I buried the last one who was here, who sounded like you, in my backyard. He didn’t stand a chance. I punished him for not being absent. He dismantled me. And, the deep unconditional love I never reciprocated is embedded in me as lifetime guilt.
Look, I haven't walked through the doors of a hair salon since 2008 when I asked Alfonso, my hairstylist (and by hairstylist, I actually mean the dude from Limpopo who just built a mkhukhu in his yard and decided he'll do people's hair). Also, I use the word door very loosely because Noxolo does her thing on the side of the road. You know how it is in the concentration camps mos.