Hafeni Muzanima is sort of a wanderlust on an artist map. When the mildly eccentric pitchfork isn’t drooling creative ideas into a bucket of collective genius, he spends most of his time writing and erasing, writing and erasing and then writing words, once more, to elaborate perfection. In the comatose dark, you will find him fiddling with life questions and when he’s had enough of it, he will eagerly drop his thickset worries into a bottomless pit of “don’t worry. Be happy!” Valiantly fabulous, Hafeni seamlessly draws parallels between his time writing atypical poems and copy for ad agency, Adforce Leo Burnett Namibia, and congregating with his power ladies over a good wine.


thehopeandthedream asked
i love you.

Thank you dear. I love you too.

If there ever was a perfect time for a naughty cuddle; the naughty cuddle should’ve been now.

#Brisk #Cuddleneeds #Thirst

Metaphorically speaking
his black dick is so big
when it stands up erect
it silences
the sound of his voice.
it obscures his view
of the territory, his history,
the cosmology of his identity
is rendered invisible.

When his big black dick
is not erect
it drags behind him,
a heavy, obtuse thing,
his balls and chains
clattering, making
so much noise
I cannot hear him
even if I want to listen.

essex hemphill, black machismo. (via black-poetry)

I have to hand it to you kid. Most people come to Paris to fall in love…you came and got slapped.

Big (via whatwouldcarriesay)

Queer in the City: Living the life of a twenty-something year old gay Windhoeker

He eagerly opens his high-walled fence from which you’ve been awaiting his kind eyes, greets you with a ‘peksoen’ on your forehead and involuntarily gestures towards his apartment door. Of course, there is broiling steam coming from the both of you, which you – narrowly – remind yourself of the first time the two of you had your first secret reunion. Of course there is that awkward exchange of inane details of how your day had gone meeting his day at the tip of his daily business dealings (as is with every busy and self-assuring business man). You will watch a film of grey’s tale and a scene will splatter onto the screen like mundane soft light exceeding blazing red spots allover your bodies and that will cause lips to lock in fiery passion.

That is how it went with “Hunter.” I call him hunter because when I’m with him, a surging will for protection and providence will overcome him and he’ll always inquire: “Do you need anything?” Hunter and I are engrossed in a sexual affair that will seem to end by the end of tonight. He won’t be caught dead (or alive) admitting he loves my tight ass over his young bride’s firm buttocks which, then again, makes me wonder how I ended up on the secret list of his life; being kept a secret – in his bedroom, where we’ve, at this point, shared more exhilaration than what he and his bride have in the last two years of our being together. But tonight, the plan is to let him go. I had promised myself that I would only commit myself to men who are openly gay.

And tonight I seem to be bringing it up again and he is annoyed. He suggests that we continue to watch the film again and I – bored out of my mind – decide to head out for a smoke. In that moment I think of my ex-boyfriend. A divorced man who had wanted to me to move in with me and offer me an extravagant life, because he could afford it. I mean, he was going through a great financial loss based on the wrong decisions that he had made at the time of his divorce, but had assets wrapped in wealth. Probably, even more than what Hunter has in this, sickly, moment. I thought of how I could’ve been happier sneaking around with him like two stray dogs and living like house-kept yellow canneries when we got to his house – he owned a house.

I shifted back indoors. The lights were off and I felt my way back into his arms – he, Hunter, had the most glorious arms I’ve ever been in. They felt safe and sturdy; almost an assemblage of excerpts from Cosmopolitan and Men’s Health magazines. I used to page through those when I was much younger. He then kissed me once more, hoping that I had forgotten what we were talking about. Maybe I had, or I was trying to. I had come to end things between us and instead, found myself in a compromise, all insulated and corpsed within sexual heat. We were now lying in embrace as we listened to Jim Parsons raving his madness in the Big Bang Theory. He loved that show, Hunter.

I stood up and began putting my clothes back on before he inquired where I “thought” I was off to. I ignored him, pissed off with regret. He then offered me a drive home which I didn’t decline for I knew that, somehow, I had started something; that this was just the beginning. I was now going home, but in my head, I knew that I was leaving behind a room filled with crippling (maybe, even, enabling) thoughts. He was going to hunt those dangerous thoughts - alone. And the next day, he would need me even more and I will have him hunt me down, until he hands me what my soul terribly yearns.

If you’re sexually active, it’s inevitable that you’ll rack up a certain number of partners. But how many men is too many men? Are we simply romantically challenged…or are we sluts?

Carrie Bradshaw (via whatwouldcarriesay)

Too often, “forgive and forget” means “pretend it didn’t happen”

Toxic parents: overcoming their hurtful legacy and reclaiming your life - Susan Forward (via wahidstuff)