How Almost DYING Saved My Life

Dying isn’t as painless as we hope.

Instead, it’s like floating in a deep, cool, waterless ocean. It is a sieve, and as you begin to descend, you feel the weightlessness of life begin to leave you. There’s a split second where
you’re caught in the in-between. Therein you must decide. Live or die. The pull
is extraordinarily inviting and you can taste the darkness you so desperately
crave on the tip of your tongue. It is a strange struggle to hold off, it feels
like you’re a rub away from an orgasm and it is in that moment that you choose
to snap awake.

Part 1

I’m unsure of where it started but I can remember feeling my head begin to crack open like
an egg. It was violent and terrifying and stained with red wine. It was me
crying into the phone at 2 am asking my mother to tell me it would be ok. It
was 240 characters of tweets about wanting to die sprawled across my timeline
like spiders. It was staring into lying eyes. It was about feeling angry and
sad and hopeless all at once. It was wailing until the white shook out of my
bones. It was pacing at OR Tambo International Airport. Yelling at my (then)
partner over the phone. Crying in a public bathroom that stunk of shit. More
pacing. Falling asleep on a bench at Gate A1 before my flight. Waking up.
Taking off. Drinking wine. Asking the flight attendant for a refill. Landing
with teeth shattering precision. The calm drive into Windhoek. Taking out
rotten meat from the fridge. Crying. More yelling.

A blacksmith could have used my anger to shape any sword.

I drove without headlights praying for metallic collision. I smoked cigarettes hoping
to make my heart stop sooner. I gargled 3 Alprazolam pills with wine and
crushed a Gillett Razor with the heel of my foot. I held it to my wrist and
slashed my skin open. The warm ooze of blood calmed me but not for long. I
paced and paced. Tore pages out of books. Tried watching YouTube videos. Anger
scorched my throat. Fuck life. Fuck this. I want to die. I want to die. It’s almost 4 am. Sleep.

Part 2

My relationship had been deteriorating for months. It was to the point where
trying to stay together felt a lot like beating a dead Bojack. We were two
pieces of a Lego set that didn’t quite fit. Crystal gems that couldn’t fuse.
Ironically, the idea of separating felt like trying to split one solid colour
into two. We lived together, had a dog and an ill-fitting life plan.

I woke up and sent a text to my partner’s mother;

Hi, I am not ok. I have been

consumed by thoughts of taking my
own life

I am not ok

I watched her bandage my left wrist and sit by me in guard. I felt so bad. So guilty for
rattling this old woman into taking care of me. Something was not right still. I’m not a good person. I’m not a good person.
I was unhinged.

Part 3

I packed my beloved books into brown boxes murmuring under my breath. I made sure to
make a noise, to disturb and disrupt. I wanted no peace and craved chaos. LOOK INTO MY EYES! I wanted to scream,
I AM SO HURT, PLEASE HELP ME! I WANT TO
DIE!! I WANT TO DIE!!
But my partner carried on, organized the flat, shaved
and sat down to read. I felt abandoned in all honesty, wished I were the word
documents he worked on religiously. CAN
YOU EVEN SEE ME? WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

I huffed and puffed my way into the outside room, borrowed a car and got myself two
bottles of wine and a large pizza. Perhaps there is no food in hell. Better to
go there on a full stomach. Logic.

I sat quietly, curtains drawn and began to unwrap the blue alprazolam like sweets.
One, two, three, four, five. Wine. Six? Maybe 7? If it doesn’t kill me, maybe
I’ll sleep for days. I washed down my sins with wine. Sleep.

Later, I had the dream. I’d tasted death and knowing I’d want to again, I fled into the
night. I was a ticking time bomb, the final jump that starts your period. In my
delirious state I craved the depth of darkness but flew into the light.

Part 4

I’m standing outside MediClinic, I’m shaking. I walk in.

“I am a danger to myself and those around me,” I say.

“A nurse will be with you now,” was the receptionist’s reply.

I sat through words that meant nothing to me. Gave my name, answered their questions
teary eyed.

“I just want to die,” I repeated over and over again.

Unmoving and unfeeling, my partner’s mother soon joined me in the trauma room where I
was barely being held together. Soon after, the doctor on duty strolled in.

“Ok ma’am, we’ve managed to get a hold of a psychiatrist but he is in Olympia. Can you get
there?”

I looked at my partner’s mother, “I’ll take her,” she said.

Part 5

I don’t remember much but white walls and the stench of cigarettes on the
psychiatrist’s breath. Flashes of nurse badges and the sensation of drowning. I
wasn’t a writer anymore or Masi or @SunsetPunk. I was a patient in a
psychiatric hospital, assigned a room and put to sleep.

The psychiatric ward is everything and nothing. It’s exactly what you’d expect but
different. Everyone in there with you is as fucked up or traumatized. We look forward to our meds. We follow the
schedule. We go to therapy. Rinse and repeat. Day in and day out. What is time?

On whatmust have been my third day there (I’m not sure), the doctor came to see me.

“What’s my diagnosis?” I asked.

She took a deep breath, “Major Depressive Disorder and Borderline Personality Disorder.
From your file, it seems you’ve been living with this for about 5 years.”

Good, I know what to Google once I get out of here.

“What does this mean actually?”

“You’re probably going to have to be on medication for the rest of your life. Something
traumatic must have happened in your childhood and Ms. Mbewe, we’ve also found
something else.”

“What?”

“You have a dependency on prescription drugs and alcohol. We see this a lot in patients
like you that probably have a genetic predisposition to these illnesses.”

*I’d like to pause here and stare down
my bloodline*

“So, I’m not bipolar?”

“No. We haven’t seen you manic but it’s a thin line.”

I just sat there long after she’d left. Thinking. This
explains everything.

I was put on 75mg of Venlor and 50mg of Lamotrigine.

Part 6

After 5 days, I was discharged. They gave me all my things (along with my medication)
in a transparent plastic bag. I walked down the corridor, past the seclusion
room, through the door and into the abyss of the outside world.

In some ways I feel better and worse. I really don’t know who I was these past 5 years
and I don’t know who I will become on these meds. I’ve grown used to going from
one extreme emotion to another so much so that the quietness I now find in my
head disturbs me. I know the medication wont fix everything and that I’ll have
to go to therapy every other week but somehow, I’m glad that the madness in me
finally has a name.

If you or someone you know is
experiencing a crisis, contact the Bel Espirit Mental Health Clinic’s 24/7 Helpline
at 0814550945


Advertising While Black

Colonial coldness hisses past the aging air-conditioner and loops over
my head in perfect intervals I’ve learnt to anticipate. I’m sitting in yet
another advertising agency, my third in two years, and yet again I am guzzling
back toxicity in every form it could take. From the denialist paleness of whiteness
to the bizarre binaries of heteronormativity, the advertising industry in
Africa is built on the breaking backbone of marginalized people. Anti-blackness
is a global condition, one that has stuck its slithering tentacles into every
pie and in Namibia, a country desperate to uphold its glittery promises of
post-apartheid equality, the advertising industry has become a safe haven for
white privilege to thrive unhindered.

In advertising, blackness cannot exist outside the perimeters of racist
stereotypes. Creative brainstorming sessions are littered with jarring
regurgitations of problematic ideologies that are no doubt founded on outdated perceptions.
Blackness is labelled ‘urban’ and ‘street’ and without so much as a quick
inspection of context, emerging sub-cultures and language deviations (slang)
within the black community are commodified and used to spearhead tone-deaf
campaigns that do nothing for black people except perpetuate their
dehumanization. Informal settlements are used as location sites for the
production of high-end TV ads that glamourize and normalize poverty, a problem
that affects mainly black and brown people.

Advertisements that are targeted towards black people are considered ‘Lower
LSM’ (Living Standard Measure); these brands and their ads and are often guilty
of erasing black members of the LGBTQAI+ community, as well as disabled people
in the black community.

There is no accurate representation of diversity within the black community
in the advertising industry, not even in the agencies themselves.

For the few black creatives who land jobs at these hideously white
establishments, one can predict with precision that they will earn much less
than their white colleagues regardless of their qualifications. One can also
predict that black creatives will be subjected to microaggressions on a daily
basis on an almost fungal level. Black creatives are not afforded any real
humanity or autonomy in these work spaces. For instance, when I worked as a
copywriter, I would be expected to speak on behalf of all black people and come
up with ‘urban’ and ‘funky’ ways of saying basic things that really didn’t need
to be overtly peppered with blackness. I began to protest these suggestions and
maintain that retaining sensitivity to other people’s cultures would help us
find innovative ways to create brilliant ads that did not rely so heavily on
bigotry. This never went down well with the white creative heads that felt like
they were entitled to pick and choose what aspect of black African life they would
sell to consumers that day.

Being socially conscious and aware of the blatant inequalities and
gross power dynamics in advertising didn’t make for an easy or mentally
inspiring work environment. If anything, the constant reopening of racially
traumatic wounds nearly broke me. Whiteness washed over my blackness like
bleach. It ruined my hair, stained my clothes and smarted my skin into an empty
ivory shell. It is only in this way that I could exist in the advertising
industry as a queer black womxn…a washed out stoic version of myself that
existed only to pander to the detached insights of rich white people soaked in
the remnants of apartheid and white supremacy.

Living in Namibia, a country where the majority of people are black and
POC, one would imagine that white people living in Africa would be more sensitive
and aware of the needs of the people around them. In many ways, colonialism,
white supremacy and white privilege has allowed the exclusion of black people,
black women, black LGBTQAI+ and disabled black people from the advertising
industry. With black people often lacking social and financial capital, it is
difficult to analyze if true diversity will ever be accomplished in advertising
if black people and POC are not put in key positions that enable and empower
them to take over the narrative. But I’m not really holding my breath for the
day white people willingly dismantle their privilege and allow blackness an
equal creative platform.

Instead, in light of black exploitation, black erasure and caricatures
of an alleged black monolithic experience in the exclusively white advertising
industry, we (as black creatives) have alternatives. Rather than bake in the
rays of colonial splinters, we can undertake roles as the raconteurs of our stories
in creative and exclusive ways. Doing work for black owned brands that might be
struggling to penetrate a wider audience is always a great start. Conceptual
thinking, innovative design and brand marketing by extremely talented creatives
of color could catapult small brands into multi-million-dollar companies. This
act of radical selection when it comes to how we utilize our talents, and for
whom, could be a game changer. Black clientele pushing products for black
people could help us establish our own sphere of advertising that could
successfully dislodge itself from the cesspool of toxic whiteness.

Let’s begin to speak to other black people through our work in the advertising
industry – instead of at them - understanding that not everything about the
things that make up our culture needs to be commodified and sold, we are after
all, human. In a dizzy day dream under a baobab tree, I hope for a thoroughly
decolonized art and creative industry in Africa (and the world), one where
being black means more than just filling out a diversity quota.


Stop Book Shaming Me


Reading and writing will always be there for me…long after the thick shaft of dick has left my body…


I started stealing books right around the time I learnt how to decode the
odd shapes and skew ink blots of the alphabet in the thin books my
mother used to read to me. It felt good; shoving books into my bag while
all the other kids played in the dirt at break time. While they got
yelled at for coming home covered head to toe in the grounded diamond
dust of the soil in Gaborone, I was on my borrowed throne reading about
the Kariba Dam, fish that could twist their tongues into hurtful lies
and rich white children in the suburbs and their dog Rex.


But as I begin to shed young adulthood off like a pair of skinny jeans and
approach my thirties, it is time to admit that I might have a problem. I
don’t steal books anymore – not since my mother caught me red-handed,
but I do hoard them. Given the choice between life and death, I’d choose
to read a book about it instead.


These hoarded paperbacks come with a price…and I am broke.


There’s a sick thrill I get from being in a bookstore while I’m close to
bankruptcy. I throw away my whole livelihood for books like I’m throwing
cishet men in the trash, with precision. So, when I announce my new
purchases and I hear ‘Don’t you have enough books already?’ something in
the back of my skull cracks and out of that fracture, a warm-blooded
book bitch is born and I yell out in defense;

“What does ‘enough books’ even mean?”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t read?”

“Aren’t books an investment?”

“Stop book shaming me!”

In any case, I get where all this worry is coming from because I am guilty
of abandoning books the moment I walk out of the bookstore. I just sort
of…leave them.

But here are a couple of titles I am
excited to get to this year and yes, some I’ve had for years and some
I’ve had for mere hours.


My 2018 Reads

Ghana Must Go – Taiye Selasi

Period Pain – Kopano Matlwa

Swing Time – Zadie Smith

Welcome to Lagos – Chibundu Onuzo

The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl – Issa Rae

Zoo City – Lauren Beukes

The House of Hunger – Dambudzo Marechera

Every Day Is for The Thief – Teju Cole

Reflecting Rogue: Inside The Mind of a Feminist – Pumla Dineo Gqola


Light slices through the thin gaps in my curtain. It’s 4:48PM and my toes are
still uncurling themselves from a back-breaking orgasm. I wonder what
would complete this moment and I look at the thick white pages of the
book sitting on my bedside counter
.

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