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Dear blog,

It’s been a couple of weeks since my last confession, and these are my sins….

Now if you’re Catholic, you know that sounds like the confession thing you say to your priest before you actually confess your sins. I never did get that: confessing your sins to a man when you already have direct access to the Main Man. I was brought up Catholic but in all my time as one I only managed two confessions: one before my 1st Holy Communion and another before my Confirmation. And both were under duress. But I should probably confess that I am currently obsessed with a bit of a bad manners song. It’s called Quickie, by Miguel. You should listen to it and if you don’t like it, I judge you!

Didn’t think I was going to start my blog like that but I just had dinner with a guy who was wearing a rosary ring, and I happened to look at him while he prayed over his food. I forgot to pray for mine, but Lord knows I thank him for every morsel I get to eat because there are so many out there who don’t appreciate food.

Anyway, I’m in Cape Town. The weather is shit. I don’t do well in the cold. I usually ask for water at room temperature. Their version of room temperature is my version of ice water. Now I have an irritated throat and I’m wondering whether I’ll have to resort to drinking copious amounts of hot tea to get back to normal.

But the V&A Waterfront is beautiful. There are old fishing boats and spanking new yachts. Never seen real live yachts before so I must be in some rich people neighbourhood. Also, there are very many white people. With blonde hair. And Justin Bieber is staying in the hotel five minutes’ walk from mine. I hear he has a show here on Sunday. Little white girls are going crazy over this boy who looks just like them. Older white men are going crazy trying to understand what it is about the boy that makes their girls act like that. Older white men, we’re in the same boat. I don’t get it either. Maybe it’s because I’m black.

Yesterday there was a Bon Jovi concert near my hotel as well. We got into town and saw swarms of white folk walking home after the concert. Who has a concert on a Tuesday night? Don’t these people work?!

My first day here has been a battle of whether or not to eat dessert. I believe the full length mirror in my room is trying to tell me not to. It’s positioned in such a way that the lighting hits the cellulite just so there’s no way to avoid it. I look fatter in that mirror. But the saddest bit about that is not the fact that I could lose a few kilos and be a bit happier: it’s that the Wi-Fi in my room is so bloody expensive I can’t afford to go online and look at un-retouched pictures of skinny celebrities to comfort myself. Even my data is off because it costs me like five bob per minute. i can’t.

Oh well, I guess that doesn’t matter because I’m obviously not too fat or boring to make friends. My new buddy is a Nigerian man called Agbo. Agbo is tall and he strikes me as timid. He’s also older, and a proper gentleman. He said he liked me, and proceeded to throw in a ‘thank God’ when I admitted to not being married. I laughed politely, and proceeded to throw in a story making sure to mention my Mr. Nice Guy. He showed me a picture of his little boy. His wife passed away during child birth. They had only been together 10 months. He’s taken quite a number of pictures of me. I hope they are only for memories and not other things I’ve heard people do with pictures.

Then there’s Vakalisa, the Head Butler at my hotel. Gay as a peacock! But I could hang out with him. The boy has confidence for days! Even the gigantic zit on his chin can’t steal his shine. He’s so flamboyant it seems to shock the other hotel staff. Vakalisa doesn’t seem to subscribe to the cold efficiency manner that every other staff member here subscribes to. He’s warm. He has life. He’s also the proper queen. He doesn’t see anything wrong with bursting into “I kissed a girl and I liked it.” He doesn’t even seem to notice the irony in a gay man singing that song. He wants to come and party in Nairobi. I gave him my card and told him to look me up whenever he’s in town. He probably won’t. Or maybe he will. Who knows?

I must go out while I’m here. Vakalisa says I should go to Cubana. My sister also says the same thing. She better be right because she’s taking me there, where the real life in Cape Town is.

Dozing off now and my last thought is of the fishing boat I saw on Wednesday afternoon christened Ouma. A white man was waving from the deck. Wonder whether his name is Ouma. Or what inspired the owner of the boat to name it that. Kenyans are international baby! (Proof, the served Eldoville cheese on the SAA flight from Nairobi to Jo’burg. #Kenyawins)

Till later, XO!

P.S. I think Dr. Bitange Ndemo needs to come here and sort out their internet situation. I cannot pay 300 bob to access their Wi-Fi for 30 minutes. Cape Town robbery is what it is, and I refuse to be robbed! So you’re probably reading this much later than it was written J

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