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I’ve learnt to praise you for who you are.                                                                                   To love you in all seasons, for love is not a feeling.                                                             Lord, you taught me how to feel, to be vulnerable.
I’ve learnt to kneel in your Holy presence.

I’ve learnt that all things are a gift, even this very breath.                                                         I’ve learnt to love you earnestly, to trust you honestly and to fully depend on you.                 I’ve learnt to laugh out loud, to let you shape me, to care, to share and my cross to bear.
Make me a drink offering oh Lord, I’m willing to let you pour me out.
Only you can take a heart of stone and make it flesh.                                                       Make a righteous man out of a sinner.
So here I am, vulnerable before your throne of grace. Pleading, Lord make me like Christ.

Help me love you with my entirety.                                                                                           That my very existence will be of service to you.                                                                 Help me worship you with my everything,                                                                             then @ your cross to base my everything.



I still get wildly enthusiastic about little things…                                                     I play with leaves.I skip down the street and run against the wind.                                                                                                                      Leo  Buscaglia.



Palms, engraved with years of slavery.
Blood sweat and tears carried through my palm lines.                                                           Telling tales not of fairy tales but of struggles.                                                                         Of poverty. Of pride. Of guilt. Of a fatherless child.                                                                 These hands,they carry history.                                                                                       Generational turmoils.                                                                                                               They carry proud Xhosa roots. Ezama qhawe nama qhawekazi awayedibanisa amathe nenyembezi so they could pass forward the names they bore so proudly.                       Ndizokwazi ukuziqhenya ndithi ndisisizukulwana saMaMvulane,ooNcilashe.

These hands they’ve breathed, lived poverty.                                                                            Their scars tell of tales about struggles of the township.
Where from a tender age these hands have carried beer bottles for those uncles who drank too much.                                                                                                       Elokshini,where broken dreams are the melodies playing across the streets.                       Where regrets are drowned in cartons zamaJuba.                                                                 The night is brought to a stand still as it listens to the stories shared between crates of empty beer bottles until dawn creeps in to repeat yesterday’s cycle.

These palms hide secrets of whispered words between lovers.                                             The kinds of secrets that would never dare be shared out loud.                                     Secrets of love.                                                                                                                     Sweaty palms exchanging glances, gossiping of heartache. Of words unsaid. Heard only by these palms.Hands.

Hands that have written love letters.                                                                                   They’ve scribbled hearts and xoxo’s on crinkle paper with coloured ink.
Fingers that hold the pen as though its a mighty sword used to pierce through silence.    To express loudly those words that lips cannot utter.

Hands so beautiful and sensual. Feminine hands.                                             Tender,manicured hands. Polished hands.                                                                     These hands are of a woman.                                                                                                A proud woman. A Xhosa woman.                                                                                    One who carries bravery through her veins. Taught to cherish every breath as a gift.          Taught by those brave women around her how to flourish in a world where women sit with their heads down, withering inside as they perish.

Hands, raised in worship to the Lord.
Nothing beheld in these hands but they themselves become the offering.                             These hands,they’ve seen much. They’ve touched much. They’ve heard way too much.     Yet these hands, they stand. Upright like soldiers.                                                                In surrender to God the Great Major. These imperfect hands become the spotless lamb.

So I will give these hands as a living sacrifice.
Holy and pleasing, to be of service to others.
To catch the tears from my brother’s eye.
To speak volumes where others are overcome by silence.                                                   To give a hug, a handshake or wave where its required.                                                       These hands will make history in serving others.                                                                     I will fulfill my calling to be God’s hands with these flawed hands.                             Because though I may not have been born with much, God gave me HANDS..

Pieces of me

Tori Kelly- Dear No one

This song means so much to me. Too often as ladies we let things pressure us. Be it our parents, society, friends or even ourselves. The issue with this is that God calls us to wait for HIS timing. I’m pretty sure that from those mentioned above, God is the most reliable. So imagine my excitement when a friend made me listen to this song which accurately explains how I feel about relationships.

So to all the ladies who think that the real thing is worth waiting for, this song is for you too. OWN IT!

She is YOU


She wears her black with pride,
Turns her head after every stride.
She is beauty.

She wears her scars as jewels.
Stretch-marks, her point of showing off.
She laughs with ease.

She knows who she is and whose she is,
Fear is terrified of her,
She is power.

She swings her hips from side to side, not to entice, she is magical.
Crowned with love for how she was made,
She inspires.

She is you.
Yes you. The little girl looking @ the mirror,
Glowing with passions.
The proud African queen. Everyone marvels @ how you love your skin.
Did you know they write songs ”talking bout your brown skin”?
The sensual women. They all look on in admiration, your confidence is what they desire.

You are the acclaimed African dream.
Don’t sell yourself short.
You are not the cheaper, plastic version of who he made you.
You are a dime.
Your riches, even you are yet to fully discover.
Africa is crowned with you.
It boasts about how you are its queen.

Ntombi zika Phalo, magqiyazana aseAfrika,Buhle bemvelo bobenu.
Iintombi ezinomkhitha.
Zithandeni. Zidleni. Kaniziqhenye.

She is strong. Yes, she can hold her own.
Yet she is vulnerable.

She is beauty. She is FINE.
She is real. She is true.
She is proud. She is YOU.
Yes, YOU!