Dear you

“Don’t ever give up on your dreams because when you do I give up too”.

I can never forget these words. At times when I feel like giving up, and this is most of the times, I remember first the look you gave me when you said these words and secondly I reflect on these words. No words have had greater impact on my life; no person has ever been more influential in my life.

When I met you, and the day is clear and dear to me, I never for once thought that would be the day that defines my life. One morning, in Morningside “Waldorf” it begun, so much has changed in Morningside, much more has changed between us. Before you I was fleeting, impetuous and vain and after you, solid, determined and resourceful.

With you I experienced the worst of life and the best of life, in both, never once did you abandon me.

I would wake up in fits in the middle of the night, from a nightmare that scared me whole. You would first calm me down and then pray for me, in an instant the ghosts went away. I thought of you dearly in Oyster Bay, when the ghosts returned and by myself I coiled. Safe is he with a woman that prays.

I remember our long walks along “Narrow” street-right through to St Kathine’s dock, as you patiently heard every thought in my head. I was broad and rabid in all my ideas and how I formulated everything. You would indulge me, chide me and hold my hand (even though I resisted this gesture) and urge me to go on.

I read Bill and you read Hillary, we had our political argument at 3am before switching books and by breakfast we both agreed it was Hillary with the plan. I wrote on numerous treatises, and you faithfully edited my work. My thoughts then, were rumblings of a scattered head, but iron sharpens iron. Dearly, my treatises are sharper now.

We became “major”, our lives’ sound track always on repeat. Kanye and Nas spitting about the move from local to major. Each verse we revisited as if to convince each other that one day we would build our very own MOtown. You were my hommie, my buddy!

Remember our studio apartment, the match box we shared, on one side were a monastery and the other side Le bon Marche. Celestial versus decadence, and we were in the middle of all this. We could hardly afford this part of 6th, but you insisted we had to experience all that is Rue Babylon.

And Parisian you were, the first thing you bought was a pair of Jimmy Choo 6 inches. With all I had I bought you a chemise/blouse from your favourite shop for your birthday. Really, it was all the money I had but I knew how important the day meant to you- and of course the blouse. That day you lit up like a shooting star, giggled like a child and your hug said it all. In your eyes I was a Superstar!

In the same eyes, you cried tears that never ended. I would pain you deeply and all you could do was cry. I never want to open flood gates like that, ever again. I hurt you badly, betrayed your trust but even when we were apart the way you saw me never changed. I was still a Superstar. That, and only that drove me. I wanted to make you proud; it meant the world to me to see you proud of me, even though time had come for us to take different paths.

Years later, I still want to make you proud. I know you are far away from me, the furthest any two worlds can possibly be. And I wish you every bit of happiness, happiness I know is the running stream in your life. I just want to say thank you, thank you, thank you for believing in me. Don’t ever stop believing in people. Only you, do it best. I really wish you were here to see what I have become. Will you be proud of me? I wonder........

You sowed the seed and watered the plant. Perhaps we met at such a season where only I was to gain and you were to pain. I wish now, I would pain and you to gain. But such is life, life I hold on to dearly now and hope I have the endowment to bring joy to another, to inspire and truly believe!

Thank you

Confessions of a thirty-something year old

Once, as a child I fell into a pit and for a long time could not get out. It was pitiful. All along basketball was the only thing I was good at, I dithered in education, my syllables lacked the personality that language should have and I had no social sensibilities. Only in shooting hoops was I best. Until one day, playing with a rival school I was fouled out in the first two minutes. An inventive ploy to upstage my team, of course without me the team lost. In disgust, disgust shared all round, I protested and got into a fierce back and forth with the teacher from the rival school. Here, a little boy of not more than 10 argued vehemently and unearthed the ploy the adult had invented. To my dismay, my own teacher and coach took me away and gave me a spanking, right there in front of everyone.

 My crime was simple, I had disrespected an Adult. I cried, and with every tear the passion for basketball went. Like that I faded into a nobody, became a recluse and hated every teacher I came across. Not until years later during the penultimate year of high school did I enjoy my first lesson. Perhaps I had gotten tired of the self pity or indeed I had found a teacher who understood my troubled mind. I learnt, in careful observation the ways of my favourite head teacher, his wisdom interred in the nature of his tools. A chalk and a rod he made his plea to the class. In the chalk we gained, in the rod we scarred. 

In my teenage years, I was the perfect icon in a perfect fantasy, I was Batman. That is how I saw myself, a hero with a costume out to save Gotham. Teenagers are prone to such multi-personalities dabbling between the real and the ephemeral. Like Batman, I too had a side kick, my Robin was my best friend and high school was the playground. I too had an unattainable Rachel. I remember well she was the best looking creature I had ever seen. She was prone to and glad in every contest that paraded beauty. I called her dimples, on obvious account. We actually never dated but were totally enamoured with each other. We did write to each other, letters I still have all signed Dimples forever. Forever, a little over a decade later is married with kids.

In my twenties, I prickled the bubble-Batman was too much of a cartoon character perhaps apt for a teenage hero but certainly not for a young adult. Batman represents the oscillation that young boys have between the real world and the world they aspire to be in, the plays of dreams and the mundane. Unable to confront bullies, rivals and adults in their real life they create mendacious caricatures like the “Joker” whom they cannot confront but find the courage under the guise of a super human being. Only in their fantasies can they confront their fears.

The manly hero for a guy in his twenties has to perform heroic and gallant acts, must be a cross between a man’s man and a ladies’ man and a lot sterner in his cockiness than a dry martini. He must be able to save the world-indeed that is his mission, he must have a code name (nothing cooler), be accosted in fancy sophisticated gadgetry, and with no sidekicks; the answer is James Bond. My twenties were spent as James Bond, I travelled the world on the benevolence of a Boss (with all the grumpiness of M). Like James, I was good at what I did, like James I was not ready for commitment. I played the field and had dalliances with the old and young, the beautiful and bold, Caucasian, Nubian and those in-between. On occasions when I settled, I settled for the wrong ones or was blithely betrayed- just like the 007.

It is from this vantage point I see my existential childhood and decades later I try to make sense of my current existence. What is obvious about a man who is thirty-something? I turn to literature for inspiration. The ladies would like to believe it is Mr Darcy, the charming fellow from Pride and Prejudice. I wish to dissuade such minds, Darcy was only eight and twenty courting a one and twenty lass. Thus all things Darcy are twenty something- albeit with a mature hand. Ms Austen perhaps considered this age to be the age of romance and marriage, 200 years later this is very much apparent and prevalent. It is Charles Dickens who persuades profoundly in the tale of two cities; it is there we find the time capsule of a thirty something;

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope it was the winter of despair.

My teacher’s chalk and rod, and Dickens best and worst reveal my life as a thirty something. I lived in both cities, in Paris I gained all fashion and cultural sensibilities and in London I became all Libertarian. How ironic, during Dickens tale, Paris was the source of Libertarian ideals and London the bustling cultural hub.  As a Parisian my chiffon scarf laden with charms from Hérmes became my Je ne se qui as I fostered and permeated an aesthetics culture. Yet Paris’s hedonism, socialism and its entire ism’s were the epoch of my disbelief. In London I straddled the incredulity in the frontiers of finance, I watched as stock prices soured and then tumble to thud. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.

The day one turns thirty is the day all randomness ends. Of course life was never random, but somehow one was easily swayed into such a belief. The clarion shouts of “whatever will be, will be” quietening to reflective slurs of “whatever shall become of me?”  

The evolution of man is such that with each decade the best is drawn out of him and at each stance in the music of life he faces his worst fears. As a teenager he is not confident enough to face his fears or strive for what is best, the mental and the will power lack, except in his dreams. A decade later perhaps through daring acts, or as a reward to schooling accomplishment he is recruited by the MAN. The Man makes him an agent, to what ends he does not question, he does another man’s bidding.

 A decade later he recognises that no matter what he does, the seasons of life are part of existence. He cannot run away from these, he must make the best of summer and prepare for the worst of winter. Therein, the difference between the magnificent from the insignificant!

But he is still a hero nonetheless, albeit with no super human powers. At least he has the potential. The difference is the realisation that to be a hero requires neither super natural abilities nor a licence to kill. Every man has in him the ability and wherewithal to cast wide his reach and achieve. One need not have a boss; a man is his own Boss.

I find Thomas crown, as played by Steve Macqueen (in the Thomas crown affair of 1968) as the quintessential gentleman of thirty something. Thomas crown is a multi-millionaire of a rip age of 36, divorced and lives in Boston, in a 3 storey, 150 year old house with an elevator and a man servant at his call.

Mr Crown is his own man in every sense, from his business, fashion sense, opinions and all manner of discretions. As a divorced thirty something, we reveal the scars of life but inert is still the thrill of life. He outwits his contemporaries and boredom ensnares him to plot a heist. Reminding us a man is not composed of sonnets and odes of the ecclesiastical goodness, he lives with an evil side as well.

I cannot but think about the head teacher with chalk and rod who impressed upon me Victorian treatise. That besides the brunt and pitfalls of a Victorian harsh hand, there was Victorian wisdom in Dickens, Hardy, Lawrence, Austen and Bronte. The chalk I have learnt, prolongs my summers and keeps me warm in winter, the rod I suppose reminds me when at times I forget to prepare for winter, innate are the years I experience the harshest and coldest winds. I have turned out to be a gentleman of sort, and if you do not like me, well that is just too sad.

Double espresso please

"How would you like that served sir, how many sugars"? The waiter asked and paused, waiting for a reply. I paused and looked at him and did not let my frustrations show; “ no sugar please” I answered and the waiter moved on. How should a double espresso be served I thought, is there any other way of serving a double espresso? At that moment I had a premonition which became true as the events unfolded, the waiter brought my espresso in a big coffee cup.

There is a tiny café in Marrakesh that serves the best espresso ever. It was in the early hours of the morning and keen to get some sun and wear my plaid Tommy Hilfiger shorts I had bought the day before I headed for the streets of Marrakesh. Before long I had found a perfect spot at the corner of the café with a wide view of the walking traffic outside. A peculiar hobby I picked up on sometime, I reckoned if bird watching can be a sport then people watching must have superior intended benefits. I opened my vanity fair and picked on a story I had slept on the night before.

The café had the attended displays and decorations of all Moroccan splendour with a heavy savory aroma of roasted coffee beans. I knew I was in the right place. Music was playing in the background, almost drowned in the hollowness of the wooden floors but enough to have a distinct rhythm and rhyme. Like wolves howling, tearing apart the stillness of the night, the sound system  clearly playing a record vinyl crackled and howled reggae dub beat. The slow rhythmic thud and echo of every sentence heard was enough to have my heart pounce in a tizzy and in absentia nod my head in unison to the hypnotic, slurred melody. I made note of the song it was Outkast classic SpottieOttieDopalicious and momentarily stopped reading as I became engulfed in the moment.

My double espresso came, in the right little espresso mug, the handle hole not even big enough to fit my index finger. With my espresso came a complementary dark chocolate tab. I put down my magazine, sipped the very hot liquid and made a bite of my chocolate. The sound knocking on my eardrums I remained engrossed in this meandering and teasing delirium.

It was not just me in selfish delight, fellow patrons in conversations or reading the daily newspaper  like regulars were and in adulation of the establishment. I noticed two rascals with their mother feverishly poking her and demanding something, like marijuana junkies impatient for a spiff. The mother seems to abide and offers the rascals their due and in turn the kids were smugly content.  I became curious and asked the waiter if I too could have my due. Soon enough I was chewing on these succulent caramel palm dates with my second espresso and soon enough was namby pamby.

After a while I paid my dues and thought of the day ahead. It was the best way to spend the morning and vitalise before a photo shoot in Marrakesh. 

But today, far from Marrakesh I got served an espresso only in name. What I expected came to naught and instead of vitality I got agitated, ruining the rest of my day. Oh well at least I had my ipod in hand. I drew a money note from my money clip and nicely placed it on the table. Picked up my novel, stood up gently placing my ear phones in the right ear and my finger tapped play. Outkast was my only redemption.

The delightful perfume

Little by way of small joy is enjoyed in this tumulus world than the whiff and engulfment of perfume. Of all the wars, warts and all, the only war I will fight for is for the girl that smells just right. You have met her before, she stood next to you and you turned. She walked past you and immediately followed her path. Infatuated with the odours, the nostrils gapping for more and the heart in dalliance purely because of scent.

I am hay feverish, so too much and too strong will make me sneeze in disgust. Too little and too generic will make me easily forget-or remind me of my grandmother’s soap. Just right and it will be recorded in my memoirs.

Is it not a funny state of encumbrance that of all disabilities, the sense of smell is the least suffered? Yet so true indeed that it’s the least put to use. How can this state of affairs be fair? God hath blessed to perfection this singular strength as the great source for mating decision. The nose is an instrument as powerful as a doctor’s stethoscope yet it’s sparingly used. 

Not mine, I relish in being mesmerised by fragrance on a woman. It sets me off in a reverie of memories of sunset’s cruises, beach strolls on white sandy plains or picking a basket of fruits from an orchard. It reminds me of my teenage flirtations with the giggly prettiest of pretty girls on a purple Jacaranda laden street at the tail end of Spring, when the heavens opened and the first drops of wetness drenched her white blouse.

The smell of the first rains, the sight of firm breasts still defiant of gravity pressing against the blouse- almost popping out. A painter could very well put on canvass this moment, capture the hues and make still the expressions of adulation. For me, all this can be captured in a scent.

Do not confuse my musings for a hearty romantic, which is not the case. Rather it’s remembering the vigour, vitality and eagerness of youth in play with nature and fondling the weather. To encapsulate this moment in a 100ml bottle is magical.

It is not my youth that is poignantly bottled as fragrance, it is also particular sceneries. I remember my first time being in the Serengeti. Dry Savannah prairie, that stretches forever. The air is still and dry and the heat scourging. The mirage makes one dizzy and the moment like no other.  No semblance of life around, until the evening and camping under the stars, the sounds of the darkness are heightened and trepidation fills the air. Perfume, in my opinion has the same effect on a woman, serene during the day before making her vibrant for the evening.

Sometimes, a perfume or a scent can capture a period in history well. At times I wonder what the 20’s were like, or what society was like during the Victorian era. Like music I believe scents do have their periods. This is what inspired perfumes like chanel’s No 5 to capture a period in history and all that was glorious at the time. I must hasten to add that the best scents are made more of natural ingredients and its best to avoid any scent named after a celebrity. Celebrities are fleeting and so are their associated fragrances. For more, a good read is Essence and Alchemy

It’s really fascinating that perfume and the use of fragrance became a routine chore before bathing was done regularly.  Back then perfume could cover the stench from not bathing, today perfume bares all in a woman. From her sense of erotica –is she playful, intense, sensual, easy to please, mundane, does not care to her sense of well being-personality, caring, aesthetics, branding  and desires.

Given the many prospects perfume has, why is little attention paid to citrus, musky, sandalwood, woody, honey, fruity   inspirations that a wearer immediately assumes. More attention is given to fake hair and extensions, make-up (that is to literally make up something were there is deficiency) and stiletto for posture. I have my qualms with the hair and make-up and in the least stilettos but I find it redundant when a woman pays little attention to her true box of charm-perfume.  Is it not true, that after a girl is gone the only thing a guy is left with is the girl’s fragrance still enamoured on his sheets.(of course the fake hair has its fair share of count-much to the disdain of every gentleman). Indeed the fragrance is the only unforgettable thing. Quite shameful then if it’s Elizabeth Aden that I get to content with.

Years ago when nobility was still in fashion, the Nobles would bath in scented waters with scented hand made soap, scented candles and burn incense acquired from faraway travels. This ritual made it easy to distinguish the nobles as they strolled in the market place. The three kings brought gifts of luxury to the new born son of man, myrrh-fine scent oils, Frankincense- incense and Gold. We are told these were wise men. I concur. Nothing distinguishes one as they stroll along in today’s’ society than wisdom and one’s scent.

What I remember most from the girl at the parking lot coin machine in Sandton, the girl buying a Baguette along St Germaine in Paris, the girl at the airport check-in at Heathrow, the lady I sat next to at the charity dinner in Harare, is unadulterated, unflinching doses of delightfully perfect fragrance. Subtle and kind to the noise, gentle capsules of an aesthete, vivid nuances of personalities of the wearer, vibrant aroma and alluring zest.  Enchanting notes of elegance, entreating charm and the staid countenance made me remember long after the encounters.

The encounter was brief but the whiff lingered longer and brought with it all sorts of permutations in my head. Primarily why this little joy can never be enjoyed longer and shared amongst all mortals. Alas, it’s enough to keep me happy for another day.

Giving up bespoke

 I will admit that on occasion I have been known to steal away a few minutes from the crowd and clandestinely- with a hat covering my face- buy off the rack apparel. Once I came across a suit that had the details and lining to tempt me a fitting. I sneaked into the fitting room, hurriedly suited myself and looking into the mirror I did admire the fine posture and tailoring. Of course I had one or two details I was not happy about but in all sincerity the suit was wearable.

 It was a Gucci suit, brown pin striped, single button, light wool and thin lapels. I bought it, and when I arrived in my apartment I nicely cut off all Gucci insignia before taking it to my tailor for “enhancements”. My tailor was visibly distraught-but the financial crisis meant he could not turn away a customer and so agreed to the enhancement. Being curious he tried to find the label of the suit but none sufficed, he turned to me and I remained as brood as ever and did not bat an eye-lid. After sitting down and agreeing on the amendments I happily returned a week later to a well fitting suit. To ensure my tailor remained happy I ordered a shirt from him.

Bespoke ( cloth/fabric in the tailor’s shop that has already been spoken for)suit tailoring is a dying art and Savile Row remains unflinchingly dedicated to this art. We live in a world of instant gratification, instant coffee and instant Polaroid.  Instant coffee- which by the way is not coffee at all- takes roughly 7 minutes less to make than filter coffee (provided the beans have already been roasted.

If it takes time and consideration then perhaps it is not worth it the current mantra goes. This is a funny state of affairs- Ipad2 is introduced even before one has gotten around to unpacking Ipad1. Some may want to motivate the reasons for this, but I cannot understand why. Medical reports allude to life expectancy increasing and yet people can no longer wait. It is good to know I will live longer than the six week wait for a suit, but more importantly I do not suffer from buyer’s remorse a disease those people in high street suffer from.  Indeed, Instant joys are never everlasting; they fizzle out as quickly as they come.

It is easy to be dismissive of my treatise as pure snobbery or aristocratic pretensions. My reflections are of neither but stem from the very gallantry of self-made persons. My family blood, background and connections ensured no advantage in life. From a time my father passed on I have had the burden of family and personal ambition. I have worked hard, sweated blood to simply survive. Yet the more and more I continue on the journey the more I am proud of being a self-made man. In my travels I have met men who are recommended by family and political connections, men from low abode who have made it their ambition to marry into rich families or politically powerful families.

Or those already given the advantage of blood and so only seek connections with those of similar breed. Such is the playground of life, which my disposition and pride could never fathom. I had to fight purely on merit. But from this comes a self awareness of one’s personality and creed. I owe no allegiance to anyone but only to my whims and desires. Invariably, over time I have become acutely aware of those endeavours that accentuate and perpetuate who I am as an individual. Bespoke is naturally the only dressing endeavour that enhances individuality. A man is just as the wolf in sheep’s shire

While many have a heritage to keep and others a heritage to perpetuate, I consider myself the first to build a heritage. It becomes important to furnish my life with those distinct attributes future generations can find as worthy heritage reserves of knowledge, talent, will power and above all aesthetics. I imagine and model myself as the original Medici family and propagating the foundation on which the renaissance period would be etched, as the “ dazzling light to future generations of  what man can be and do”. Fashion is one aesthetic pursuit and bespoke a necessity. My collection of suits and shirts tailored as presenting a peculiar heritage shall be handed down to all my descendants as symbols of personality and art. Bespoke tailoring is the haute couture of the self-made man.

Bespoke gives me the benefit of total control over the fabric used, the colour of the suit, its structure/build and any peculiar subtle fine detail I may require.  It gives me unlimited access to a tailor whose scissors is the chisel modelling stone into sculpture. Many instances a man finds himself clothed in whatever the ignominy of high street and high labels have deemed to be in season. Everything is mass produced and manipulated to pander to the crowds. For a moment picture those hideous high collar shirts (with three collar buttons) our young men are prone to wearing these days.  If there is a revolution that we should take seriously in these times its the burning of such shirts-I am rather tolerable of Mubarak than these shirts.  . Bespoke on the other hand is truly an extension on one’s skin, an appendage to one’s personality.  It is an expression of gallantry and charm of the wearer and not borrowed adroitness.

I have invested all my savings into a business; invariably I do not have extra dollars for my fashion pursuits especially for visiting a bespoke tailor. I face the inordinate trivia of either not shopping at all, or joining the off the rack band wagon. Indeed I have given up shopping. For a while now I have not gone shopping. It makes sense to me, why should I shop and get instant gratification for something that is not real at all that builds no heritage for my house. So I have given up bespoke for the meantime while I sort out my finances.