keke Maclaren

Let me take you on a tour. You'll notice that on your right there's a lion, act friendly…

How African am I?

How African is the language I speak in and the clothes I dress in? How african is the music I listen to? How african am I when I choose to go against western thing?

I can show you how African I am by being proud of my culture and being in my own skin. Not comparing anything at all, but accepting the things I find interest in. Africaness stems from the roots of my being true to myself and highly valuing my family. To being integrated in the community I live in and appreciating the differences I share with the people I encounter. Celebrating the fact that God made us uniquely beautiful each one of us. In culture, in colour, in tongues and food.

When I’m dark in shade just know the sun loved me and gave me a warm embrace. Burning my heart to carry this warmness to the people around me. Calling it ubuntu. Realising that humans are relational beings so I proclaim the simple truth, ukuthi: umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu.

There’s nothing african about ibeshu. But there’s something african about dressing to reflect who you are and respecting yourself and the people who share this earth with you. There’s nothing african about iqukwane but the communing that goes on inside, and the embedding of family values and traditions. However all these things that we have from our ancestors serve as an african heritage to give us an overview of where we come from. A priceless legacy. Our attitude towards these things, the way we receive them and the way we carry them to future generations is an extent of our africaness.

Africa is a mother that gave birth to these children. So even though you are from another country you are still my beloved brother. These boarders shall not serve to divide us. Our differences shall not distance us from each other. On this land let us unite and fight against hunger, thirst, slavery and the strife among us.

Let’s not rob ourselves by selling our birthright to live according to another man’s standards. Trying to change ourselves for a man who never understood us or have come to see our true beauty. Let’s not try to re-create our identity from his thoughts of how we should be. Like Esau sold his birthright for food, we sold our birthright for another man’s “flashy” ideals. We devalued what made us who we are, we have forsaken what brought us through all those centuries. Africa you have prostituted yourself for something that doesn’t feed you but kills you. You have lost your self esteem trying to compare yourself in vanity. Working yourself hard for the things you had already owned. Ignorance is killing you. In every sip of blissful poison. Claim back your honor and take charge of your body. Put back on your dress of many colors (no more grey and black colored slave clothes). Open up your eyes to see your blessings, see how rich you are. No longer should you depend on a man who abuses you.

De-colonize your mind to know your worth and be free to stand apart. We are not the “third world” because we are not part of a vain competition. By what standards have we been rated anyway? How do I compare my mother to another? The woman who fed me when I was young and tender with full breasts and nourished me till now. Africa love yourself and seek your truth, then you shall be free.

My Africa

My Africa I love you. Please believe me when I say you are beautiful. I’m in you and you are in me and together we are one. My roots are deep in you tap-rooting through your skin and your roots are the arteries and veins of my soul. I don’t think I can live without you My Africa. You are fertile, giving birth to dreams of love, joy and peace. I want big healthy babies from you. I live to see you smile and not worry about anything but just loving freely. My Africa I love you. I love how you wear your thick hair, and strut with your thick thighs and full nectarine breasts. My eyes cannot remain still, dancing with your wide swinging hips. I get lost in the stars which shine bright in the galaxy of your eyes. My Africa you are beautiful. Draped in a ray of colours which accentuate your sexy curves. Shine your light on me and take me in your warm embrace. Your affections pour on me like a summer rain refreshing my thirsty soul. My heart is no longer a desert when you show me a drop of affection. Sun-kiss me that I may be forever sun-whipped, and let me be sun-bathed in your love. My Africa I love you. Your words are food to my soul, filled with wisdom and purpose. You have your own way of singing which captures me in every heart beat. You are the melody moving my soul in ecstacy, and your words are the records I keep on playing over and over again in my mind. I can never get tired of your voice, it gives me healing and a sense of peace. My Africa I love you. Your smile is like the break of dawn, lifting up my spirits. Your skin is like the perfectly hot rooibos tea I sip on slowly, knowing that you are good for my soul and body. You carry a big family on your head. Your messaging hands sliding on my head and neck make me forget about all my problems. You strengthen me when I’m weak, encourage me when I’m on the verge of throwing in the towel. You believe in me. I’m not afraid to fall because I know that you are there to pick me up at my lowest. My Africa I love you. Your love is real. Your love is tangible.


Seeing is not believing, but doing is! The guy who sells fruits and vegies at the street to provide for his family is believing. The poor kid who’s going to varsity on a student loan is believing. The woman who keeps on going for love after a bad record of heart-breaking relationships is believing. Some call it denial, some call it crazy and some call it ‘failure of realization’. Why are people so scared of believing?

The Power of Regret

Originally posted on Classroom as Microcosm:

I’m not one to regret things.

Of course, I make tons of stupid mistakes.  I look back at things I’ve said, letters I’ve written, men I’ve stayed with past the point of all basic sense, and thought, “Well, that was a colossal error.”

But that’s not the same as regret.  My underlying attitude, when I bother to think about it, is that in each instance, I’ve done my best with what I’ve had.  My state of mind + the external circumstances + my genetic wiring + my previous experience + the alignment of the planets + variables x, y and z = idiot behaviour.  I will try not to do it again.  Moving on.

However, in my teaching life, there are moments when I worry.  I’m dealing with young lives here, and I try to think carefully before I speak or take action, but even so, I sometimes come away…

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What Do You Do With Your Journals?

Originally posted on Live to Write - Write to Live:

Bookcover for the Unfinished Works of Elizabeth D. by Nichole BernierI just finished The Unfinished work of Elizabeth D. by Nichole Bernier. In the book, Elizabeth and Kate met through a playgroup and stayed friends even when Kate and her husband moved to Washington D.C. When Elizabeth is killed unexpectedly in a plane crash, Kate learns Elizabeth bequeathed her journals to Kate. “I’m leaving them to her because she’s fair and sensitive and would know what should be done with them and ask that she start at the beginning. I’ll come soon to drop of a letter for that should go with it.” The letter never gets dropped off.

I enjoyed the book immensely, but a review is not the intention of this post. Elizabeth’s journals are a key element of the story. Kate is overwhelmed with the task of determining their fate. As you would expect of a journal, the content is brutally honest and not always the most…

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