For some reason, SA Fashion Week won't let me flourish like the faux-bleu eyebrow sporting, based god of turnt down I, oh, so want to be.
Last year, I couldn't find an outfit, was running thirty minutes late and rolled up to the Crowne Plaza Rosebank, trying to pretend that my sweatpants-crop-top-and-platforms combination was a conscious sartorial decision and not a time pressed choice heavily influenced by my dad shouting at me to move it (my African Time oriented ass) or lose it (my ride). And then halfway to Rosebank, I realised I hadn't collected my ticket and not a single Checkers/Shoprite in the entire country seemed to be open.
To top it off, that was the moment my deoderant decided to find itself away from my armpits as it usually does whenever I'm incredibly stressed.
I blamed the bad mojo on my over-enthusiasm and lack of foresight so this year I had deep thinks all this week about what I would wear, what I would do, who I wanted to meet and which shows I wanted to see. Not that this mattered, of course, because (what might soon be) the curse of SAFW struck again and I got home from school at five o'clock and bullshitted my way through an outfit choice and tried to compensate with blue eyebrows and frilly socks.
This time, however, I did remember to get my tickets printed only to arrive to the Crowne Plaza to find that all the shows had been delayed due to the Armageddon dust storm forming from Hell (well, Bloomfontein - same thing though). I dabbled in optimism, however, and thought of the extra time as a chance to socialise, take pretty photos and have a fabulous night. My 2% iPhone battery and almost full SD card, however, were not on the same page. To top it all of, all the shows had been cancelled and moved to Sunday night.
That just goes to show - foresight, planning and organisation mean nothing in the real world, kids. Also, if you skip your 11:11 wishes for a whole week, it will come back to bite you.
My lace crop top - which ended up appearing a lot more see-through than I had thought - is from H&M, my 'Baddie K' necklace from Accessorize, my skirt from Mr Price, socks from C&A and Mr Price and studded creepers from a little shoe store in Osmonbey, Istanbul that I think is closing down soon (it's also the spot I got my blue suede creepers last year).
The real MVP, Foyin, doing her thing as media and grabbing some cool street style. She's been on a really great wave of progress and success which has been so lovely to observe. Khensani, my woman-crush everyday and namesake, from Oh Kenzo, was also there but my SD card and had-it-up-to-here-ness was already full by the time she arrive.
I also met these lovely babes right before my camera bailed on me and they reminded me so much of myself and my girls last year at Fashion Week. Especially the wary enthusiasm they approached everything and everyone with. My heart grew bigger than the Grinch's when I asked them about what they did, as in school and stuff, and they both side-eyed, considering whether to pretend they were in university or admit they were in high school. They were a lot smarter than I was last year in that they told the truth.
And now to drift into school tomorrow morning with some tinted reading glasses and a cup of green tea, pretending to have had a wild, wild night of hemlines and sparkling flutes. Hopefully the spirits grant me some mercy tomorrow night when I tackle Rosebank again for Day 3 of SAFW.
Not too long ago, The Girl, Zipho, did a beautiful photo set with Cape Town photographer Sipho Mpongo and I've been itching to not only work with someone as talented as that but also make cool artist friends like that. Somehow Zipho sensed my feverant scratching and reached out to me on Facebook and not only was I going to meet and make cool artist friends like Sipho but I was going meet Sipho!
As is the great tradition of cool artist people, Sipho is currently in the middle of completing a really inspired project: Twenty Journey. Working with two other photographers, Wikus De Wet and Sean Metelerkamp, they're travelling all over the country, documenting 2014 South Africa - arguably its most exciting time what with this year marking 20 years of (perhaps clumsy) democracy, the death of Nelson Mandela and the presidential elections. (read more about it here).
Also, it came to my attention that my blog turned two on the second so I made some gifs of all the outfits I've paraded in 2012 through 2013. Going through my old posts made me want to shrink into fetal position and question why, whyyyy was I ever like that but at the same time I'm quite happy with how much and grown and changed since I first began this here internet space.
I'm developing a slight obsession with taking my camera along whenever my friends invite me outside. I've always obsessed over how beautiful my friends are and how I've wanted to capture then Teenage Gaze style à la Petra Collins but this nagging voice behind my left ear always insists that no one wants to have their good time stalled by my Canon refusing to focus.
To hell with that nagging voice. I'm going to take after my two favourite Toxic Youth photographers, Moises Arias and Petra Collins, and capture all these moments that would otherwise be poorly immortalised in my moleskins.
So these are my pretty friends, and me praising some ribs, on this wonderful public holiday, Heritage Day, where we joked about Trisha and had real talk about Mike Brown and the misrepresentation of not only women but black women on television.
Every time I've gone out with my friends, I've always noticed all these really beautiful aesthetically cohesive moments and wished I'd had the strength to carry my camera around all the time. Things like the way pink, red and purple lights fall of everyone's faces, girls with giant hair shouting the words to Ashanti and Ja Rule's Always On Time and overdressed Joburg stylistas pigging out on McDonald's or Burger King.
This is Kelicia running away because a creepy old man was watching me take photos of her and Kate and not having the most kosher of things to say at that.
"Khensani, you look so mad." "This is the only face I have!"
All the people working at the gas station took the time out of their busy 19h45 schedule to watch us take photos of each other. It was so incredibly uncomfortable.
Kelicia making arrangements for the night.
"MY ANACONDA DON'T want none of this car any longer, on the real though.""
If you grew up on as much American pop culture as I did as a child, devouring hours of 90210, Clueless and Mean Girls like they were your last meal, attempting to replicate the sway of a Dion walk or a classic Regina George eye-roll, then you've probably spent your final years of primary/elementary/whatever-you-did-before-your-life-became-real dreaming about attending the quintessential house party.
The kind where you wore enough over-saturated lipgloss to flood your tub and a swishy, A-line miniskirt with a million belts draped around your hips and an assortment of body glitter and jewels around your navel (it was the 2000s guys).
The kind where you have collected a pretty, but not too pretty, gang of giggley girls who've assured you that the boy from your English class is "totally into you" and that "tonight [was] the night to finally make your move".*
The kind where you drank beer from red cups and found the magical ability to sway rhythmically to late '90s R'n'B music like an unrealistic 2004 music video. All while you've lied to your parents about the amount of boys present and whether they actually had met the 'girl' throwing the party.
I'd entered high school imagining house parties as the upper echelon of the teenage experience. The frequent attendance to these parties not only meant that you were a somebody, a somebody in with the right people, a somebody people love to meet but that you were going to grow old with a content smile on your face because you've lived.
This was where you were made and/or broken, right?
Well, let's just say that reality turned out a lot different. For some parts better, most parts worse. For one, copious amounts of lip gloss and redundant belts were no longer a thing but they were also replaced by coloured skinny jeans and ill-applied eyeliner.
AndR'n'B seemed to die the moment I hit puberty. With the death of Juicy velour tracksuits and Kimore Lee Simmons ghetto fab gold leggings and Gucci shades, also came the end of the era of the Mariah Careys, Marios, Sisqos, R.Kellys and Sades that had brought so much joy.
What I instead found where hormone fueled, energy spike gatherings of kids I knew and kids I kinda knew and kids I would later wish I had never known, that hung around territorially, clutching white paper cups to their chests, hating whatever music was playing, laughing about absolute nothings on trampolines and couches, hosting loud debates about things they would not care about in ten days, saying and doing the nastiest things to or with each other all so that they could say they were there Saturday night and make it seem a lot greater than it actually was to the kids smart enought not to attend.
I tried to remain optimisitc in my earlier years, I really did. Believe me, I searched high and low but what I've come to realise is that all house parties all play out the exact same way.
So, in order to save you time, energy and lies that you could use on your parents when they're actually necessary, I've compiled the House Party Formula. This is a scientifically, fact driven equation and hypothesis that is totally reputable and will work out everytime**.
The House Party Formula:
A drunk white girl will get into an argument with either her 'best friend' or boy she likes and she will kill the mood of every room. Stay away from her. Unless you are her then fix your life, girlfriend.
Someone will try to coax you into a dark corner. This can either be a bad or a good thing. Your choice.
There will always be one SOB who wants to play the genre of music you hate the most and he will make a big deal of crying bloody murder at the flow of pop or EDM playing. He also never dances or feels feelings inside. Pay no attention to him.
People will feel the need to display either their breasts or genitals. Either through body shots or peeing outside like an animal.
Someone will puke and/or pass out. You will most likely be present for this, if not the offender, and you will have to ask someone how to get the stain out of your brand new boots.
One kid will have been the white girl wasted novice who has never been let out before or hardly gets let out. This kid will lose his/her respective shit and make you question your life.
One of your friends will be a mess and you will make fun of her for it for the rest of her life or until you do something equally or even more stupid.
Those two guys you know from some or other sports will get into a physical fight that will not only destroy the mood of the whole party but signal everyone's departure.
The police will arrive. Or the host's parents. Or worse: the nosy parents of the wild child who never goes out who will make it his/her duty to call everyone else's parents because their little Johnny or Susy cannot suffer alone.
While this formula works out 99% of the time, do not let it keep you from repeatedly looking for Daisy's green light across the lake at every party. I don't.
*Do not let the fact that I had attended a single sex school for the first half of my high school life dissuade you from the credibility of my statements. **Oh my god, no. This is all based on my own experiences and a few episodes of CW and ABC television.
I wore this two weeks ago, after a painful adjustment back to South Africa and old unroutinely routine, to see the University of Johannesburg's production of Emotional Creature written by Eve Ensler. It was beautiful for the most part and I cried three times.
I also decided I want to wear a lot more monochrome, turbans and hang out in youth filled, artsy places like Melville and Braamfontein.
Everything I'm wearing is old except for the MAC Ruby Woo lipstick. I bought it at the Schipol Airport in Amsterdam after feeling a wave of nolstagia and longing for a city I'd have to say goodbye to. It didn't help the feels but it is matte so all woes consoled.