i’m a bitch. i am the bitch. feel free to call me that so you don’t do it behind my back, join the mob. that’s what people call me. i don’t care much for labels. happy is happy because someone told you happy is happy. so bitch it is. i wear it proudly. “it’s not your fault i’m a bitch, i’m a monster. yes, i’m a beast and i feast when i conquer…”[1]

            i have a love and hate relationship with the words gold digger. i love its simplicity. i hate it for how it’s misused. how is it that the people who call others gold diggers have no gold to be dug? this is completely irrelevant but did you know there is so much gold in the ocean’s bed. it lays there undiscovered. and only five percent of the ocean has been discovered. think. i surge where few dare. i’m a gold digger. 

            i sit at the high chair in my rented apartment which smells stale and dusty. the windows haven’t been opened for some time. i have no help and it’s been a long while since i have been home. i live in hotels, a number of them, for whatever length of time. it depends where my johns call me and the thread count on the sheets once i get there. of course i’m not looking for moroccan cotton but if i laid in them i wouldn’t mind. i’ve been to johannesburg, but that’s over and done with. durban is where it is. there is something about waking up to the ocean in view watching as the water runs from itself. i laugh.

           i am not running from myself. i’ve been discovered. i’m not doing this for anyone else but me. i wish not to indulge this thought any further. i get up to shower, a long one at that. i missed my house. i play the radio, old classics. my thought train comes. i wish not to ride it. it’s a coal train, makes more noise, takes more effort and is quite a heavy thing. i have no luggage and i have no destination to go to. i get up. my body is sore, all ends and all angles. some things are not worth the thought. imagine all that memory being taken up. there’s only one thing to cure all these impending thoughts, lobotomy.

            i set out to the kitchen hidden from the sitting room. it pains me to walk. i prefer open plan houses. i understand i live in the wrong end of the world. i take a shot of okchai, triple distilled, a clear blank of strength. a lobotomy is performed by drilling through the skull and pouring absolute alcohol into the brain of a psychological patient to alter their behaviour. i, in this case, am the patient. vodka (okchai) is made of pure ethanol and water… bottoms up, lobotomised.

           it goes down smooth, burning everything in its path. set me alight baby, set me alight and make me forget. harare has me tired but he pays so well. i don’t sell. i engage. there are too many taboos to sex and sexual parts. someone said saying ‘let’s have sex,’ is dirty, but they have sex, i think as i take another shot. i’ve lost so many friends because of “my thinking.” someone once told me:

“nobody wants to marry a used up woman.”

“used up? no. used up is the condoms we use, used up means never to be used again.” i laughed and walked away. i lost the last of a “friend” then. people do not understand semantics not one bit. the nerve of her to insinuate that i am used up. i awfully do not understand where she was coming from because too many distillations of okchai threatens the blend but it’ll clap you good still.

           either way, the assumption that all women want to be barefoot and pregnant should die. those aren’t accomplishments. you can’t even take it to the bank. i muse. besides, dear women, i occasion your husbands. i doubt i am missing much. i run into your children and they too are, how can i say this, rotten.

        i return to the sitting room to listen to the music and watch the dark television that has always failed to capture my attention long enough. it was a gift. fnb got it for me.

“take, i got you this.”

“take, i don’t want it.”


“people give gifts of televisions for when they cannot be around.” i took it. who needs him?

silly, silly man. he got it as a gift at his work place and gave it to me on the very same day – straight from work so madam wouldn’t know.

       it is dark out and quiet. the music is clumped by the four walls and reverberates fine and smooth into my ears. i become the music at every inch. the notes of the songs are carried by my skin right down to the engraving on my skin that has now healed. the tattoo is a french word, puissance, meaning power. you should have seen me when i read a quote about love and power: when you want to have power just know it’s meant for ill intensions because love alone is enough. i want power, still. love has far too many impurities. yes vodka has impurities but they are so fine and they do not disturb the palate. love’s impurities are fatal, for instance, blind trust. how many people have been infected because they “trusted their partners – blindly”?

            you must be wondering if i have been hurt before. i have, who hasn’t? i’ve hurt before too. so that cycle in my life is a complete balance and has no way influenced my endeavours. by now you’re probably thinking i have a deep psychological problem. let me be the one to tell you, i have none. besides if i do, i lobotomise myself far often than necessary. what the hell is psychology for but to point out problems that can’t be solved? imagine a firefighter that goes around town pointing at burning houses and doing nothing more. human beings are problem solvers. is it too hot? invent an umbrella or an air conditioner or a swimming pool. i will not indulge any more in psychology; we’d need to drain all the sea waters before we got to the end.

           my phone rings. speak of the devil, it’s fnb. i’m in no mood for an apple tonight. i have a thing for sampling things. i am not like most batswana who taste food with sight. what’s that… it looks disgusting… what is it made of… uncooked fish… i will have none of that. i have sampled this man and he is not manna from heaven. as a rule of the trade i don’t stay long with my johns. i have a resting period, to make them crave some more, to build a demand. prostitutes serve an illusion and i am magic baby. say it slowly, it’s more believable that way. i let the phone ring and when it’s done i block him, temporarily of course. it’s better than telling him i can’t meet him tonight because another has worked all my ends. oh harare, you are something else. i think and blush at the same time.

           there is something about a man that a woman needs to know. they hate enough. they absolutely and most certainly abhor enough because enough brings comfort. a man was built to hunt, run… did you know boreal owls are usually monogamous until there’s plenty to eat? when there’s plenty to eat there isn’t a need to hunt thus time is a sweet soft melody coaxing a cobra: patient, kind and giving. there is, consequently, more time for promiscuity and promiscuous they become…

           the night is getting heavier and the concoction i have in hand is taking a kick at me. i change my music to an upbeat melody. i don’t dance. it’s soulful house. i think and everything is a beauty. my body isn’t as sore anymore. i remember harare memories in blots. bloody hell, i should have been european with a boyfriend called fuego since i love things that burn and ignite a certain sensation. if we were at war i’d be in charge of lighting all the dynamites and explosives. i laugh.

           prostitute? i am i am not. depends on who’s asking, depends on if you want an illusion or not. other than that i am just an ordinary girl in her twenties. my nails are done right, stiletto tips. my eyebrows are well drawn and curving down at the edges hence giving shape to my face. i apply little make-up and i’m petite, portable, the right size for any man. on most days i wear weaves that cost more than my rent. money is a perennial river. i forgot to tell you about my eyes. they are small and enticing. they possess a certain crystal—a secret you’d want to know.

           what? i use my feminine wilds so i am a bitch, i am a prostitute, and i am a whore? absolutely not true. i use my mind. do you know the mind games i play and the illusions i portray, not even my grotto has power like that. those who make it all about the pussy get left behind. no one likes an easy chase, a one trick clown. and most wives and (long term) girlfriends are an easy chase, a one trick clown. it’s always about the same pussy cat. seeing the same old damned cat in your garden every day is a bad omen. no one wants to be cursed. or isn’t it true? it’s a human flaw hence nature has put me here to service a need. you’re welcome.

             i use my mother-fucking mind, my pussy is collateral damage. say it slowly, it’s more believable that way. it’s getting late. i take one last shot and head for bed with one thought in mind. i laugh at the idea of pussy power that people adorn the vagina with. oh they bow down to it don’t they? if that’s how you want to see it, go ahead, by all means please … mine is collateral damage. this life is a war. sometimes it is necessary to take prisoners. they make for powerful weapons. love, your purse…


[1] Nicki Minaj Save me