My woke comrade and friend (they are really woke, perpetually-high-on-coffee-woke) reflecting here on wokeness and revolution in light of the must-fallism that shook South Africa this year. Such self-reflections are needed if we are to push forward from the change that 2015 has seen, into a lit 2016… As I am reflecting myself as well on many things I have seen, learned, and unlearned this year (blogpost to follow on this).
One of my friends recently said “The revolution needs to start in our homes”.
The intensity of revolutionary spaces consumes us, for me it felt like the only space I could breathe. I could place my hand on my chest and feel some level of safety.
Its when you step outside , get into a taxi and it all comes back. You’re reminded that you are but a small fraction of black South Africans who are constantly resisting and speaking against a white capitalist system.
Since relocating to the Eastern Cape , where I was born and raised I found myself missing Cape Town. Despite its intense violence, I missed it. I missed these discursive spaces that seeped black pain and inspired revolutionary thought. Azania House where we all bleed but it felt cathartic.
One of the taxi drivers I recently encountered felt an urge to shower us with misogynistic…
View original post 625 more words