A persistent story…

This is not right. I left the city centre about 15 minutes ago, and 15+- kilometres later, I’m still on the monologue. Arguing with  myself and the story. And by extension arguing with media in general. 

Ke gore there is the family budget, the weight issues and the tummy that sometimes just pops, but this story wants me to spend my life figuring it out, thinking of other possibilities related to it.

But Oesi, this story has been on for months now.  You should have moved on.

 Nnyaa mathata ke gore I have become a passive and all consuming customer of these media representations. And the creators are happy that I parked my life and engaged in nothing else but this.  Screen shots, posts to whatsApp and thrash it out there. Shuu. But I’m fatigued now. 

I’m claiming back my agency, aah. It is from now on,  out of my agenda and my side of the public. 

And my husband has just arrived from Francistown and he calls from home. ‘Please buy the paper’

We start the discussion, yes I’m driving to the shop, to buy the very newspaper, but still we are discussing the content.

“Was it the last one”, inquires the till lady

“No just a few copies left”

“E thotse e re kwa hee? ”

“Ea ba bata go bona …..”

Ijoo these guys just talk. 

But eish I’m out. 

Then I forget I also needed to fuel,  a U-turn. The petrol attendants are arguing about #tlatsalebala.

“Go na le e nnngwe gape?”, I investigate 

“Ga o ba itse mmmangwane. Nna re lapile”

πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚Re lapile re le mmmalwa goo ha.

β–  Inflation e tsamaya ha kae hoo. Aaa

β–  Nna re lapile ke kgaaa e oneπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒπŸƒ

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