Chocolate or Vanilla … Who Cares?

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Grand melodies + gorgeous silky textures – noisy, one-track minded and beer slinging friends x a dependable aroma = a smart original setup designed by a committed man in loving memory of St Valentines. Just checking if the wine is properly chilled and the salad is all right. Just then, a cab pulls up outside my house and it’s time for me to switch into the next mode … exceptionally playful yet reverently experimental, hell, yeah, I’ve got to take this art form as seriously as a real Mack daddy. Outside, a mesmerising, breathtaking view far beyond categorisation drops out of the car and slowly hovers with distinctive elegance and a dramatic swing towards the house. It’s her, it’s Jane Doe. Now that’s one name that really has a nice ring to it. I mean, it simply unleashes a commendable dose of vigour all through my body, just like that. Jane is not the average I-charmed-her-last-night-so-brought-her-home girl. No, she is one classy woman and as classy as she is, she doesn’t complain about my trashy ways either. Like, the fact that I’ve been church-mouse broke for up to 95 percent of the times we went out doesn’t faze her at all; and even if I had a prison record, she would still be there, I think. But there’s only one problem though. Jane Doe is white and I’m black. Now don’t get me wrong, because as much as I love my “chocolaaaat” I love my vanilla even better and would trade a million things to maintain my constant supply. However, my grandfather is off to bed just before I embark upon the second line. Well I can’t blame the ol’ timer…dude was there when Jane Doe’s great grandfather, one troublesome Louis Von Trotha paid them a “courtesy” call, but that’s ancient history man, why should it prevent me from getting some. As for grandmother, sending her to bed is another easy exercise as well – she hears the name Nicola, the Damara-Nama colleague I brought home to dinner once, and she reminds me of how Omo used all his overtime earnings on the game called Windscreen Swapping before giving me a very sympathetic look and disappearing into her room. Now, you tell me who a brother can get down with, oh yes what about Kgomotsego the Motswana girl? She’s beautiful, she’s educated and she’s been blessed with that African booty, but my sister won’t hear any of that. Juju, Juju is all I’m hearing – somebody’s got to press the mute button. But wait, I’ve got them all figured out. See my dad is mos the head of the house and I’ve overheard him talking to his Oshiwambo-speaking friends about Owambos and Hereros being one tribe blah blah blah. That reminds me of Ndahafa, the Kwanyama girl from Ohangwena. Perfect, I’m a genius cause now I’ll get the chairman on my side and he’s gonna use his voting powers to my advantage. I ask my dad for the car keys to go see her and he thinks it’s a big joke. “Dad who should I go for, I need a woman,” I ask. “You’ve got a lot of Tjiramwes (cousins),” he replies. “But dad my cousins are also my brother’s cousins,” I retort. “Son, sharing is caring, it’s tradition.” That’s it – enough is enough, it’s all about me. I called my Jane Doe and there she is walking towards me. The house is all set and something in her eyes tells me it’s going to be a long night. What I’m trying to say is that you should get out of that box you put yourself into, whether it’s religion, race or class, you’ll be surprised what you’ll find. Jane Doe is in my arms right now and I’ve got to go, its all because I wasn’t even thinking out of the box, it was better than that. I realized that there is no box. Honey is just honey – you can’t take the sweetness out of a sweet thing and if you agree with me … Say Eewa!