Nirvana

We sat across from each other

She mimicked me

Wore what I wore

Looked how I looked

Heck!

She even sounded how I sound

But I knew it wasn't me

It couldn't be me

And I was right

When I looked closer

I saw myself but it was not me

It was my copycat

She was a fake trying to be me

She convinced herself 

That if she tried hard enough 

She could be me. 

But she was wrong...

I am everything she was trying to be

Happy

Loving

Caring

Kind 

Funny

Smart

But most of all resilient 

She was just a copycat

An imposter

Hoping that no one would notice

But I did

Cause she could never really be me

No matter how hard she tried.

After all

A copycat never stood a chance against the original 

I will shine through

Like I always do

We sat across from each other

She mimicked me

Wore what I wore

Looked how I looked

But when I looked closer

She was never really there to begin with 

She was just the reflection 

The one that starred back at me in mirror

We sat across from each other

She mimicked me

Wore what I wore

Looked how I looked

She even sounded how I sound

But this time it didn't take long

For me to notice it was just a copycat

I paid no head to her this time

I looked at her one more time

Before walking away 

Know I was not the copycat and will never beefore walking away 

Know I was not the copycat and will never be

There’s something so powerful about seeing Black people in kink spaces. For those of us who grew up in Black communities, sexual exploration wasn’t just frowned upon...it was practically forbidden. Sex was something whispered about behind closed doors, hushed into silence by generations who viewed it as a private matter, or worse, something shameful.

Black women for generations and generations have been conditioned by their mothers, aunties, and grandmothers to believe their pleasure is never theirs. As young girls it is a sin, and pleasure is only embraced when they get married, but even then, their pleasure is still not theirs; their pleasure belongs to their husbands. When they are getting married, they are gathered and sat down by the woman of her family and she is taught various ways to please her husband and how her body is not hers but simply meant to make her husband cum. We are told that our waistlines, hips and curves hold magic and greatness...but we never whine our hips for ourselves but for the pleasure of men.

The idea of pleasure, of unashamed, unapologetic pleasure, was a luxury many of us weren’t afforded. Our bodies were policed, our desires stifled, and any hint of sexual freedom was met with raised eyebrows and judgmental whispers.So, when I entered into a bigger kink space and saw Black people embracing their sexual freedom, stepping boldly into kink, and allowing themselves to explore without shame, it’s more than just refreshing...it’s revolutionary. It’s a bold declaration that we, too, deserve to experience pleasure on our own terms.

It’s a reclamation of our bodies, our desires, and our narratives. But as much as it’s beautiful to witness, the deeper you delve into the kink community, the more you start to see just how much of a struggle it is to be a Black in these spaces, more so a Black woman.

Kink, historically, has been a predominantly white space....built by white people, for white people. When you step into that world as a Black woman, you’re not just breaking out of the mold that your own community has placed on you ....you’re also fighting against the stereotypes and objectification that already exist within kink.

It’s a dual battle: one foot planted firmly in the traditions of Black conservatism, where sexuality is kept behind locked doors, and the other forced to navigate the minefield of fetishization and hypersexualization in predominantly white kink spaces.

Black women in kink and in general are often boxed into harmful stereotypes. We’re seen as either aggressive dominants, expected to play into the “strong Black woman” trope, or hypersexual submissives, fetishized for our bodies rather than respected as individuals. Our pain, our pleasure, and our autonomy are rarely given the same care and consideration as our white counterparts.

How even within our own communities, we’re often pushed to the margins. It’s not just white people fetishizing us; it’s also the way Black boys and men are taught both directly and indirectly....that white women are the pinnacle of beauty, while Black women are everything but.

We’ve all seen it. The way Black boys fawn over white girls, drooling in the comments, reposting their OnlyFans, hyping up their every move like they invented seduction. But when a Black woman does the exact same thing? Silence. Or worse...mockery. We’re called “ghetto,” “too much,” “ratchet,” “masculine,” or “doing the most.” 

This isn’t just about personal preference. Let’s not pretend it is. It's about generations of conditioning...about the media, schoolbooks, history, colonization, slavery, and trauma all coming together to paint white femininity as soft, pure, and desirable... while Black femininity is reduced to strong, loud, and disposable. It’s about how Black women are told to be resilient but punished when we dare to be vulnerable. It’s about how we’re expected to be hypersexual but are rarely allowed to be sensual.

The same behaviors, the same kinks, the same confidence that gets white women celebrated gets Black women dissected or dismissed. Our bodies aren’t just sexualized...they’re politicized. 

And when our own "brothers" start worshipping whiteness in those same spaces, it stings. It tells us, again and again, that we’re not enough. That even in a community meant to be about liberation, we’re still climbing uphill just to be seen.

It’s like our bodies are seen as props...tools for someone else’s fantasy rather than vessels of our own desires. And if we dare to demand more....more respect, more understanding, more acknowledgment of our humanity, and more space...we’re labeled as difficult, as too demanding, as not fitting the mold.

This erasure and exploitation aren’t new; they echo throughout history. Take, for example, Sarah Baartman. An African woman who was paraded around Europe in the 19th century as a sideshow attraction, her body ogled and objectified under the guise of curiosity. But it wasn’t just gawking; her body was dissected, examined, and prodded by so-called scientists desperate to prove their warped theories of racial difference.

She was stripped of her dignity and humanity, reduced to nothing more than an object of fascination. Even after her death, she was denied peace....her remains were preserved and put on display until 1974 in a Paris museum. It was only in 2002 that her body was finally returned to South Africa for a proper burial. Her story is a haunting reminder of how Black bodies have been commodified, fetishized, and put on display for others' consumption. When we talk about Black women in kink, it’s impossible not to acknowledge how those threads of exploitation still ripple through the community today.

Even more troubling is the blurred line between race play and blatant racism. While some may argue that race play is consensual and empowering for those who engage in it, it often edges into spaces where Black people are dehumanized, objectified, and stripped of agency. There’s a difference between consensual power exchange and the perpetuation of harmful stereotypes, yet that line is crossed far too often, hidden behind terms like “kink is kink.”

The truth is, it’s not about pretending this is an easy conversation. It’s about recognizing that some things aren’t just uncomfortable...they’re harmful. Terms like "BBC," "Mandingo," "Jungle Fever," and others like "Ghetto Gaggers," "Ebony Queen," and "Chocolate Delight" are rooted in the history of Black enslavement and mistreatment, yet have now been romanticized and woven into the fabric of kink spaces. These terms reduce Black bodies to caricatures, stripping away individuality and reinforcing harmful tropes.

Honestly, writing this blog wasn’t easy nor was it any fun. Kink, for many of us, is where we escape....the place we go to forget the struggles and demands of everyday life. It’s where we can be free, be wild, and let go. But the harsh reality is, kink spaces are not immune to the shackles of real-world oppression. They don’t exist in a vacuum. The same racism, stereotyping, and prejudice that we experience outside the dungeon still find their way in. And that’s a truth we can’t keep ignoring.

There were moments when I felt like giving up. It felt like I was screaming into the void, trying to carve out space in a community that wasn’t built with me in mind. But then I found other Black women in kink...women who understood the struggle, who faced the same barriers, who refused to be silenced. We shared our stories, our frustrations, and our triumphs. In them, I found strength. In their voices, I found community. I wasn’t alone, and neither are you.

It’s important to recognize that this is a challenging conversation. Staying silent allows harmful practices to continue unchecked, but speaking out risks being accused of kink shaming. Yet, ignoring it entirely only perpetuates the cycle. We have to find the courage to address it head-on, even if it’s uncomfortable.

Despite these challenges, we still show up. We still find our way into dungeons and play parties, still create our own spaces, still demand our right to be seen and respected. Because our pleasure is just as important, our desires are just as valid, and our voices are just as powerful. We do the work not just for ourselves, but for the ones who will come after us...to make the path a little easier, a little less hostile, and a whole lot more welcoming.

To my fellow Black women in kink....you are not alone. Your presence in this space is valid, and your pleasure, your safety, and your experience matter just as much as anyone else’s. Keep pushing. Keep speaking up. Keep taking up space. Because we belong here, too.

Xoxo

Nirvana

On Friday, 21 November, I stood in a moment I’ll never forget.

At exactly 12:00, across South Africa, women laid down for 15 minutes in silence. Fifteen minutes for the fifteen women who lose their lives to gender-based violence every single day. Fifteen minutes to honour them, to remember them, and to refuse the silence that has swallowed too many of their stories.

I was one of those women.

And being part of the Women for Change Shutdown wasn’t just powerful… it was necessary. In a generation often dismissed as “internet activists,” friday was a reminder that we are more than hashtags. We are more than comments, retweets, shares, likes and reposts. We are not just voices behind screens…we are bodies in the street, marching, chanting, demanding justice.

From Constitutional Hill, across the Nelson Mandela Bridge, past Bree Taxi Rank, we marched. We sang liberation songs until our voices cracked. We cried. We held strangers’ hands. We hugged women whose names we will never know. When the police tried to stop us, we didn’t back down.

I went alone, but I was never alone.

In those crowds I found my sisters, women who carried the same fire, the same grief, the same determination. Women who showed up not because they had to, but because they refused to let silence win. As we walked, talked, laughed, held hands… it felt like finding my people. My community. My fellow fighters.

And as a survivor of abuse, it was something indescribably emotional about seeing so many people stand in solidarity with us, people who may not have experienced violence themselves, but still showed up to say: Enough.

I am proud, deeply proud to have been part of this. To have used my voice. My body. My courage. To have stood up for something that matters. There is a unique kind of power in knowing you did not look away. You did not hide. You showed up.

And I hope that Friday becomes more than a moment.

I hope it sparks real, tangible change, in government, in policy, in communities, in homes, in conversations. I hope it forces South Africa to confront gender-based violence not as a yearly campaign, but as an urgent national crisis.

Friday 21 November 2025 was a beginning. A promise. A reminder.

We will not be silent.
We will not be still.
We will not stop demanding change.

I was there.
And I will keep showing up.

Xoxo 

Nirvana 

#WOMANFORCHANGE

The #WomenForChange movement is calling for nationwide shutdown planned for the 21st of November, to demand that gender-based violence be declared a national disaster. 

This country is long overdue for something that forces everyone to stop pretending gender-based violence is just another unfortunate part of life in South Africa. It’s not an “issue.” It’s not a “conversation.” It’s a crisis, and people are finally pushing for it to be recognized as a national disaster, the way it actually feels in real life: unpredictable, destructive, devastating, and impossible to escape.

And the sad truth that we may have to face is this movement may just all go in vain because of the governments continuous refusal to make change where it matters most. And that is because beneath their refusal lies something far more structural, far more political, and far more threatening to the people who benefit from the current system. And that’s exactly why government resists.

If the government where to acknowledge GBV as a national disaster and a set in place measures to prevent and take action against the perpetrators, they would have to do the same to their fellow political members. 

Let me say it again…if the government where to acknowledge the severity of GBV in South Africa and put measures in place to correct it, they will be forced to acknowledge how many people in positions of power such as, ministers, police officers, judges, senior and junior government officials are predators themselves. They would have to explain how they were getting away with and be held accountable, which they do not want. Because you cannot declare a disaster without admitting where it comes from, who is enabling it, and who benefits from keeping things exactly the way they are.

And that is a truth the state cannot risk confronting.

- Because doing so would mean:

- Investigating their own officials

- Exposing long-hidden abuses in state institutions

- Opening corruption networks to scrutiny

- Admitting that protection of violent men is happening within the system itself

And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Because it is not only their fellow cabinet members they are trying to protect but also the silent beneficiaries and investors from the private sector.

We cannot pretend that corruption in South Africa exists only in government. It doesn’t.

Corruption is a partnership:

Private power funds state power, and state power protects private interests.

Why?

Because the same businessmen bribing officials…the ones who fund political campaigns, bankroll luxury lifestyles, and move money through backdoor channels…are often the same men who abuse, exploit, traffic, or violate women and children.

If GBV is declared a national disaster, governments will be forced to trace the money. They will be forced to investigate the very networks that protect some of the worst offenders. That threatens their power structure. Silence and inaction cost less than accountability…and that is why things stay messed up.

The Governments Silence is profitable whereas their Acknowledgment of GBV is expensive.

That brings me to the Disaster Management Act 57 of 2002. According to the Act, a “disaster” is:

“a progressive or sudden, widespread or localised, natural or human-caused occurrence which … causes or threatens to cause … (i) death, injury or disease; (ii) damage to property, infrastructure or the environment; or (iii) significant disruption of the life of a community; … and is of a magnitude that exceeds the ability of those affected … to cope with its effects using only their own resources.” 

GBV in South Africa meets that definition in more than one way. It is human-caused, widespread, and deeply disruptive. More than that, its scale overwhelms communities, social services, and state systems, often leaving survivors with fewer resources than they need. It’s a public catastrophe, and part of the catastrophe is the fact that the state is structurally reluctant to treat it like one.

Look at the numbers:

- According to the first national GBV study by the HSRC (2022), 33.1% of adult women (18 and older) have experienced physical violence in their lifetime. 

- In that same study, 7.9% reported lifetime non-partner sexual violence, and 5.9% of women reported recent (past 12 months) non-partner sexual violence. 

- Over 7.3 million women in South Africa have experienced physical violence (according to the HSRC), which equals a large share of the adult female population. 

- Between July and September 2024, there were 10,191 reported rapes, 957 women murdered, and 1,567 women survived attempted murders. To put in into perspective this were the numbers for 3 MONTHS! Imagine what they looked like by the end of the year

These are not small numbers. These are not isolated incidents. This is national scale.

Declaring GBV a national disaster would force a collective, institutional response. It would demand resources, transparency, and accountability — not just response but prevention. It would mean sustained investment in community-based programs, law enforcement reform, and systemic change.

If not, we keep repeating the same painful pattern: victims become statistics, predators stay powerful, and money stays hidden in shadow networks that ignore or enable violence. For a government deeply enmeshed in private-sector corruption, admitting GBV is a disaster is admitting part of the funding structure might be complicit.

So when I support WomenForChange, it’s not just because they are calling out a moral issue. They are calling out a structural issue. GBV is not just social decay…it is a political, economic, and legal crisis. Declaring it a national disaster doesn’t just give it recognition. It demands action…real, systemic, unflinching action.

Despite the odds being against us and the strong holds we are going up against. We should not give up, the road ahead my be long but we should stay strong and continue to fight the good fight to bring justice and change 

#WOMANFORCHANGE

I saw something that completely broke my sense of safety in a space that was supposed to be safe. A “joke” was shared…one that made light of abuse and the movements that exist to bring justice to survivors. The immediate reaction was laughter. But I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t.

Because in what world is diminishing the impact of abuse considered funny? Or adding a sexual innuendo to abuse funny?

Especially amidst the current situation going on with the #Womanforchange movement and the work they are trying to do surrounding the issue of GBV. It is so stupid, inconsiderate and a bunch of more colourful adjectives I could use. It is beyond harmful. And no I will not tolerate that bullshit comment of it was “just a joke” or “It is not that serious” or “Learn how to take a joke”. I say to you the biggest most colourful FUCK YOU! It is because of such backward regressive thinking that our country and the world at large is in the dire state that is is. “Oh no it was just a cat call I didn’t mean it”….”It was just a joke I didn’t actually mean you look prettier on your back”…”Don’t take it seriously he was just playing around”. FUCK THAT AND FUCK YOU to anyone who thinks making harmful comments will be less harmful because you slapped on the “IT’S JUST A JOKE” badge.

That kind of “humor” isn’t harmless. It carries weight…real, painful weight. It’s not some playful comment detached from reality. It’s a reminder. A flashback. It’s me sitting there feeling my chest tighten, realizing that for so many people, what destroyed me is punchline material.

That shit is not funny. I lived through it. And to take something that represents justice, survival, and the fight for change and turn it into a sexual joke…feels cruel, and is ignorance at its highest. It’s inconsiderate. It’s triggering on so many levels. Because it’s not just a joke.

This is people’s reality. People who wake up every day and try to keep living with what happened to them. People who blame themselves even though they know better. People who are still trying to heal. Turning that into “content” or kink humor isn’t edgy…it’s sickening.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most: realizing that not everyone gets it. That there are people who will laugh because they’ve never had to live through it. Maybe it’s not a big deal to them because they’ve never been abused. But you don’t have to experience it to know it’s wrong. You just have to have empathy to imagine what it feels like to have your trauma reduced to entertainment.

It’s harmful. It’s damaging. And it’s a reminder that there’s still such a long way to go…for me, for us as women, for this country, for the world.
Because jokes like that don’t happen in isolation. They come from the same mindset that says, “It’s not that bad,” or “Don’t be so sensitive,” or “She must have wanted it.” They come from the same place that blames victims, that excuses harm, that protects comfort instead of acknowledging pain.

Take me for example… what others saw as a harmless joke took me back to the worst parts of my life. It made me feel like I was reliving it. Like I was back in that place of being doubted, disbelieved, blamed. That’s what these jokes do. They reopen wounds. They whisper that maybe it was your fault. That maybe you should have been quieter.

What frustrates me deeply is that if this had been a joke about animal cruelty, no one would have laughed. Everyone would’ve spoken up, said it was inappropriate. So why do animals deserve more compassion than human survivors? Why are our stories, our bodies, our pain, treated as less sacred? Why are our efforts to get justice and make a change turned into sexual jokes?

What makes it worse is how it confirms something I’ve always believed: kink doesn’t exist in a bubble. You can’t say that certain topics are excluded from kink spaces, and then laugh at a joke that makes fun of sexual abuse movements. You can’t pick and choose when empathy applies. You can’t claim to understand consent and still find actual abuse funny.

That’s why I say there’s a moral line… a bold one…that we cannot cross. Kink might explore dark or taboo things, but there is a difference between engaging with darkness consciously and mocking it carelessly. You can play with the shadow without becoming it. But joking about sexual assault? That crosses that line.

Because kink may borrow from real-life harm, but it does so with consent, intention, and awareness. Humor like this does the opposite…it strips away the gravity, turns pain into punchline, and leaves survivors to sit in silence again.

Just because something is said in a kinky space doesn’t make it less serious. It doesn’t take away its weight. The context doesn’t erase the harm. And that’s what I wish people would understand…that our healing doesn’t end just because others are comfortable enough to laugh. That survivors deserve spaces where empathy isn’t optional.

So no, it’s not just a joke. It never was. It’s a reminder of how far we still have to go and how easily people forget that behind every “funny” comment, there are real lives, real scars, and real hearts trying to heal.

Nirvana

She sat alone at the small wooden table tucked into the corner of the café…the kind of corner meant for daydreamers or people who wished to disappear without actually leaving. Her white sundress draped around her like a fragile peace offering against the world. The soft fabric shimmered under the sunlight that pushed through the window, painting her in a warm glow she didn’t seem to feel.

Her shoulders were tight, pulled inward toward her chest as if she were trying to hold herself together by force. One hand gripped the edge of her open book, the other loosely wrapped around a cooling cup of tea. She hadn’t turned a page in at least ten minutes. Her eyes lingered on the same sentence, unfocused.

To a passing stranger, she might have looked serene…the perfect picture of a quiet afternoon. But up close, anyone who cared to look long enough would notice it: the sadness swelling just behind her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the subtle tremors in her breath. She was here physically, but her mind was pacing a thousand miles from this table.

The bell above the café door chimed once.

He walked in like a shadow born from sunlight, dressed head-to-toe in black. T-shirt, jeans, jacket, boots. Even his hair seemed to carry that same darkness. He exuded a calm presence, yet there was something sharp in his gaze, scanning the room with a quiet awareness.

The café was full. People laughed, clinked cups, tapped on keyboards, chatted loudly over brunch plates. Every seat was taken, except the one across from her. He hesitated for half a second, that tiny flicker of wondering if he was intruding. But necessity and something unspoken pushed him forward.

He approached. “Is this seat taken?”

She didn’t look up. Just a small shake of the head. “No.”

He slid into the chair, setting down a book of his own. He ordered a coffee, thanked the barista with a nod, then tried gently to exist without being a disturbance. At first, neither acknowledged the other. Pages turned, spoons stirred. Silence lingered. But he noticed.

He noticed how her page never changed. How her chest tightened every time she inhaled. How her fingers trembled slightly when she reached for her drink. He noticed the loneliness sitting beside her like a second shadow. He tried a small smile, a light attempt at conversation.

“Good book?” he asked, voice warm but casual.

She blinked. “Trying to read,” she murmured, not unkind…just tired.

He nodded, accepting the boundary. But something about her pulled his attention back, again and again. Not attraction…not at first. Recognition. A familiarity with the kind of heaviness she wore. After a few minutes, he closed his book. Leaned back slightly. Just… watched her. Not in a rude way. In the way someone looks when they’re truly trying to understand.

She could feel him looking. That slow, steady gaze that didn’t pry.Her chest tightened.

“Someone seems distracted,” he said softly, trying to layer a bit of levity into the tension. “Either that book is very boring or life is very loud.” She exhaled, long and shaky. Still staring at the page.

“It’s just… a lot,” she admitted, voice barely more than a breath. He studied her face a moment longer, then spoke with gentle certainty.

“What’s wrong?”

She swallowed hard. Eyes dropping. Silence stretched…not awkward.. She shook her head, trying to blink away the sting behind her lashes. He didn’t look away. He didn’t fill the silence with words meant to rescue himself from the discomfort. He simply stayed with her in that moment. She finally lifted her eyes to his and they locked. And that was the final crack in her walls.

Her lips parted, but her voice came out in a whisper:

“Tired.”

One word. Heavy enough to break something open inside her. Her gaze wavered. Tears gathered, clinging to her lashes like they were afraid to fall. He reached across the table, slow enough for her to pull away if she needed. She didn’t. Their hands met…his warm, steady palm cradling her cold fingers. The contact was soft, almost hesitant, like he knew touch could be its own form of permission.

And then everything inside her broke free. “It just feels like… everything keeps getting worse,” she started, breath trembling. “Like the more I try to hold things together, the faster they slip through my fingers.” Her voice cracked. “Everyone expects me to be okay. To just handle it. To smile and keep going even when it hurts to even wake up.”

She looked down, blinking hard as tears spilled over. “I’m being pulled in every direction. And I’m still… alone. I’m doing it alone.” A shaky laugh escaped her. A sad one. “I tell myself I am fine. That I can do it all without help. But I don’t want to be strong anymore. I want someone to listen. To stay. To tell me I don’t have to apologize for needing something too.”

She sniffed, wiping a tear away with a frustrated swipe. “I’m just… tired. So tired of pretending I’m fine.”

He listened. Really listened. His thumb traced soft, grounding circles against her skin. His expression held tenderness first…then concern…and buried beneath it, the faintest flicker of guilt. As if he regretted not noticing sooner. Even though they’d never met.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”

Her breath trembled again, but she held his gaze…trusting, even if she didn’t understand why. He leaned in slightly, voice barely above the hum of the café. “I don’t know what you’re facing. And I won’t pretend to have the answers. But I’m here now. And I’ll stay… however you need me to.”

No promises of love.

No dramatic declarations.

Just presence.

Steady and true.

Their silence returned…She didn’t let go of his hand. And he didn’t rush her to speak again. They were still strangers…with a thousand unknowns ahead.

But in that small coffee shop, at that little wooden table, sunlight catching on her tears and shadow resting gently on him…

She wasn’t alone anymore.

Not right then.

Maybe not tomorrow either.

Reflections on Identity and Media Representation

In a short opinion essay, reflect on your own identity (race, culture, gender, sexuality, religion, class, or language) and how you see it represented in South African media. This was originally a question I had to answer for an assignment. The instructions restricted me to one page, which meant I had to be concise...but now, I want to explore it fully, without limits. I want to talk about who I am, how I see myself, and how South African media reflects, or distorts, people like me.

As a young Black South African woman, my identity is shaped at the intersection of race, gender, and culture. Media plays a huge role in how I see myself and how society sees people like me. When I watch TV, scroll through ads, or engage with digital content, I see fragments of my identity, sometimes affirming, often distorting, and occasionally completely missing. Representation in South Africa is inconsistent. We’re still negotiating the legacies of colonialism, Eurocentric beauty standards, and old stereotypes.

Growing up, I rarely saw young Black women portrayed as complex, intellectual, or powerful in mainstream media. More often, we were background characters, domestic workers, victims, objects of desire, school drop-outs, teenage mothers, single mothers barely making it, and while yes those are unfortunately the reality of black woman...1. it is not by choice and 2. we are more than that. Rarely were we the architects of our own stories. Those portrayals subtly told me that intelligence, aspiration, and agency weren’t traits associated with people who look like me.

That was limiting. But over time, I discovered spaces where Black creativity and leadership thrived, social media communities, independent content, and platforms celebrating African fashion, natural hair, and local entrepreneurship. These counter-representations helped me reclaim my identity, showing me that we’re not one-dimensional. We are creative, intellectual, sensual, spiritual, and diverse.

From a theoretical perspective, Stuart Hall (1997) and Fourie (2019) argue that identity isn’t fixed, rather it’s produced within representation and discourse. Media shapes identity precisely because it defines the boundaries of belonging. When the majority of beauty campaigns feature light-skinned women, or when English is used as the marker of sophistication, subtle messages about worth are sent. These choices can exclude, even when the content appears inclusive.

The Curro advertisement controversy in April 2024 is a clear example. A school group posted a marketing campaign showing a Black child acting as a cashier, which many saw as reinforcing racial stereotypes. Critics argued it misrepresented African identity by prioritizing Eurocentric beauty standards, while others said it was a modern, global perspective on South African fashion. For me, this controversy demonstrates how misrepresentation isn’t just a creative oversight...it has real emotional and social consequences. Young Black children internalize these portrayals. They imagine where they belong and what they can aspire to based on media cues.

But media can also be a site of transformation. By actively seeking and supporting counter-representations, I’ve seen how powerful it is to challenge stereotypes and broaden narratives. Platforms that celebrate Black womanhood...highlighting entrepreneurship, intellect, creativity, and beauty in its many forms...offer alternative visions of possibility. They prove that representation isn’t just about visibility; it’s about authenticity, agency, and pride.

Reflecting on my identity through media has made me aware of both the constraints and opportunities of representation. I’ve learned to ask: Who is speaking? Whose gaze is centered? Whose voice is missing? I’ve learned to reclaim my story in spaces where my identity is acknowledged in its fullness. As Hall reminds us, cultural identity is always a matter of becoming. Through critique, engagement, and creation, I continue to define mine in defiance of limiting portrayals. I won’t wait for mainstream media to validate my existence...I’ll create spaces where my identity can flourish freely, in all its complexity.

Xoxo
Nirvana

She arrived early. Earlier than she needed to. Sitting alone meant she had time to rehearse emotions she wasn’t ready to feel. The café hummed softly around her, low voices, clinking spoons, the occasional hiss of the steamed milk. But at her table by the window, time felt still.

Her white sundress pooled softly around her knees, the fabric light and airy against the chair. The morning light touched her hair, playing in it, making her look almost angelic. It made her look gentle. Innocent. Like she belonged in a quiet garden, not a crowded café where her thoughts were loud enough to drown out the music.

There was a sadness she couldn’t quite disguise, stitched delicately between her lashes and half-hearted smiles. She picked at the condensation clinging to the side of her glass, watching droplets slide down like they were racing to escape. She envied them…the ease of movement, of leaving. A deep breath. A shaky exhale. She told herself she wasn’t nervous, but her pulse had been tapping rapidly in her throat since she walked in.

Then the door chimed. She didn’t need to look. Her body already knew. His presence always did that…identified itself before her mind could catch up.

He was dressed in all black. Simple, clean, deliberate. His presence was quiet but grounding, the kind that drew eyes without effort. When he spotted her, something softened in his expression the faintest crack in his otherwise composed demeanor. He crossed the room without hesitation. She looked up just as he reached her, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

The air shifted…heavy, familiar, charged with things unsaid. He pulled out the chair opposite her and sat, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, the kind of smile that carried both comfort and ache.

“Hi,” he said, voice calm but carrying a weight she knew too well.
“Hi,” she managed, her voice smaller than she intended.

He sat. The café noise faded around them, swallowed by the tension settling between the table edges. They order, her a cup of black tea and him black coffee, something small to eat. The kind of formality that fills space before hearts start speaking. Their conversation began lightly. But it wasn’t small talk; it was the kind of talking that tiptoes around what really matters, circling it, waiting for courage.

How’s work?
Busy.
You?
Same old.

Then the weather, recent country affairs. They spoke, anything to try to lighten the mode. Empty words from two people who had once spoken in futures.

Then the conversation slowed…thinned…and finally fell silent. Neither rushed to fill the quiet nor asked a new question to start a new topic. They simply existed there, breathing the same second of time, letting old familiarity resurface.

Her gaze drifted to his clothes…the black shirt fitting too well, the dark fabric making him look like stability. Calm. Strong. Unmoving…She glanced down at herself. White. Light. But her bones felt heavy. That contrast struck her like a secret truth: She was the one fraying at the seams, yet she looked like hope. He was wrapped in darkness, yet he carried all the steadiness she lacked…Opposites, yes. But somehow still… aligned.

She forced a small smile, one that wobbled before it could settle. He noticed. He noticed everything. Looking at her, he finally broke the silence…

“How are you?” he asked gently.
“I’m okay,” she replied too quickly.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly…not skeptical, just searching. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear the next words:

“How are you… really?”

She froze. Breath caught halfway up her throat. Her gaze dropped to the table where their hands hovered inches apart. Silence again. This one sharp enough to cut. She blinked and a tear slipped free without permission. Her lips parted…slow, trembling…and she whispered the truth she’d been wrestling alone:

“…Tired.” That single word carried everything…

Tired of pretending.
Tired of being strong alone.
Tired of missing someone she told herself she didn’t need anymore.

Her breath shuddered as more tears gathered, spilling with sudden urgency. She tried to apologize, wiping at her eyes with frantic fingers. He reached out…slow, gentle…and covered her shaking hand with his. Warmth. Steady. Real. She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Her shoulders dropped, the tension leaking out like she’d been holding her heart in a clenched fist for months.

For a moment, she didn’t speak. She only stared down at their hands…his thumb still resting lightly against her skin, as if he were afraid she might break if he pressed too hard. When she finally inhaled, it sounded like someone remembering how to breathe after being underwater too long.

“It just… it feels like everything keeps getting worse,” she whispered, her voice frayed at the edges. “Like every time I try to fix one thing, something else falls apart. And everyone thinks I’m handling it fine because I keep smiling, keep showing up, keep pretending I’m okay.” Her throat tightened, and she blinked fast, fighting the sting behind her eyes…a losing battle.

“I’m being pulled in a thousand directions,” she continued, shakily. “Work, family, school, people needing things from me all the time… and I’m just…” She swallowed. “I’m just one person.” Her fingers curled slightly beneath his, like she was bracing herself against everything she didn’t want to feel.

“And I’m doing it alone. Every day. Alone.” She tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. “I keep telling myself I am fine, that I can keep carrying all of this by myself… but I don’t want to be strong all the damn time.” Her eyes drifted up…just long enough for him to see the exhaustion she’d been hiding behind sarcasm and half-smiles.

“I just want someone to listen. To stay.” A tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly. “I want someone to hold me and tell me it’s okay to fall apart sometimes. That I don’t have to earn comfort. That I don’t have to apologize for needing something too.” She shook her head, breath trembling as she tried to gather herself back into the quiet, composed version she’d walked in as.

“But I don’t have that,” she finished softly. “So I just keep waking up every day and pretending I’m not tired of fighting.” She let her gaze fall back to their hands, her voice shrinking into something small and painfully honest. “I’m so tired,” she whispered again…as if the words themselves weighed too much to carry.

“You’ve been carrying too much on your own,” he said quietly. She let out a broken laugh. He squeezed her hand…not to silence her, but to anchor her. “You don’t have to hold the world alone.” Her eyes flicked up, meeting his. What she found there nearly undid her all over again:

Concern.
Tenderness.
And love she hadn’t received in a long time.

He didn’t look away…not once…even when her voice cracked and the tears broke free. If anything, his gaze softened, like every word she confessed stitched a deeper understanding into him. His brows lowered with a tenderness he couldn’t disguise, and his jaw flexed with the effort to hold back everything he suddenly wanted to say…apologies, promises, confessions that had no place here, not yet.

His thumb brushed over the back of her hand in slow, steady circles, grounding her. He leaned in just slightly, as if closing the space might shield her from the weight she carried. “I should’ve seen it,” he murmured under his breath…not accusing her, but himself. There was guilt there, faint but unmistakable…the guilt of someone who once had a place close enough to notice her breaking, and walked too far away to catch it in time.

Her breath hitched, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to do all of this alone,” he said quietly, the words deliberate, unwavering. “I’m here now. And I’ll stay… in whatever way you need.” No grand declarations. No promises he wasn’t sure either of them were ready for. Just something real…something she could lean on without fear it might disappear tomorrow.

Their silence returned, but it was different this time…softer. She didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t rush her to speak. They just sat there…two people with a complicated past, and a future neither dared to define…sharing the kind of quiet that felt like the first exhale after a long, exhausting storm.

And in that stillness, without any decisions made or labels restored, it became clear:

He wasn’t walking away again.

They got away with murder...

It’s so sad... to watch someone go on with their life after they’ve destroyed yours. To see them happy. Smiling. Thriving. Getting good things. Getting everything you thought the universe would withhold from them because of what they did to you. You’d think... you’d hope... that the universe would collectively decide to punish them. That karma would drag them through the same hell they put you through. That maybe...just maybe...they’d feel even an inch of the pain they caused. But that’s not how life works, is it?

Good people get bad things done to them... and bad people get away with it.

It’s one of the hardest things to come to terms with. That people who broke you, used you, betrayed you, hurt you... still get to wake up and have good days. They still get to laugh. They still get to love. They still get to live like they didn’t leave you in pieces. It’s like watching someone walk free after committing a crime. No handcuffs. No trial. No punishment. They just walk away... while you’re left standing in the ruins of what they did.

They got bail? No. They didn’t even need bail. They were never arrested in the first place.

And that’s what hurts the most. That you’re the one stuck trying to heal from what they did. You’re the one replaying everything, trying to make sense of it, trying to forgive, trying to let go. You’re the one bleeding, while they get to walk around untouched, unbothered, unpunished.

It’s hard. It’s so damn hard... to move on when they seem to have moved on so easily. To see them smile, knowing they once made you cry. To see their life move forward while yours still feels paused at the moment they hurt you. It feels unfair. It feels cruel. It feels like injustice.

But maybe that’s just what life is sometimes... unfair. Maybe the lesson is that not everyone who hurts you will pay for it. Not everyone who breaks you will be broken. And maybe... maybe the real justice isn’t seeing them suffer. Maybe it’s choosing to live, even after what they did. Maybe it’s finding peace... even when they don’t deserve it.

Because one day, you wake up... and it doesn’t hurt the same anymore. One day, you realize you didn’t die after all. That the version of you they killed wasn’t the end of your story... it was the beginning of your rebirth.

They got away with murder, yes... but you survived it. You rebuilt. You rose from it. And that... that’s something they’ll never get away from.

Xoxo

Nirvana 

What does sensual self-connection mean to you, and how do you nurture it in your daily life?

Sensual self-connection, to me, is the quiet act of remembering that I belong in my own body. It’s the intimacy that doesn’t need an audience... the kind that happens when I slow down enough to notice how my skin feels under my fingertips or how my breath shifts when I start to feel safe again. It’s not about seduction or performance; it’s about presence. About meeting myself exactly as I am ...soft, flawed, beautiful, changing.

For so long, I think I associated sensuality with being seen by someone else, with being desired. But lately, it’s become something I cultivate for me. It’s in the way I take a deep breath before getting out of bed, the way I stretch my arms and feel the weight of morning on my skin. It’s how I take time to moisturize after a shower, not rushing through it, but letting my hands trace over me slowly, as an act of gratitude

I nurture that connection by doing small things that make me feel grounded and alive in my body. Music helps a lot. Sometimes I’ll put on a song that makes me feel warm, close my eyes, and just sway. I let my body move the way she wants, not the way I think she should. Other times, I light candles, run a bath, or just sit quietly in my room, breathing deeply and noticing where I hold tension.

There are moments when I struggle to connect ....when my mind feels too loud or my insecurities start to creep in. But I’m learning that those moments aren’t failures. They’re part of the practice. Sensuality isn’t a constant state of pleasure; it’s a dialogue. Some days my body says, “Hold me.” Other days, she says, “Rest.” And I’m trying to listen more carefully each time.

What makes it even more powerful is realizing how human and imperfect this all is. Sensual self-connection isn’t always glamorous. Sometimes it’s messy... crying in the shower, taking a deep breath when I feel anxious, or simply choosing to be gentle with myself after a long day. It’s the reminder that sensuality isn’t about looking perfect; it’s about feeling honest.

For me, nurturing sensual self-connection is like watering a garden. It’s an ongoing act of care, patience, and softness. And in doing so, I’m not just connecting to my sensuality but I’m connecting to me.

Xoxo
Nirvana