: “20 Something.” This track is a love letter to every black girl growing up. It is an allegory for all that is Ctrl. Throughout the track, SZA explores uncertainty, optimism, self-awareness, growth, fear, indignation, disappointment, and hope. Ctrl ultimately reveals its message here, what it’s been trying to tell us all along: life is less about control in the literal sense, and more about the illusion of it.

In “20 Something,” SZA leans into that lack of control with striking honesty. She does not posture as someone who has figured it out; instead, she documents the dissonance of wanting stability while actively unraveling. She holds optimism (“God bless these 20 somethings”), fear (“Prayin’ these 20 somethings don’t kill me, kill me”), stagnancy (“stuck in them 20 somethings”), and even appreciation (“Hopin’ my 20 somethings don’t end.”) This discord that we so often try to tame or prevent is a natural part of adolescence, That is SZA’s message. She refuses to separate vulnerability from strength. SZA frames confusion not as failure, but as an inevitable, even necessary, part of becoming. In that sense, “20 Something” closes Ctrl not with answers, but with acceptance. The acceptance of messy growth, love, life. The acceptance of evolution. The acceptance of becoming.

final thoughts

Knowing that SZA wrote every single song on this album herself, something extraordinarily rare in the music industry, speaks to the cohesive and eclectic nature of Ctrl. That same authenticity that fans fell in love with. Her lyrics are brutally honest (See, I’ve been secretly banging your homeboy) and uninhibited. She doesn’t rhyme conventionally, and it can almost seem as though she is freestyling. In fact, in a 2017 interview with The Guardian, SZA mentioned how she freestyles everything. In relation to Ctrl, she says, “I freestyle everything, all the way down. And I listen back and think, what’s shitty? And if something’s too shitty and I can’t put my finger on it, and I think, wow, this sucks to me, then I get way frustrated, and usually scrap the song.” SZA is unabashed on Ctrl, a rare quality in music even today.

Her sound is insane, too! SZA blends roots in R&B sonics with pop, indie rock, and electronic elements to create a sound that doesn’t neatly fit into a specific genre. SZA blends elements from trap too, from the omnipresent 808s to the hi-hats. Simultaneously, SZA masterfully uses remnants of nostalgia through the whirling synths and drums to create a sound that feels new but homey all at once. It is absolute brilliance.

I’ve witnessed this album be undermined and dismissed as “bird music” lately. I think that to dismiss Ctrl as an album that is centered around men is a half-baked take that misses the point. Ctrl is a cultural juggernaut, an album that created a whole genre. It is about the battle of taking agency over one’s own life, cemented by the wise words from SZA’s mother and grandmother. The stories captured on Ctrl are ones that will remain relevant for decades to come. Many people argue that it may be hasty or much too soon to declare Ctrl a modern classic, and insist that only time will be able to validate that sentiment. However, every once in a while, there comes an album that is an exception to this rule. This LP has penetrated the music industry in profound and enduring ways and will forever be considered culturally, sonically, and musically relevant.

Thank you, Solána, for seeing me through this work.

PS, please release Eureka.

Lately, my life has been defined by this incessant desire to meet people. I have been craving human connection as of late, especially in an ever-atomised world. Throughout my life, intimacy has been pretty challenging and sometimes I struggle to navigate it. This is because there is no intimacy without vulnerability, and no vulnerability without trust. No trust without understanding.

There are a few reasons why I struggle with relationships, vulnerability and romance. Specifically romance. The first reason being intellectual alienation. Now, I don’t mean to sound pretentious or self-pitying, at all. I love my brain, I admire the way I think. Often, however, what is supposed to feel like an advantage often feels like a social liability.

Being freshly eighteen, many of my peers approach our lives with a breezy indifference. An indifference my precociousness has often been incompatible with. This is especially true in my perception of love, and my supposed non-negotiables regarding love. What I perceive as baseline traits I need my partner to have; feminist, politically aware etc. aren’t as baseline as I thought.

I haven’t been able to connect with anybody, because I don’t want to find myself lonely in a relationship. I believe it is important to date people with whom you vibrate on the same intellectual frequency, This is one of my non-negotiables. I say this because it is lonely trying to love someone who fundamentally won’t understand you.

Being emotionally and intellectually incompatible makes for a relationship where all your whims, personality, wit and the parts of yourself that make you you are lost. Completely gone over the head of your partner because you speak a language they don’t understand. It’s lonely. Terribly so. It makes for a relationship that feels flat and hollow. Porous.

Enter curiosity, the antithesis to the aforementioned argument. Curiosity is an excellent yardstick of personality, intelligence and depth. Crucially, in the context of relationships, curiosity is arguably the biggest proclamation of devotion. Of love. To be curious in this case is to understand that a person is not a fixed object, but a landscape. A landscape that reveals itself to whoever is willing to explore it. Me. Explore me.

I very much want to go through the motions of falling in love, but I more-so want to experience getting to know a person. Really know them. Our beginning where our awkwardness is marked by the unceasing desire to decode each other. The safe questions; what do we do for fun. What do we like to eat on dates. How have our days unfolded and if there is anything we want to say about that. But then, eventually, I want to come undone. What is once defined by small talk and comfortable, non-invasive questioning ought to become a sort of feral wanting.

The questions invite a lot more intentionality, my blood jumps at the thought of somebody asking me about something I hadn’t thought about in months. I speak and can’t get the words out fast enough because I feel my heart taking root in my body and there’s an animal desire held by our gaze and I haven’t been asked that in a really long time. Give me a second to think about it.

I think it is at this point the stage for love is set. There is nothing more romantic than being asked a question. I think the desire to be known and understood is its own act of vanity, but aren’t we all a little vain? Yes it’s true, I want somebody to unravel me, pick apart the little pieces I am comprised of. Examine them closely, cherish them, me. Cherish me. Really, what is so wrong with that?

I want to learn somebody, the language they speak in. I want them to tell me about love; is it when the rain kisses the dirt? Is it the fragrance flowers exude after you pluck them? Is it the way my body mends its aches and pains? Is it the willingness to pour your being into a small animal (only for the effervescence that is its life) knowing you are doomed to live a life marked by its absence?

I want love to come easy, but it never does. It often feels like my soul is a poem that keeps being set aside. But, I do dream and I am young. I invite, happily and perhaps a little hurriedly, a love that provides me a place of refuge, a place to stop performing. I dream of a spring love, a love that rivals the sweetness of September who holds all the sweetest things; grapefruit juice, desert peach, the itch of tall grass, the itch of loving.

Some day, it will be a slow morning and the Sun who has travelled a long way to reach me will sneak into my room and tickle me awake. I will find myself woken early by my own heart unfurling in loving roots and I will find myself planted firmly in the belief that I am loveable. There will be some woman, or some man… there will be some person who can only describe me in poetry and rhythm and who will remember my blood type and what makes me cry.

Romance, love—I want it. When flies fall in love their entire brain is rewired to knowing only a life where they love each other. When one of them dies, their memory is erased. I hope I find a love that allows me to wear more than my beauty. A love that allows me to wear my tremble, the way my pulse has never learned to slow down, the ghosts of everytime anyone has ever called me too much.

May I, may we all, find a love that ensconces within us nothing but the joy of childhood, an irrational, holy devotion, and a love so full that to try and hold it would be like trying to hold life itself.

So. I have about six months before I begin to write the dreaded, borderline draconian, final exams tasked with making or breaking the trajectory of my adult life. It is through this knowledge that I am able to forfeit my one-article-a-month streak and infact supplant it with PATs, assignments, studying and the other academic tasks a matric student ought to fill their days with.

That said, a month ago my school had offered me a brief moment of respite. A trip to the Apartheid Museum, granted only to the history students. Now, I of course do not take history, so when I say I was granted a brief moment of respite, I mean my friend—a history student—through whom I lived vicariously was granted a brief moment of respite. So, if you see this Kayleen Huang, thank you for your role in sparking the thought that birthed this essay.

It was brought to my attention that this was a last resort option chosen by my school, the Holocaust Museum hadn’t been open the day the trip was scheduled, so management had opted for the Apartheid Museum. I kept mental note of that. That same time frame, I overheard a few teachers regaling each other with loving recollections of what they referred to as “back then” which, through context clues and the matter that came up in the conversation, I inferred to be referring to pre-democratic, Apartheid South Africa.

This was interesting. I began to ponder about why it is so easy for not just white south africans to fondly remember the atrocities of apartheid (besides racist justification) but for some Black South Africans to do the same. There is a reason why we do not refer to Nazi Germany in any way that doesn’t immediately recognize the inhumane, depraved cruelty and destruction perpetuated on so many innocent lives. Regardless of whether or not there are any supposed positives that arose in that time, as society we have a practical, collective understanding that they were rooted in the marginalization of minorities and propaganda. Even on a principled level, there is an intuitive icky feeling that is triggered within you when you even think about entertaining the idea of being the person to propose the purported positives of Nazism. It is wrong on every humane level.

So, why is this sentiment not applied in the way we as a global community engage with Apartheid? This is an apt time to lay out a few disclaimers—The Apartheid regime has not formally been classified as a fascist regime, and it lacks certain fundamental characteristics of historically fascist states; a charismatic leader, a one-party system etc. I acknowledge this, and contend with it. This essay will act as a conversation starter aiming to highlight the numerous overlaps between Apartheid and fascistic states, and ultimately interrogate the way in which society engages with Apartheid; as an odd tragedy and not a carefully contrived fascist system.

Defining fascism is difficult, and this is the one of the main pressure points I want to push on. Historians, political scientists and anthropologists alike continuously debate about the definition of fascism, and no one institution or person has the final say. Political theorist Professor Rodger Griffin defines fascism according to one main trait—Palingenesis. The myth that a nation, once “great” and powerful is made weaker through crisis (usually the threat of being “overrun” by a minority group/s, immigrants etc.) and ought to regain that power and greatness through total nation rebirth or regeneration, and the purging of the threats of that nation. Professor Stanley G. Payne uses a more checklist-esque approach in his book Fascism, comparison and definition. He proposes that fascism is comprised via a basket of traits; anti-democracy, mass-mobilization, one-party rule, militarianism etc. Professor Robert Paxton defines fascism as more of a political behaviour, focusing less on ideology and more on how fascist regimes behave. For example, how fascist regimes come into power, use violence or interact with the elite class.

All of these renowned figures within politics have different perceptions of fascism, and consequently, different mechanisms to define fascism. Then, for the purposes of this essay, I will be using those three definitions to discuss the relationship between fascism and Apartheid. Having this in mind, dearest reader, note that fascism is fluid and appears differently throughout history. Fascism expands and contracts to suit the political climate—Italy under Mussolini looked different to Germany under Hitler. But this begs the question; what is the link between these two fascist societies? Two societies that shared certain characteristics yet differed on quite a few fronts? Two societies operating under very different political climates? Who determines which characteristics are apt enough to indicate fascism, and which are not?

The claim I make is that Apartheid South Africa ought to be understood as a racialized or colonial variant of fascism. Settler Fascism. The largely Euro-centric models upon which fascism is understood contribute a lot to the way we engage with politics today. This is true, alongside the fact that the way Africa has been engaged with in terms of authoritarianism, fascism and oppression has been underexplored in conversations of this nature. Apartheid South Africa does not perfectly fit the framework of textbook Euro-fascist definitions because Africa does not engage with fascism the way Europe does. Africa’s exposure to violent, oppressive and authoritarian rule has consistently been through colonialism, exploitation, slavery and western imposition.

That said, there is reasonable hesitation in the broadening of the fascism definition within the scientific community, like threats to the usefulness and value of the definition should it get too broad and include too many regimes. I acknowledge this as well as the fact that I am essentially pushing for a broader definition of fascism, or at the very least, a sub-category of it which includes Apartheid South Africa. I do not expect this piece to trigger a revolution within the scientific space, and I also acknowledge that the work and research done on the subject matter pales in comparison to the research of a prodigious, unqualified, politically-curious matric student. I aim to spark a conversation, and crucially, discourse!

Lastly, even if this essay fails to convince you of any overlap between Apartheid South Africa and fascism, even if I fail to convince you that Apartheid was para-fascist, I implore you to consider why South African schools haven’t taught Apartheid history as an example of authoritarianism (which is a very useful concept to understand nowadays) or dignify the ordeal by referring it to what it is (and aways has been) classified politically; An ethnocratic, settler-colonial regime?

Let me begin by analyzing Apartheid using Payne’s definition. Applying Payne’s checklist model to apartheid South Africa reveals a regime that overlaps significantly with fascism in some domains while diverging sharply in others. Payne divides fascism into three broad clusters; Ideology and goals, Negations and Organization.

First, Ideology and Goals. Apartheid SA under the nationalist party closely aligns with Payne’s criterion. The Apartheid regime was fiercely anti-liberal and rejected the idea of universal rights in favor of a racial hierarchy. The regime was also staunchly anti-communist and utilized that position to quash opposition movements like the African National Congress by framing them as global Marxist threats to the country. Especially under figures like Verwoerd, Apartheid was built on bald-faced authoritarian ethnonationalism, with Afrikaners at the top of the political hierarchy. As far as expansionism is concerned, the regime was not expansionist in the traditional, imperial sense. Rather, Apartheid ideology pursued a form of internal colonization. This was mechanized through the formation of the Homelands system, pass laws, racially-contingent rights like access to voting or infrastructure etc.

On ideology, Apartheid SA scores quite well—comparable to interwar, European fascisms.

Negations, describing what fascism rejects within its societies, presents a nuanced picture. Democracy was broadly rejected through segregation and the political exclusion of the vast majority of the country. Individual Rights were also systemically denied along racial lines. Race and Class politics was largely quashed and suppressed when it threatened the racial order of the time and when it was not, it was explicitly condemned both rhetorically and legislatively.

It can be argued that Apartheid South Africa did not, strictly speaking, abolish democracy altogether. White voters were allowed to partake in the democracy, with certain exceptions within POC communities. However, only white men could be elected into parliament. So, it would be more accurate to say that Apartheid SA racialized democracy through the preservation of it within white spaces. This would mean then, that universally the system is profoundly anti-democratic. Internally, however, it retained elements of pluralism.

I want to interrogate the idea of a “partial-democracy” and assert that it does not truly exist. When access to rights are restricted on arbitrary social markers like race or gender, those rights are not universal and that society cannot claim to be a democracy. If not all members of a state are able to participate as autonomous actors within the state, then it is not a democracy. Rarely are things in this life black or white, right or wrong, but to describe Apartheid South Africa as a technically-democratic or as a democratic state with a few asterisks minimizes the harm perpetuated on a principled level, but also makes little sense on a practical level. By that same logic, because an individual could technically cast a vote under Mussolini, the state was technically democratic or because Aryan Germans could partake in Plebiscites, the state is to be considered partially democratic.

I would assess then that Apartheid SA largely aligns with the framework under Negations, notwithstanding the partial preservation of certain rights for certain demographics.

Lastly, Organization is where I observed the key divergence. Apartheid South Africa lacked a one-party state and retained multiple political parties (for whites) and within the ruling party, leadership turnovers. Fascist regimes are also characterized by mass mobilization and intense national participation in events such as rallies and youth movements to saturate the state ideologically. It is argued that Apartheid differs on two fronts; firstly on how it mobilized only a narrow racial constituency and lastly on how it sought to control, rather than mobilize the population. My dissent is in regards to the latter point.

There were numerous right-wing organizations like the AWB that literally existed to stop the integration and political actualization of black people under Apartheid. Watch a documentary of their failed attempt to stop the 1994 election here. There was also a heavy (yet, poorly documented) effort dedicated to propaganda during Apartheid. A Quora user, Eve Morris, comments under a post titled “Was Apartheid South Africa fascist?”

“There was nothing borderline about it for those of us who lived under it. It was a clear dictatorship, resistance was met with swift and total onslaught.

Frankly in retrospect it is a minor miracle that we managed to find out way clear of it eventually so successful was the propaganda machinery and total control of the population.

Many were literally convinced that black people were not even human but one needs to remember this all occured in the shadow of worldwide propaganda about the “dangers” of communism, “reds under the beds” and the impending Apocalypse all of which the Apartheid “government” almost gleefully included in their strategy.”

Apartheid also lacked a singular charismatic dictator in the mold of Hitler or Mussolini. Leaders like Verwoerd were influential but still operated within a party system rather than a personality cult. But Apartheid was largely repressive and relied on censorship to achieve a lot of the policy it did. Khensani Mohlatlole discusses a novel banned during Apartheid on her YouTube here. Find a list of more banned literature here. It did not stop with books; movies, posters, people. The Apartheid limited exposure between races to proliferate propaganda and disallow the voices, experiences and very existences of black and brown people.

According to Griffin’s definition, Apartheid was likely not a fascist regime. If we are to consider his definition, Griffin’s approach is deliberately narrow. At its core it is a single, decisive idea: fascism is a form of “palingenetic ultranationalism”—that is, a political project aimed at the rebirth (palingenesis) of the nation after a period of perceived decline. For Griffin, fascism isn’t defined by the presence of a dictatorship, repression or even racism. He proposes that it is through the belief that a nation is in decline, the promise of a divine order or rebirth that fascism begins to take root. Under this definition, Nazi Germany and Italy under Mussolini are fascist states. They did not simply aim to preserve power—they sought to transform their respective societies by creating a regenerated national community through mobilization, myth, and violence.

Griffin’s definition also assumes a key premise; fascism is about the regeneration of a single, national body. Romania under Ion Antonescu aimed to restore “Romanian national greatness” after losses of territory. Nazi Germany aimed to unify a disenfranchised Volksgemeinschaft. Apartheid explicitly the idea of a unified nation and actualized this belief through internal segregation and segregationist policy (like the Homelands system.) This fragmentation is fundamentally at odds with Griffin’s model, which sees fascism as an attempt to forge a new collective unity, even if violently exclusionary.

One (I) might argue that Afrikaner nationalism contained elements of or palingenetic dimensions through the mythologization of the Great Trek or the framing of the Afrikaner population as a nation that had endured great struggle and was now deserving of rule to mitigate the harm experienced because of said struggle. My research, however, proves that this argument breaks under examination because Afrikaner populations were mainly concerned with vindication, not radical renewal. They focused on securing what they believed to be an existing order rather than creating a fundamentally new one (debatable, but that’s just my opinion.)

Using Griffin’s definition leads to a relatively clear conclusion: apartheid South Africa was not fascist. Its ideological core lacked the palingenetic drive that defines fascism as a revolutionary project.

Lastly, under Paxton’s definition centered around the process by which a fascist regime seizes power, Apartheid is best described as authoritarian and not fascist. Paxton emphasizes that fascism grows from a mobilized and ideologically driven movement outside existing elite structures. Apartheid South Africa lacked a comparable mass fascist movement. The National Party rose via “democratic” politics and elite support, not necessarily the revolutionary mobilization of a disenfranchised in-group. This proves two things; that power wasn’t seized in the election of the National Party and that apartheid lacked the “bottom-up” mass revolutionary component that marks Paxton’s definition of fascism.

The way in which we as a country engage with Apartheid is passive and through innuendos. Regardless of whether or not Apartheid South Africa will be acknowledged as a fascist state does not remove the impetus to start engaging with the system as an authoritarian, ethnocratic state. Regrettably, Apartheid is engaged with as a historical anomaly, something that will never happen again. That is very well all good and true, but how do we prevent the reoccurrence of tragedies when we fail to face what they are? When we fail to engage with them as fully-fledged structures with systems and harmful ideology backing them, bolstering them?

It is not the citizens of South Africa who are to blame for this passive engagement with Apartheid. The education system and history curriculum fails to examine and teach Apartheid as an intricate, breathing system. Instead presenting it as a closed chapter in a moral narrative of “good versus evil” that begins and ends with 1994. No wonder black folk are continuously told to “get over it.” In doing so, we strip Apartheid of its operational logic and reduce it to a static set of injustices without sustained analysis of how such a system is constructed or maintained. Students are taught what Apartheid did, but rarely how it functioned as cohesive state apparatus.

The nature of Apartheid has been stripped of its weight, of how deep it ran and how far reaching its effects are till this very day. My discussion around the relationship between it and fascism is also an attempt to bring to light the gravity, severity, cruelty and ferocity of the system. It is an attempt to show how Apartheid goes beyond textbooks filled with black-and-white images, Apartheid was and is a living-breathing, fluid, severe and unrelenting system that continuously changes shape. The first step we will take towards really understanding and accepting Apartheid is if we call it by its name—authoritarianism and, maybe someday, fascism.

Apartheid was only thirty-two years ago. Thirty-two years is not a long time. Thirty-two years tells us that this wasn’t experienced by our ancestors. Our mothers, sisters, brothers, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles experienced the brutality of this system firsthand. Some of them still retain their passbooks, some of them still carry incorrect birthdates and surnames on their IDs, all of them retain the scars of Apartheid.

Part of why many feel as though Apartheid ought to be treated as a closed bad chapter of the metaphorical book that is our country is because we still have not unpacked the operation of it, and that starts by engaging with it seriously. Of course there are people who opine that thirty years is enough time to rectify the effects of Apartheid, they are unaware of the depth of structural embedding that defined the system and continues to shape its afterlives. Inequality is not residual and it does not simply evaporate with time; it is reproduced through housing patterns, land ownership, labour markets, education access, and spatial planning decisions that were never fully dismantled or reimagined at their roots. What appears to some as “progress” is often just a reconfiguration of old hierarchies into new administrative and economic forms that are harder to recognize but no less real.

To speak honestly about Apartheid’s timeline is therefore to confront a difficult truth—legal abolition did not equate to systemic dissolution. Institutions rarely collapse cleanly; they adapt and mutate and persist through continuity disguised as reform. This is why discussions that treat Apartheid as neatly concluded in 1994 misunderstand the present as fundamentally separate from the past, when in reality the present is, in innumerable ways, an extension of it.

This is why certain people feel so comfortable in claiming that they miss Apartheid South Africa, that those days were the “better days.” The absence of cognizance has made room for their misinformed, bigoted nostalgia. They proudly delight in memories of a system they do not understand, a system that they cannot name. It is this ignorance that sets the stage for the historical amnesia that marks Apartheid Nostalgia.

So no, we cannot respond to calls to simply move on from Apartheid. Not until we begin to dignify the struggle against it by naming the political apparatus used to create it, not until our education begins to teach the history in an accurate, barefaced manner, not until we call a spade a spade. Because a call to move on from Apartheid without unpacking, identifying and engaging the underlying authoritarian characteristics and by that virtue, the gravity of the system on the lives it has and continues to impact, is merely a call

to forget.

There are numerous instances that have informed the thought woven in this essay. Most notoriously, the current xenophobic narrative being propelled and proliferated in various discourse spheres regarding both documented and undocumented immigrants in the country has certainly given me a banquet for thought.

One of the most disturbing aspects of these quasi-intellectual narratives is that they are perpetuated by the South African youth. The twenty somethings, the thirty somethings. The very same youth orientated as the leftist, radical heroes and heroines that will save our country from a hellish political and economic landscape. The same youth that, crucially, demonstrate some of the lowest political engagement figures to date.

I don’t intend to be sardonic. It is all but clear that South Africa is trickling into a dangerous political ethos, with discourse bastardising into one-up tennis matches and ideological factions where nuance hardly exists, let alone matters. South Africa’s youth is disillusioned with politics and government with defeatism and feelings of helplessness infiltrating every area of our lives. This begs the question, however; is abstaining from politics truly the best way to move forward?

The area I want to discuss is specific and personal, and I will explore it on multiple fronts. The left-leaning facet of SA discourse has always been the primary ideology I align my politics with. Lately, I cannot say the same. There is a fundamental lack in vantage regarding the postulators of this xenophobic, homophobic rhetoric. Intersectionality.

There are two rudimentary principles about activism that South Africa needs to understand. First, that activism is intersectional. Any activism that is sustainable and productive fights for the rights of at least more than one marginalised group, due to the recognition of oppression on multiple fronts. (As well as the fact that people are not monolithic in nature.) A simple example of this is the added layer of class inequality that people of colour face. Black people living underneath the poverty line face discrimination on the basis of their race which is exacerbated by devastating poverty and fiscal inequality, and vice versa. This adds to the mandate of the pro-black movement to address not just racism, but the disproportionate poverty that millions of people of colour are most prone to experiencing.

Lastly, South Africa must understand that the oppression of one marginalised group, especially as black people, habitually and inevitably becomes weaponised against us. This is seen through ableism, through sexism, and through xenophobia. For example, why does xenophobic rhetoric and violence particularly target african immigrants, and not white immigrants?

Kimberlé Crenshaw coins the term Intersectionality to describe “a framework used to understand how various forms of inequality, discrimination and social identities (such as race, gender, class, sexuality, and disability) intersect and overlap.” It is through this definition that I will expand on the concept of Intersectionality in this essay.

The actual context of Crenshaw coining this term is extremely interesting; read about it here.

Selective or Purported Progressivism, for the purposes of this essay, will be used to describe the appearance of progressivism. It is the adaptation of the language, identity, and beliefs of left-leaning politics in such a way that it is superficial and/or partial. This looks like advocating for the rights of black people but espousing xenophobic rhetoric about african immigrants, or saying “Fuck the patriarchy!” Then demonising a little boy for dressing up or presenting femininely.

There are four key features of Purported Progressivism, all of them evident in South African quasi-leftist spheres. First, conditional solidarity. For example, South Africans will be progressive in their ideology until femininity, queerness, non-binary identity, migration and anti-religious (specifically anti-christian) narratives complicate the picture. It looks like standing in solidarity with women against GBV then selling out a C***s B***n concert.

Second, outrage without structural analysis. This looks like blaming undocumented immigrants for unemployment, while ignoring innumerable factors like corruption, tedious immigration procedures and structural unemployment rooted in apartheid. It looks like outrage at crime framed as “foreign nationals being criminals” without examining policing failures, poverty, xenophobic profiling and economic exclusion. It is here, where nuance dies.

Then, utilising identity as a shield from accountability. I cannot count how many times the myth that because Black South Africans face oppression they cannot perpetuate oppression themselves has invaded discourse spaces. (no, reverse racism still isn’t a thing.) There is an assumption that because South Africa is a majority black country post-apartheid, anti-blackness cannot operate within it’s borders. This is blatantly and dangerously untrue. At the point at which xenophobic terrorists utilise arbitrary and unfounded means of identifying african immigrants like ‘darker skin’ and ‘larger noses’ is the point where one can comfortably infer that anti-blackness is alive and kicking.

Finally, the last feature of Purported Progressivism is the tendency to be language-heavy and principally light. This looks like quoting Steve Biko and other Black Consciousness rhetoric while supporting narratives that characterise other Africans as national threats. Et cetera. This also includes fear-mongering (immigrants-are-stealing-your-jobs shtick) or scapegoating minorities.

Selective Activism and Purported Progressivism actively facilitate each other. Reader, understand something—Our activism as South Africans will always be surface-level, disingenuous and dishonest if we continue to pick-and-choose who deserves liberation and who doesn’t. Who deserves our activism and who doesn’t.

When your activism is conditional, you operate under the false idea that oppression is something you can selectively deploy. When South Africans weaponise ableism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia etc. against other people, we reinforce the hierarchies that have time and time again been used against us. I’ll explore this notion using one example.

Queerness—especially relevant in light of the ‘boy child being left behind’ discourse. Queerness in Africa has always been treated as a taboo and crucially, a western perversion. Colonial administrations barred and criminalised same-sex relationships all across the continent. Funny enough, the idea that queerness is “un-african” almost always relies on Victorian moral codes imported by colonisers. (For more, click here.) So when South Africans defend homophobia in the name of culture, they are often defending colonial morality. That contradiction alone is essay-worthy, really.

Moreover, Intersectionality becomes most uncomfortable when queerness is involved because queerness destabilises some of the most fundamental tenants of society—Patriarchal masculinity and religious authority. Queerness, at its core, is non-conformist.

So when blackness presents differently from the norm—a queer black man, a gay Malawian asylum-seeker, a queer Zimbabwean man, and South Africans resort to mocking queer expression in a little boy, we fragment blackness itself. In the Black community, hyper-masculinity is espoused by Black men. Numerous reasons for this once again, one being the emasculation (both literally and conceptually) of black men during apartheid. I don’t need to state how much generational damage this has done to black masculinity as a collective.

As such, when a black boy presents femininely, it triggers fear in the black masculine psyche. This deeply ingrained fear presents as policing, mocking, bullying, and homophobia. This is the key problem. In the process, we legitimise heteronormativity, gender policing and arbitrary binaries like “masculinity.” (rooted in victorian attitudes and values!) More broadly, we reinforce a system that polices black bodies, and upholds patriarchy, which reinforces toxic masculinity. It is cyclical. The damage homophobia and transphobia do to society is damage black people will never be exempt from. In this way, oppression is intersectional.

This is just one illustration of how one cannot fight racial hierarchy while defending gender hierarchy. There are countless, and I mean countless, other examples of intersectional oppression. How ableism, transphobia and xenophobia will never spare the black body, regardless of class. (Because, make no mistake, this is a class thing.) They are structurally intertwined. And this, this is why intersectionality matters.

Even in the context of xenophobia, how it is a means of upholding white supremacy in status quo. How white immigrants in particular are typically exempt from this kind of prejudice. (Though this began to shift as awareness of gentrification grew.) Earlier, I asserted that Anti-Blackness doesn’t simply disappear because the state is predominantly black. So, there is something deeply uncomfortable about the idea that a post-apartheid state reproduces gradations of Blackness.

Liberation is indivisible. It doesn’t exist in factions nor does it exist in camps. The Black Panthers advocated for the freedom and liberty of African American people whilst explicitly retaining staunch pro-Palestinian support. The American Indian Movement prioritised environmental protection and anti-police brutality efforts. There are many examples of all-encompassing activism in history and time—intersectionality is everywhere.

We cannot weaponise one marginalised identity to demonise another—if your politics require a scapegoat, they are not progressive. The tension here is about whether or not a post-apartheid means pro-blackness. Currently, we are not there. Because to be pro-black is to be pro-immigrant, pro-trans people, pro-queer people, anti-ableism, anti-xenophobia, etc. to be pro-black is to be pro human. To get there, South African youth do not need more activism. We need to give our discourse a spine, we need to be staunch about something for once.

We need intersectionality.

“Nani, are you going to be studying in the West Engineering campus or the East one?”

In that moment, in the fullest embracing of the good-and-servile-African-child role I was determined to espouse (not even knowing the difference between the East and West campuses!) I responded: “The West one, mom.” I said this hoping to provide a satisfactory answer in the meantime, while trying to get a handle on the direction of my future. This would ultimately prove to be a mistake. A royal mistake, as it would seem that by this purportedly trivial response, I had relinquished control over my life to my parents. How on earth would I break the news to them? The news being that I enjoy science yes, but have no bloody interest in engineering? That what I really want to study is Law and Political Science?

Digressing; this conversation, like most things do, triggered a thought in me. Thoughts about the nature of STEM and Humanities. Why my family was so hellbent on getting me in the STEM field, why they valued STEM over humanities so much, why I, subconsciously, began to gravitate towards the dreaded engineering route. Then, the more overarching questions began to make themselves known. Why do we associate STEM with stability and humanities with struggle? Why do tropes like the struggling Artist even exist, and why do we never hear about the struggling Zoologist?

I debated publishing this essay for some time, my hesitation being so compelling I had procrastinated writing it entirely. Bringing this viewpoint to a platform mainly populated by Humanities students, workers and enthusiasts seemed far too precarious, far too chancy—even for me. But I think it’s time we stopped avoiding the glaring omission, which is that STEM and humanities—two different fields that really couldn’t and shouldn’t be compared—are not just compared to one another, but the former is prioritized and glorified over the one.

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First, if you’re unfamiliar with it, the acronym ‘STEM’, standing for Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics, for the purposes of this essay refers to all fields relating to science, technology, engineering and mathematics (how intuitive.) ‘Humanities’ will refer to fields concerning human culture and the prerequisite sociological factors. It includes fields like literature, social work, history, philosophy, art etc. The delta between these two fields is primarily the difference in epistemological and methodological approaches to interpreting data. While STEM prioritizes quantitative, empirical and experimentally verifiable models of reality, the Humanities prioritize qualitative, interpretive and context-dependent models to analyze the human experience.

It is not possible to discuss why STEM is prioritized over Humanities without discussing the role of capitalism within that process.

Capitalism characteristically prioritizes and assigns value to work based on its ability to generate profit, increase productivity and contribute to economic growth. As such, wages and salaries differ in certain fields. This is why a linguist or an art-historian is paid less as compared to an engineer or tech-CEO. But, this is not because there is less value in the former as compared to the latter. One of the most glaring problems with capitalist societies is the false conflation of market price and social value. If one lives in a world that is hyper-consumerist and profit-driven, salary is equated with worth and market demand is equated with importance. By this, STEM jobs are perceived as more ‘‘valuable’’ because they seemingly pay more. This reinforces the cultural narrative that the Humanities are inferior.

STEM fields are often linked to industries, like tech, engineering, finance and pharmaceuticals, that are able to produce commodifiable outputs like software and products. Humanities generally do the opposite—Humanities disciplines produce sociological, ethical and cultural insights which rarely generate immediate profit or direct profit. Consequently, capitalism structurally favors STEM because it’s outputs tend toward being easier to monetize. Because capitalism rewards what can be measured and justified economically, Humanities is systematically undervalued.

Furthermore, in favor of the purported financial safety and security that comes with STEM fields, an unimaginable amount of nuance is lost. An article published by Forbes reads as follows;

“In addition, The New York Times also finds that any earnings advantage that STEM majors hold over humanities majors fades by age 40. There are two major reasons that contribute to this - first is that technical skills become obsolete quicker as younger graduates enter the workforce.”

The evolving nature of STEM and it’s innovation has been an undeniable driving force of societal progression. As new needs develop and our world grows, STEM ensures we catch up and meet the ever-changing demands of that time. A downside of this, however, is that new skills need to be consistently developed, leaving workers who aren’t able to learn these skills in time effectively obsolete. A real life example of this has been the introduction of ICT (Information Communications Technology) in the workforce throughout the last decade. This data interrogates the perceived benefits of STEM fields surrounding financial security.

It is also worth noting that Humanities disciplines are often critical not only of the structures upholstering capitalism, but of capitalism itself. Humanities provides an environment that encourages discourse, the questioning of power structures and their prerequisite ideologies, the dominant economic system is not exempt. Like any dominant system, capitalist societies are less inclined to invest in fields that fall outside of the economic norm—or at the very least, challenge it.

STEM labor is also more easily integrated into corporate structures. Humanities skills are often flexible, interpretive and contextual and tend away from standardization. This characterization is what fundamentally sidelines Humanities fields from most corporate which favors skills that fit neatly into industrial systems. All this reinforces not only the idea that STEM is politically and economically safer than Humanities, but the idea that Humanities is ideologically and economically inconvenient and incompatible with capitalist production models.

From the above analysis, it is clear that capitalism shapes intellectual priorities and what kind of knowledge matters.

There has been ongoing debate regarding the importance of STEM over and above the Humanities, resulting in a few social ramifications as a result. One being; social capital. There is a notable difference in saying “I am an author.” versus “I am an engineer.’’ in a room full of people. Intuitively, anything STEM is well revered and acknowledged for the grueling labor required to specialize in it, which inherently is not problematic. Without STEM, our society would effectively fall apart, but this sentiment applies to the Humanities as well. This is why it’s important to acknowledge the role that both fields play in our society.

But, are the humanities and STEM really so different? Ashley Labodda writes, in her article;

‘‘First, we can draw a divide between traditional STEM disciplines (e.g. chemistry, physics, biology, computer science, engineering) and humanities disciplines (e.g. philosophy, classics, history, religious studies, languages), but there are also other categories like fine arts (dance, theater, vocal, instrument) and social sciences (e.g. anthropology, linguistics, sociology, psychology). This is reason to think the dichotomy may be misleading from the start. Moreover, among these, some share similar research methodologies, scientific approaches, or use the same empirical data. This also resists the rhetoric that each discipline requires skills that are mutually exclusive.’’

This begs the question of whether we fundamentally understand the nature of Humanities and STEM. How deep does this divide actually go if there are consistent overlaps in what we thought to be fundamental differences and even examples of STEM and Humanities coexisting, and coexisting well? How deep does this divide go—if at all?

It goes without saying that both STEM and Humanities are vital to the continuation of society. In the age of Artificial Intelligence, it is important to understand and explore these uncharted waters, to be able to analyze data and automate daunting tasks and propel the world forward. STEM ensures this is the case, but without Humanities, there is no way of conveying this data and, critically, learning from it. In the height of some of the world’s worst pandemics, we needed STEM to learn how to navigate and prevent these from reoccurring. We equally needed Humanities for interpreting data and dispersing it throughout society. These two fields have always been interwoven, they have always worked in tandem.

The comparison of the Humanities and STEM is, frankly, unnecessary and unintellectual. This comparison leaves no room for nuance and omits very important information regarding both fields. The STEM/Humanities divide kills cohesion and fails to credit both fields for their massive contributions in society. There are risks in Humanities degrees, sure. Those risks posed are cumulatively symmetrical with STEM at a certain point. The prioritization of STEM over Humanities is not natural, nor is it merit-based. Not by a long shot. It is structurally produced by capitalism, and the dichotomy is false and harmful. To reduce education to a risk assessment based solely on income is to misunderstand the purpose of knowledge itself.

The Humanities disciplines are not a romantic indulgence nor are they a reckless detour from ‘‘real’’ or ‘‘valuable’’ work. They are the disciplines that drive continuity by teaching us how to interpret the world that STEM helps us to build, how to interrogate systems that we inherit, and how to ethically navigate the futures that we are engineering. Similarly, STEM is not the enemy of creativity or critical thought. The problem lies not in either field, but in the false hierarchy imposed between them.

As for me, I’ve had an epiphany of sorts. I’ve outgrown thinking in false dichotomies. I realize now that it doesn’t have to be law or engineering. Humanities or STEM. I can indulge both of my interests in one life. I, just like you, am allowed intellectual municipality. I simply (not so simply, actually) need to decide which path to walk first.

Just writing this essay feels as though I’m cementing one of the biggest fears I’ve shouldered throughout my life — That I’m starting to deconstruct my religion. I’ll say this; if you’re looking for a remarkable, rigorously thought-out, planned and written essay, you aren’t going to find it here. To call this piece an “essay” feels haphazardly formal in itself, because this isn’t an academic dissertation on arguments proving or disproving the existence of God. It isn’t a structured critique of organized religion nor is it a conversation to whatever Higher Power I’ll end up believing in a few months down the line. (or not.) This is a place of mourning — a graveyard of sorts. What lies herein is what we’re going to uncover for a few minutes.

I’ve been a Christian since before I could conceptualize the weight that word carried in our society. I knew about the power of Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, and I knew that God was this benevolent force that was always looking out for me, always looking out for my family — For all of humanity! I think my earliest form of doubt, and as such, resistance, was when I began to wonder how a God so big and so vast and so powerful could ever even begin to grasp the struggles, the very human struggles, I had experienced. How this God could claim to love me notwithstanding the struggles They continue to put me through, the doubt They continue to let me feel. If this all powerful God is able to turn water into wine and part the sea in two, then surely They (or as my beliefs would have it at this point in time, He) would be able to rid my body of all fear and distrust and reluctance and… doubt.

The concept of doubt in the context of Christianity was always fed to me as though it held the same weight as the concept of genocide. Truly, to doubt God or His marvelous plan for me was to doubt myself, my family and the lives we had all built around this doctrine. I was so deeply woven within the fabric of Christianity that to begin deconstruction was to begin to tear at the seams of my life — The two being indistinguishable, then. In some ways, they still are. So, doubt was a presence that perpetually loomed over me, festering and growing up until a certain point. Up until the day I read Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe.

“The white man is very clever. He came quietly and peaceably with his religion. We were amused at his foolishness and allowed him to stay. Now he has won our brothers, and our clan can no longer act like one. He has put a knife on the things that held us together and we have fallen apart.” Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart

I have this quote highlighted, underlined and bookmarked in my hard copy. This quote, in the context of my juvenile interest in decolonizing history and early interest in activism, was utterly radicalizing — even though I couldn’t see it yet. From the moment I read this line, my fate was sealed. This was only exacerbated by the fact that I am inherently curious and particularly great in researching things I’m interested in. From this moment, deconstruction grew from a fleeting thought to an inescapable whisper.

You know, I could never shake off this feeling of competition when it came to my faith. For years, I’d place my precious relationship with God under heavy scrutiny and compare it to others I perceived to be doing well. This was made worse in the height of the digital age, where every single thing is publicized in an attempt to prove it happened. Being bombarded with aestheticized and curated feeds, highlights and posts about what Bible chapter somebody is reading today, or what Bible verse is so-and-so’s favourite or a well-intentioned, or a Biblical platitude in response to a travesty somewhere in society can feel overwhelming. Like one is falling behind or like one always has something to prove. It is at that point it turns into a gaudy spectacle, a way to legitimize your faith in God. Outward proclamation became my way of compensating for my doubt, for my ultimate failure as a child of God —Not trusting Him enough.

Nobody ever speaks about the anticlimactic nature of deconstructing religion. It isn’t the expected eureka moment, and it isn’t the Earth splitting in two. It’s a metamorphosis, it’s like your hair growing. You don’t realize how much it’s changed until you compare it to a different time. Like a candle that burned fiercely every night being reduced to a bare wick. Christianity, to me, was like the puzzle pieces quietly no longer fitting together, maybe they never fit at all. Then all of a sudden I haven’t said a real prayer in weeks, I don’t really have a favourite verse anymore and my tongue is forgetting how to mould itself around the name “Jesus.”

This is where my little journey starts to feel violent. This is where this entire thing starts to feel less like me realizing that there were a few things my pastor misinterpreted and more like the Earth is falling from under my feet. It’s the gasp I let out after realizing how indiscriminately I tossed my Bible across my bed trying to go to sleep. Like it wasn’t the most important thing I owned at some point. Like it’s a slight inconvenience standing in-between me and a good night’s rest. It feels like my life has been overtaken my the forces of satan. Seriously!

Being exposed to our current global climate has corroded my benevolent understanding of Christianity even further. Living in a society that has continually facilitated some of the worst atrocities under the justification of my Bible, yes — my Bible. The Bible I was taught to open when I felt sad. Alone. Doubtful. The Bible that would reignite my faith like a moth to a flame. The very same pages I used to seek comfort within are being used to justify a genocide happening right now. It has all lead to this crippling sense of cognitive dissonance I am not privileged enough to dismiss, to ignore. I began to deconstruct my religion the moment it made me seem hypocritical for claiming it alongside advocacy for all of humanity. The moment my faith alienated me from spaces and conversations that mattered.

Then it became even more nuanced, even more confronting when I grasped the weight of being a Black Woman in society. Of being African. Uncovering the history of Christianity, particularly how it was utilized as a tool for colonial expansion only further entrenched me down this rabbit hole I have found myself in. The not-so-menial ‘imperfections’ of the Bible, like how it justifies and regularly speaks about slavery (among other things) only push me further away from what I once called home. I feel like an intruder in a place I once called home. Now my eyes are fully exposed to the antithetical ludicrousness of being a Christian Feminist, or a Christian Womanist. Or a Black Christian. Or even a Christian Woman.

There are beautiful lessons embedded within Christianity, however. There are quite a number of beautiful people and experiences I can confidently claim were facilitated by a Higher Power. There are a number of experiences I have only managed to navigate through divine, miraculous intervention. As life would have it, however, there are situations where I feel as though God let my hand go long before I did. Sometimes it feels like God has let humanity’s hand go entirely. There are beautiful traditions, practices and grounding principles I will absolutely take with me wherever I go. This begs the overarching question — Can this bad coexist with the good? What outweighs the other? Am I morally culpable for believing in God in spite of what I know? With whom do my gripes lie — God or Their people? For how long am I willing to exist as a walking contradiction? What am I deconstructing, God or Christianity? Are they mutually exclusive in my worldview? Who is God?

Who am I?

There are a few things I believe to be true, most of which I won’t be sharing. The exceptions are as follows; There is an indescribable bliss that is a precondition to Christianity, bolstered by ignorance. I am allowed to mourn the version of myself that once had access to this bliss. By embracing this process, there is a certain part of my sanity I’m compromising — This religion is all I’ve ever known. I am not merely unlearning Christianity, I am unlearning my way of life. It feels like God is going to strike me down with lightning just for writing this essay.

This is the true beginning of discovering my religious identity — Learning to distinguish between who I am and who I’ve been told to be. Who or What I believe in and Who or What I’ve been told to believe in. I want to think of this point in my life as a stage of growth, like a spiritual adolescence. The time in my life where the onus is fully on me to decide what I believe, where I begin to bear the full weight of autonomy. This is a beautiful experience, worthy of my optimism.

Whether or not this experience strengthens my relationship with Christianity isn’t important to me. Right now, I don’t care if I become an Atheist or pastor or Scientologist (kidding!) It’s learning everything in the meantime — embracing this strange place I’m in currently. In this time, I will practice my ability to ruminate on ideas without necessarily believing in them. It is interesting engaging with other ideas from a non-biased vantage point, there is so much learning to be done.

Yes, this is a gravesite. A place of mourning. I mourn childlike naivety and a version of me who had believed only in what she was taught. I embrace the uncertainty, fear and anxiety that come with this journey. I may not echo the beliefs I was once handed anymore, but I instead gain something just as sacred; the courage to ask my own questions.

And for now, that feels like it’s own kind of faith.

This is going to be a short one, inspired by the recent reactionary JusticeForMen movement, TikTok creator @/Reinkuna’s recent sentiments on performative activism, and a broader conversation about mockery culture in South Africa. In this essay, I’ll be addressing a few things in relation to the aforementioned events but I think it’s most apt, however, to start off by saying that;

South African men have never, and will never care about men’s mental health, or any other meaningful societal issue for that matter, in any meaningful way. This is due to a plethora of reasons, really. Because they benefit from the patriarchy, because the cause is of no significance to them et cetera. I want to focus on the overarching reasoning, however—Because South African men just hate South African women.

Let’s start off with a quick crash-course on what gender-based violence (GBV) is.

What is GBV?

“Gender-based violence (GBV) is a serious violation of human rights and a life-threatening health and protection issue. When people flee their homes, they are often at greater risk of physical, sexual and psychological violence, such as rape, sexual abuse, trafficking and forced prostitution.”

UNICEF adds, “GBV can be physical, sexual, mental or economic in nature.”

What does GBV look like?

“Gender-based violence can include sexual, physical, mental and economic harm inflicted in public or in private. It also includes threats of violence, coercion and manipulation. This can take many forms such as intimate partner violence, sexual violence, child marriage, female genital mutilation and so-called ‘honour crimes’.

The consequences of gender-based violence are devastating and can have life-long repercussions for survivors. It can even lead to death.”

Who does GBV affect?

“Although anyone – women, girls, men and boys – can fall victim to violence simply because of their sex or gender, women and girls are especially at risk. It is estimated that one in three women will experience sexual or physical violence in their lifetime.”

“GBV disproportionately affects women and girls, and in situations of displacement, their risk of exposure to GBV increases.”

Key takeaways from this section of the essay:

The first being that Gender-based violence has an inherent power dynamic associated with it. This unequal power dynamic is what differentiates things like prejudice and racism. The reason why it is referred to as racism when a Non-POC uses the n-word as compared to a POC saying they would never date a non-POC is because of the historical factors and social frameworks within we operate.

Through imperialism, colonialism and capitalism, non-POC have continually been elevated throughout society through their unfair and exploitative acquisition of power. This is seen in both an economic sense and a a social sense (through things like beauty standards, institutional backing and favor, soft power through the globalization of western norms etc.)

This unequal power dynamic makes prejudice coming from individuals who have continually been awarded unfair advantages and privilege that much more potent and powerful. Hence the term racism.

This is also the reason why things like “reverse racism” do not exist, and have effectively been debunked.

Linking this back to the premise of my essay, GBV can be experienced by anybody, obviously. Anybody can be mistreated and harmed on the basis of their sex or gender—this isn’t a contentious issue. But because women are more prone to this form of violence, GBV is mostly associated with women. One in three women will experience GBV in their lifetime, this statistic is real and terrifying.

Moreover, addressing GBV places upward pressure on the lives of both men AND women. In fact, feminism across the board addresses the struggles of men with women at the center of it. Feminism, and more particularly, advocating for the addressing of GBV is an all-encompassing form of activism. For example, if this country were to advocate for a legislative solution towards GBV (say, measures dedicated towards increasing the conviction rate of rapists) both women and men who are affected by GBV would reap the benefits of this approach. This is one in numerous examples of how men are direct beneficiaries of the work of feminist activism. Ergo, they have a stake in feminism. Why? Because if GBV was taken seriously, men’s mental health would be taken seriously.

So, to all the incels, redpills and misogynists taking up the strife of men’s mental health, (Marxist) feminism says, “been there, done that.” Feminism has always advocated in favor of both women and men. It is an all-inclusive movement, and it always has been. Men’s mental health—an issue brought on mainly by the effects of late-stage capitalism, and the main talking point of the manosphere, is factored in by the feminist movement.

If only you incels would just open a f*cking book.

It’s also worth discussing the contexts in which conversations surrounding male GBV victims, male victims of sexual assault, domestic abuse etc. occur. At least, from the individuals claiming to be arduous campaigners of this very real issue—men.

Radicalized men (and we’ll get into this in a second) are notorious for advocating for the pervasive mental health pandemic affecting (everyone really. But they choose to direct their focus to) men. This only appears in retaliatory contexts. The only time that men find it necessary to discuss this problem is when it is thrown in the face of female sexual assault survivors, or when it’s used as a talking point against feminism. I’ve already shown you why it’s objectively wrong to say that feminism advocates only for sexual assault survivors who are women and non-binary, so let’s speak about the principled inconsistency of the boys shutdown movement.

Especially within the context of South Africa, men are some of the most violent perpetrators of misogyny and misogynoir. This works in tandem with the fact that they do not support and facilitate communities (at least, healthy ones) that allow for conversation around mental health. As society evolves, men claim to be feeling left behind. You would think that, like most groups that are marginalized, they would come together to discuss means of moving forward, addressing the problem, supporting and uplifting one another. Interestingly, men want women to take up their struggle.

It would seem that in the mind of an incel, the plight of men’s deteriorating mental health is only legitimate or vilified if acknowledged and subsequently advocated for by a woman. Black women in this country continue to be pushed into positions of both therapist and blackbird. Experiencing violence at the hands of the same people they are forced to serve, a perpetual dual binding that permeates the lives of black women.

Men’s mental health month was in June. Ironically, I was only made aware of this fact by a woman. So, where on earth was this uproar during their designated 30 days of activism for their cause? South African men have a particularly nasty case of Whataboutmeism and their reaction to this problem is an attestation of that. Lettuce brigade, you don’t care about men’s mental health, it’s painfully obvious.

Consistently wanting to be pedestaled and prioritized—what else to expect from a patriarchal society? What a strange life it must be, always having permission to speak and feeling affronted when you’re finally asked to listen.

I will say, the guacamole goblin’s are not the status quo, in fact a lot of the men (at least, of my generation) have taken up the plight of women and acknowledged their meaningful contribution to this trend. That being said, it is of utmost importance to make it clear that these individuals are not the norm, but to not dismiss them as merely lunatics. Every single movement started small, and eventually…

The broader conversation to be had about this is the rise of authoritarianism globally, and how it’s bleeding into the fabric of our country. The radicalization of young men has many faces, this retaliatory campaign is just one of them. When a child or a woman is killed, these are supposed to be some of the most binding events as a country, through our shared recognition of a tragedy. The mere presence of discourse on whether or not GBV should be acknowledged is cause for concern in ways that deserve more attention. It is alarming, and it is not normal.

I can assure you, women do not take pleasure from this movement. Women are not rejoicing from the perceived ‘attention’ this movement is garnering. Women have been killed, their lineages and worlds alongside them. Do you truly think that women derive any form of joy from a movement dedicated to globalize the fact that they are being killed at alarming rates?

The most egregious form of GBV is femicide. The deliberate murder and killing of a woman or girl on account of her gender. Make no mistake, this is what is happening in this country. The most extreme form of Gender-based violence, femicide, the deliberate murder and killing of a woman or girl on account of her gender, is happening in South Africa. It is happening right. Now.

“Femicide, or killing of women and girls because of their gender, is the most extreme and brutal manifestation of violence. It is driven by discrimination against women and girls, unequal power relations, gender stereotypes, or harmful social norms, which can escalate to a deadly outcome. The fourth national femicide study in South Africa revealed that three women were killed every day by an intimate partner from 2020 - 2021.”

Men aren’t being killed for being men.

Women are being killed for being women.

So, how do we move forward as the Women’s Shutdown Movement? The answer is twofold.

Ignoring the comments, the posts and the online activism is one. By choosing not to engage with the movement online is an effective way of concentrating our efforts onto what matters—making the real movement impossible to ignore.

The #TotalShutDown march in August of 2018 was the largest coordinated protest by women in South Africa against GBV. This march brought Pretoria, the country’s biggest economic hub, to an absolute standstill. Following this, the government announced the formation of the National Strategic Plan (2020) on ending gender-based violence in the country, featuring some legal reforms and minimal improvements towards improving support for survivors of GBV. This can and will be done again. Continuous resistance and outward activism has moved mountains, our country is a living example of that.

The second option is a more intricate approach. To address the rhetoric directly. Now, this is already being done by the country, but not in a way that is meaningful.

I’ve briefly touched on how pervasive South Africa’s culture of mockery, memeifcation and finger-pointing has affected the way we engage with very unfunny and very sensitive events that happen in the county. For example, the number of influencers who were accomplices in the trafficking of women through the Alabuga program. The jokes, the memes and the general culture of flippancy surrounding this issue is an example of that.

Part and parcel of why GBV isn’t taken seriously in this country is because of this culture we’ve created. The culture of unseriousness surrounding things that are very f*cking serious. This, already, has started to permeate the public’s response to the men’s shutdown. And it needs to be stopped, urgently.

This cannot happen again.

Gender-based violence and the destruction of lives it has caused needs to be taken seriously, it needs to be treated and engaged with as the humanitarian crisis it is. So, when you do respond to the men’s shutdown “activists” online, do so in a manner that highlights the gravity of the situation. Critically engage with the points brought up and dismantle them, emphasize how mislead these individuals have been and how harmful the rhetoric being spread is. And then, you leave it alone.

Or you know, refer them to this essay.

All in all, the main goal of this movement is to garner as much attention towards the pervasive force of gender-based violence. Its imperative to block out the distractions that try to derail our purpose. And that’s all the men’s shut down movement boils down to—a distraction.

This video was part of a larger trend, where individuals would typically post themselves with similar captions posed towards a person, or demographic of people they intended to attract. Said individuals would then reply to the video with pictures of themselves in the comment sections, indicating feelings of reciprocity and attraction.

This was not the case in regards to this video in question.

The comment section was bleak and empty, at least as it pertained to the group of men the message was directed toward. Notwithstanding the odd one or two genuine replies, the comment section consisted mainly of other South African women mocking the lack in turnout, expressions of exasperation aimed at highlighting how a trend like this only works in more developed countries, like the USA, Britain and European Countries, and comments that were satirical.

South Africa has an inescapable culture of making light of our internal political and cultural affairs, whether it be dismissing them in their entirety, reducing these events into tabloid-gossip or just finding them funny.

However, there is a very real and deeply unfunny political undertone to this video— to this trend as a whole in the context of South Africa. Given our Apartheid history (and reality), this video is attestation to a neglected wound in out country, as well as the way in which it manifests among black women.

In this essay, I will be attempting to unload this incredibly nuanced topic. I will be kickstarting an honest conversation essential to the understanding of how historical violence, systemic racism, and internalized oppression converge within the romantic lives of Black South African women. How these factors affect our romantic desires and a broader conversation about the emotional cost of desire under inequality. But first, on set-up, we need to discuss what this essay is not.

This essay is not an attempt to shift responsibility for violence in the form of racism onto black women. This has never and will never be the case. This is an exploration of how Black women are often forced into positions of idolizing whiteness, society’s universal deity of aspiration, and how this dynamic tends to manifest in the way we perceive interracial relationships in South Africa, particularly where a white man is involved.

This essay is not, in any context, an attack on individual and interracial love. It is of utmost importance to avoid essentialism, not every interracial relationship reflects the topics discussed in this essay, in fact, most are built on a mutual understanding of identity, political solidarity and shared appreciation of the greater societal structures that present themselves in our daily life. What is subject to my scrutiny is not this, but rather the historical contexts and contemporary cultural divides that uphold systems that force Black women into a perpetual pattern of yearning.

And, most crucially, this essay is not and will never be an attack on Black women. There will never be a time in which I participate in a conversation of this nature, without the interests of the most vulnerable yet most magical individuals in our society. Bear this in mind at all times when reading this essay.

Any discussion about interracial desire in South Africa cannot occur without the contextualisation of South Africa’s pre-democratic racial order. During Apartheid, the state did not just police where individuals lived and worked. It legislated who could love whom. Interracial relationships were strictly prohibited, condemned and outlawed.

“The National Party is determined to preserve the purity of the white race and to prevent the mixing of the races.”

Dr. Daniel François Malan (National Party Prime Minister, 1948–1954)

The Prohibition Of Marriage Act (1949) banned marriages between “whites” and “non-whites.” Even before this, The Immorality Act (1927, amended in

1950) similarly outlawed extra-marital sexual intercourse between white people and black people, which was later extended to all non-white people.

These laws were more than just legislation, they espoused a deeply moral statement sent out to the masses. That interracial relationships were abominable, unthinkable. That they were immoral. To white men, women of colour were perceived as undesirable and to women of colour, the same was very much true. In contemporary society, we see how this narrative has changed for women of colour, and more specifically, black women, being the group most likely to date outside of their race. Evidently, nothing much has changed for the average white man.

“There is no place for [the black man] in the European community above the level of certain forms of labour.”

Dr. Hendrik Verwoerd (National Party Prime Minister, 1958–1966)

In South Africa, race is still prominent presence in our society, with democracy being relatively callow in our country. With that, all the pre-democratic narratives about interracial dating still exist—hence the TikTok video, and other TikTok videos about black girls sharing their experiences being humiliated, rejected and conditionally accepted by their white counterparts on the basis of race. It’s why the question ‘do you like black girls?’ has often left the lips of many black women and girls open to interracial dating. The commonly held belief is that white men are not attracted to black women, this notion did not merely sprout from nowhere.

The other side of Apartheid’s sexual politics coin is fetishisation. As it turns out, laws did not extinguish desire. As a consequence of criminalising interracial relationships between “whites” and “non-whites,” the cultural implication was a taboo, forbidden aura surrounding interracial relationships. Desire that was illegal, in tandem with the already sexualised stereotypes surrounding black women, was only amplified and hyper-sexualised.

White men often fetishised black bodies as exotic and hyper-sexual, drawing on colonial tropes that characterised African women as animalistic, primitive or otherwise ‘closer to nature.’ For Black South African women, it meant being desired only for the taboo or forbidden appeal. It meant that Black women were desired only as objects for conquest, for exoticism, for gratification or as ‘forbidden fruit.’

These narratives and ideals are very much present in our society today. Black women and girls continue to face hypersexualisation and are subject to fetishisation. The subsequent power-imbalance in these dynamics, which makes itself known until this very day, exacerbated the aforementioned narratives and taboos surrounding interracial relationships and black women in general, 31 years after Apartheid ended.

There are numerous contemporary examples echoing this concept. The “white boy who likes Black girls” trend shows how fetishisation shapes interracial dynamics. The subtext of these kinds of videos isn’t “I’m a guy who sees Black women as my equal.” It’s “I’m a guy who likes Black girls.” which reinforces the idea of race as the primary axis of attraction.

With the empty comment section in the video mentioned earlier, in contrast to the often eager and active participation in the global north, illustrates a dual-dynamic. Fetishisation in the global north is glamorised and romanticised, and the same is true for South Africa, except it is distorted and complicated by our apartheid afterlives.

Black women in South Africa feel invisible, rejected, exoticised and notwithstanding, desired. Living in a country where you are perceived as unattractive, whilst being exposed to interracial relationships in other regions that clash against this notion creates cognitive dissonance and confusion. Then there’s fetishisation, and being desired only as a fetish has substantial damage on the perception of self. This, working in tandem with racism and white superiority, has lead to Black women, as well as other demographics in South Africa viewing them as subpar, inferior and undesirable.

The positioning of whiteness as the arbiter of aspiration by history, media, literature and social conditioning has only exacerbated the conditions black women who date outside of their race find themselves in. The outlawing and prohibition of interracial relationships during Apartheid was not just about creating racist narratives and an aversion to interracial relationships, but was also about maintaining racial “purity.”

It was about cementing whiteness as unattainable, untouchable, and ultimately superior. In the aftermath of apartheid, while the legal barriers have fallen, the symbolic hierarchy remains. Whiteness is still marketed as beautiful, sophisticated, and desirable, while blackness is too often caricatured, devalued, and fetishized.

Another consequence of this characterisation of whiteness is the glorification. White people have always been depicted as the epitome of romance. “White love” in cinema, poetry, literature and music has always been the norm. The depiction of yearning, longing, affection and love has always been done through the lens of the white man and woman, and when it isn’t—it’s always niche, subversive and rare. It isn’t that the white man is inherently gentler or more loving, but that history has coded him as such.

Whiteness is positioned as the language of love. This, the tip of the iceberg of desirability politics will have its own dedicated essay, but the point I want to make is that whiteness has always been depicted as the epitome of anything for centuries, and although nowadays a steadfast effort has been made to deconstruct this system, we still have a long way to go.

In South Africa, Black Women continually face challenges and shoulder great burdens often at the hands of black men. Our abusers, our politicians, our leaders, our lovers. Black women are continually failed by black men in their lives, rejected and abused. This creates a pattern, cyclical and devastating in nature. Those entrusted with our protection are too often the source of our harm. What manifests from this is not a simple narrative of interpersonal betrayal, but a collective wound. A rupture in the relational fabric between Black women and Black men.

These factors working together create a landscape where trust has eroded and care feels scarce, and it is unsurprising that some Black women may look outward for safety, tenderness, or affirmation. And who better to represent that imagined sanctuary than the figure whom history itself has positioned as a saviour—the white man?

Thus, black women continue to desire white men. The positioning of the white man as a saviour is not accidental. It is the end-product of centuries of narrative engineering. Colonialism and Apartheid worked tirelessly to script whiteness as synonymous with virtue, intellect, gentleness, and control. These traits were not merely admired, they were weaponised as contrast to the alleged volatility and danger of Black masculinity.

For Black women, raised in a society where safety and tenderness are scarce, where they ought to fight to be seen, heard and respected, this construction seeps into the subconscious, shaping what love is imagined to look like. Desire becomes political and mirrors the power dynamics we were born into.

To crave the white man is, in many ways, to crave reprieve from the chaos and pain inflicted by patriarchy, anti-blackness, racism, misogynoir, interpersonal violence, GBV, homophobia and other forms of violent oppression within and beyond our communities. It is to seek a ‘gentle love.’ But when that desire is rooted in escape rather than mutual recognition, it risks reproducing the same hierarchies it seeks to transcend. What appears as attraction may, in truth, be the haunting echo of survival.

Low racial self-esteem is a term I utilise in this essay to describe the internalized belief that one’s Blackness diminishes their worth in the romantic marketplace. Low racial self-esteem knows the heart of a black woman very well. As a black woman, in accordance to the spectrum of whiteness, I am at the very bottom of the barrel on the hierarchy of desirability.

Whiteness is measured according to the yardstick that is my undesirability. It is expected then, to feel insecure about my race. About my existence as a whole. Have you, or any other Black women you know, ever questioned whether your race affected how you were treated romantically? The answer is likely yes.

Desire in a racist world is a mirror with a crack running through it, every reflection is distorted.

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The truth is, South Africa has a weird relationship with interracial dating. Among the youth, at best, there is a gradual inclination towards interracial relationships. At the very worst, there is a gradual tolerance towards them. Our country is healing, not healed. The work is far from over. Understanding the complex power-imbalances, contexts and conditioning that these interracial relationships exist in is vital towards understanding interracial relationships as a whole.

There are very real risks associated with interracial relationships—especially in South Africa. There are countless horror stories about Black women finding out that their partners were racist or had merely fetishised them throughout their relationships. This is often why Black women don’t try, why Black women are forced into apprehension when considering dating out of their race.

Understanding interracial desire among Black South African women requires more than surface-level explanations. It demands we trace the lineage of our longing back through centuries of legal prohibitions, social hierarchies, and psychological conditioning. To ask uncomfortable questions like “Why do I desire this specific type of person so vehemently?””What has fuelled my attraction towards this particular person?” “What is the psychosocial aspect and historical context behind my attraction towards this individual?”

Everything exists in the context of something else.

The yearning for whiteness, for safety, for affirmation in someone positioned as a “saviour,” is not a betrayal of ourselves or our communities—it is the echo of a system that meticulously taught us to question our worth. Desire, in this context, is never neutral. It carries the weight of history, the very prominent imprint of apartheid, and the persistent whisper of a society that still ranks bodies, skin tones, and gendered expressions of love.

Awareness will always be the first step toward reclamation. To interrogate why we desire whom we desire, to question the sources of that longing, is to carve a space of autonomy in a world that has far too often dictated our hearts. Low racial self-esteem does not have to be permanent; it can be named, understood, and deconstructed. By recognizing the structures that shape our attraction, by seeing the politics of love for what it is—Black women can reclaim the power to define desire on their own terms.

Ultimately, this conversation is not about vilifying interracial relationships, nor is it about casting blame. It is about bringing forward the forces that continue to shape how Black South African women see themselves in love. It is about acknowledging the wounds, naming the patterns, and being brave enough to imagine a world where desire is freed from the shadow of history. But, we cannot move on from what we refuse to acknowledge.

Because until the day Black women no longer measure their beauty, worth, or desirability through the eyes of whiteness comes, the question will remain not,

“Do white boys like Black girls?”

but rather,

“Why must our desirability be seen through anyone else’s gaze at all?”

In fact, within African societies, conservatism has been a pillar of communal life. Think of Ubuntu, our endemic ethic of interdependence and mutual care; think of deference to elders, respect for ancestry, and the ritual structures that govern birth, marriage, and death. The idea that you are apart of a larger collective with universal, societal responsibilities is the cornerstone for the way we as (South) African’s interact with each other today.

These ideals—this conservatism is not regressive, but is instead rooted in cohesion, harmony, and accountability to a collective. African conservatism is about preserving humanity through relational ethics and generational continuity. It exists Within the spiritual realm too—in the veneration and acknowledgement of ancestors, the protection of lineage, and the belief that identity is tied not just to land, but to memory and ritual.

Politically, it shaped the governance of precolonial kingdoms and chiefdoms—like the Zulu inkatha system, or the Tswana kgotla, where communal deliberation and elder consensus were favoured over confrontation and hierarchy. I want to be abundantly clear—These were not perfect systems, but they were grounded in belonging, reciprocity, and continuity.

However, this is not the conservatism I’m interrogating in this essay.

What I am calling into question is the rise of Western, white conservatism in South African discourse and culture—one increasingly defined not by the preservation of community values, but by individualism, racialized nostalgia, and violent resistance to social transformation. More dangerously, this version often bleeds into right-wing extremism: conspiracy theories of white genocide, white victimhood, militarised Christian nationalism, and digital pipelines and echo-chambers that radicalise young people toward ethno-nationalist fantasies.

Unlike African conservatism, which seeks to steward tradition for the wellbeing of all, Western conservatism and its extremist mutations seek to weaponise tradition to fortify, reinforce and protect dominance while silence transformation and progression.

That distinction is not just academic—it’s essential. This is the heart of what we’re dissecting today.

In pre-colonial Africa, women had power and self-sovereignty. With colonialism and the post-colonial state, the African woman was reduced to man’s helper.

Azodo, Ada Uzoamaka. “Issues in African Feminism: A Syllabus.” Women’s Studies Quarterly, Fall–Winter 1997.

In pre-colonial Africa—contrary to popular belief—the roles of men and women were fluid, dynamic, and context-dependent, often shaped by socioeconomic status and needs, spiritual roles, and community needs.

While the oh-so-familiar “man hunts, woman gathers” division of labour did exist in some communities, it was not universal nor rigid. In fact, the very idea of fixed gender roles, as we understand them today, is a largely colonial invention and/or western ideal. Now, note that before European contact, African societies were conservative to an extent, in that they valued tradition, continuity, and communal identity. But even within these traditions, there was an inherent flexibility.

In many pre-colonial African societies, gender roles were often complementary.1 While women typically oversaw domestic life and men took on roles like hunting or defence, these boundaries were permeable. Roles often shifted based on need, circumstance, and capability.2

The division of labor in these societies was not always rigid, and there were instances where men and women shared responsibilities or took on roles typically associated with the opposite gender, depending on the specific society and circumstances. The distribution of power and authority between men and women varied across different African societies, with some exhibiting more egalitarian structures and others having more hierarchical systems based on gender. These systems were responsive, negotiated, and adaptive.

Nothing like the rigid, prescriptive models of Western conservatism, which are built on the fear of change and the preservation of elite power structures.

In truth, many African societies would likely be considered more liberal than conservative by modern definitions, particularly in their approaches to land use, governance, and gender relations. Power was often decentralised and shared through councils, clans, and spiritual leaders—and crucially, women were not excluded from these structures.

In his JSTOR article3“The ‘Deviant’ African Genders That Colonialists Condemned”, Mohamed Elnaiem quotes the late feminist scholar Niara Sudarkasa, who wrote: “In pre-colonial times, women in West Africa were ‘conspicuous in high places.’ They led armies, often played important consultative roles in politics, and in the case of the Lovedu people in present-day South Africa, they were even supreme Rain Queens.”

This striking quote reveals a broader truth: what it meant to be a woman—or a man—in many African societies was not rigid. Roles shifted based on need, capability, and social function. There was no singular, universal script.

Some societies, like the Lovedu, the Igbo, or the Ashanti, upheld matrilineal structures or elevated women into positions of religious and judicial power. Others retained more hierarchical gender norms. But across the continent, there was never one dominant model, and most societies embodied a blend of egalitarian economics and gender layering, depending on time and place. This flexibility, this capacity for evolution, is what fundamentally separates African traditionalism from harmful conservative ideologies—especially Western-style conservatism and right-wing extremism, which rely on strict social codes, oppression of difference, and an aversion to progress.

That rigidity came with colonialism. Under the guise of “civilisation,” European empires imposed deeply hierarchical gender systems, rooted in Victorian patriarchy, Christian doctrine, and Western property law. Women who once held land, acted as judges, spiritual leaders, and economic agents were pushed out of formal power and reclassified as dependents—legally, politically, and economically.

In an interview4 published by the Max Planck Institute on 21 January 2025, legal historian Paulien Broens said: “The erasure of women’s roles in pre-colonial Asante legal systems by British colonial law is a reminder of how colonialism not only disrupted political and economic systems but also deeply restructured gender dynamics. Today’s struggles for justice and inclusion must recognise that inequalities aren’t accidental, but the result of systems of exclusion.”

This is a vital framework through which we will gain an understanding of the present.

It is imperative that we do not treat colonial impositions as aboriginal African values. We must be careful not to conflate African conservatism—which was often balanced and fluid—with Western conservatism, which has become increasingly dogmatic, reactionary, and violent. The point is quite simple, really: African traditions evolved. They made space for negotiation. And if we are to decolonise our present, we must first decolonise our understanding of the past.

Colonial powers replaced indigenous legal systems with British common law, Roman-Dutch law, and or French civil codes. All of which treated women as legal minors. Under these laws, women could not inherit property, sign contracts, or represent themselves in court, even though they belonged to communities where they had done so for centuries. Precolonial systems like among the Igbo, Akan, and Lovedu facilitated female land ownership, council leadership, and even divorce initiation. Colonial law completely eradicated that system. "The colonial government invalidated the customary courts in which women once had legal standing, replacing them with patriarchal courts in which they were legally invisible." Stated Paulien Broens in her, Max Planck Institute interview, in 2025.

Another way they achieved their mission was through Evangelical Christianity. Missionaries introduced Western Christian values rooted in Victorian ideals of femininity: purity, subservience, motherhood. Essentially, women were now told that their only “proper” role was to be wives and mothers and submissive to their husbands. Any woman who resisted these norms—by being unmarried, sexually autonomous, or even a spiritual leader—was ostracised and labelled “promiscuous,” “immoral,” or “witch-like.” In many cases, female spiritual roles—such as priestesses, mediums, or rainmakers—were banned or demonised by missionaries.

“Christian missions often collapsed the spiritual and political authority of women, seeing them as a threat to the proper social order.” Writes Ifi Amadiume, in her book“Male Daughters, Female Husbands”

Most African cultures had gender fluidity. That’s right, even our ancestors knew that gender did not exist within a binary. A few examples of this include “Female husbands” among the Igbo and Nandi, women warriors and leaders among the Ashanti and Dahomey and roles assigned based on age, skill and lineage—not just biology.

A quote from the daily JSTOR reads “For centuries, woman-to-woman marriages in pre-colonial African societies seemed to indicate to Europeans that the strong correspondence between male to man and female to woman was not prevalent in Africa. This practice of same-sex marriage was documented in more than 40 precolonial African societies: a woman could marry one or more women if she could secure the bridewealth necessary or was expected to uphold and augment kinship ties. The idea that a female could be a husband perplexed Europeans, and often lead to fantastical conclusions.”

Another quote from the article reads, “and while heterosexuality was certainly the dominant form of sexuality in pre-colonial Africa, Sylvia Tamale notes that “there is no doubt that same-sex copulation was also practised.””

Colonial rule erased third-gender roles and outlawed same-sex relationships, and very often this was done violently. This introduced the idea that men and women must be opposite and unequal. Binary. An idea foreign to ancient African societies. It should be noted that these gender-binary traversing societies existed in other communities, like the Mexicans and ancient Mesopotamia, the first ever society.

Western conservatism was perpetuated so well, that it is evident in the discourse we see today.

Historically, colonial administrations gave African men very limited power, on the grounds that they aligned with colonial, and patriarchal rule. This manifested in the making of black “chiefs” or court messengers under indirect rule, which replaced egalitarian systems like council governance. In return, these men enforced new laws that limited women’s movement, economic power, and education, in the pursuit of power. Oyèrónkẹ́ Oyěwùmí writes in her book, The Invention of Women: “African men became the gatekeepers of colonial patriarchy, enforcing laws that were not theirs, in exchange for proximity to power.

This concept is reflected and reinforced within the culture we see today. South African men are notorious for upholstering patriarchal values and notions, through the perpetuation of misogyny, gender based violence and an inhumane hatred toward woman. These aren’t just social issues—they are the direct consequences of colonial systems that weaponised patriarchy to control both men and women.

So, how does western-world conservatism manifest itself in contemporary society? Our global state of sociocultural affairs all indicate a “conservative swing”5 or rise in conservatism, especially within gen z. How this brings itself to light, as well as other important discussions surrounding this topic is subject to my interrogation in my YouTube video coming out on July 16th 2025.

Thanks for reading!

Love, Nathi.

references:

1. https://library.fiveable.me/africa-before-1800/unit-14/gender-roles-family-dynamics-african-societies/study-guide/T0m33VsUQvV80Jxx

2. https://journals.co.za/doi/abs/10.31920/2634-3622/2022/v11n3a9

3. https://daily.jstor.org/the-deviant-african-genders-that-colonialism-condemned/

4. https://www.lhlt.mpg.de/4587189/notice-25-01-20

Additional Reading:

• https://sheffield.ac.uk/geography-planning/news/colonialism-and-gender-inequality-case-political-representation-nigeria

• https://dergipark.org.tr/tr/download/article-file/2015395

• https://scholarworks.arcadia.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1398&context=showcase