"Dear Adult, some advice on how to talk to me" -- Yoh

First of all I would like to say, I mean no disrespect. It is just that it has come to my attention that you may find difficulty in making conversation with a teen, like me. I just have a few pointers, simple and straightforward and you will be pleased to note that they are fairly easy to grasp unlike the modern forms of technology. At this point I will remind you that this is no form of mockery and I mean no disrespect.

People my age are crossing the bridge between childhood and adulthood. It would be nice if you acknowledged the fact that I may not be a child anymore, but I am not quite an adult just yet. I may have a sense of maturity but you cannot expect me to think the way you do. I would appreciate it if you considered my ideas as oppose to instantly shutting them down as naïve ideas. It may be difficult to believe but, we are fully aware that this is the age will make some wrong decisions and plenty of mistakes, however we would appreciate it if you allowed us to do so. For in this we will learn and mature much faster than if you have discouraged our ideas in harsh tones. I am not sure if it is too much to ask for but all we would like is a little respect, which will be returned accordingly.

The second and final pointer is almost as simple as the first. Before we begin our conversation it would be wonderful if you could come to a final decision as to what your role is in our conversation as well as mine. It is a common fact that the relationship between people having a conversation affects the conversation they have greatly. It is unreasonable for you to expect me to be honest and fully myself with you when you continually jump from being my friend to an adult in authority. Likewise it is difficult for me to be jolly when I am treated like an infant and adult within the same conversation. Many a time teens are willing to be an open book to respective adults but they are not sure what they are too old or too young to be doing. They therefore avoid trouble by shutting adults out completely during conversation.

In conclusion I would like to say, the façade presented by teens during conversation is suspended by weak strings which can be broken easily if the previously mentioned pointers are considered. Thereafter, the only requirement is consistency.

Yoh

"It’s gleaming, rich with stars" -- Langa-Rose

I was always told that my future was bright so much so that I began to believe it and as a naïve teenager, constantly repeated it to myself staring at my reflection in the mirror. A similar mirror I now stare into and cringe at the face I see staring right back.

I was never bright and it was a known fact. That’s where it all began. People constantly felt that I needed the reassurance of my ‘bright’ future. I suppose I did, being the spotty, sore-thumb of my group of acquaintances. My self-esteem was just slightly above non-existent. It seemed my luck changed when I began to dance and sing. Of course it was all the doing of my over-zealous mother who signed me up for any class she felt “was the one for me”. It took four different instrumental classes, a judo programme, two cookery classes and bitter disappointment on her part to find the real “one for me”.

I was just as reluctant to prance up and down a stage with cheap make-up smacked on my face as I was to bake double chocolate anything and I entered the dance studio dragging my feet just as I did previously and pushing my glasses further up my nose even more furiously than before. With a bad attitude, as is common in one’s teenage years, I stalked up to the teacher and introduced myself with naught excitement and sat through a speech from a very whimsical teacher that ended with the words “it’s gleaming, rich with stars”, which was her take on our bright futures. These words are forever etched into my memory.

She told us to let loose and let the music carry us. This was not an easy task restricted by poorly-made leotards but boy, did I grow to love it! Dance was my escape where I allowed nothing else to bother me and all the failed tests were left outside the studio. Music was a comfort and feeling the beautiful sound well up inside me and bubble up to the back of my throat made me feel warm inside. With each session it was clear, or so I thought, that dance was “the one for me”.

The freedom was like none I had ever felt. It was similar to running through a field of daisies with the wind rushing through your hair and butterflies gently fluttering by. The inner warmth I felt was like that one would feel pouring heated honey into your mouth and letting it slide right down to every inch of your body. It was absolutely magical and I no longer cared about the layer of make-up we were forced to wear for performances. At this point I began to believe that my future was indeed as bright as they said and even more so as the dance scholarships to various top schools poured in.

From that point I was always enveloped in a cloud of glitter if not physically then at least mentally in a sparkly world of my own. All I ever heard were angelic voices singing, light footsteps on the stage and my mother’s voice telling me how great I was going to be and how proud she was. Then it all went wrong somewhere and I find myself reminiscing, staring sadly back at myself; a struggling entertainer who once harboured the ambitious dreams of a lively teenager. I thought I was going places and I would soon have my name in shining lights all over the world not above the entrance to a middle of nowhere bar. Perhaps there just was not enough space out there for all of us, I tell myself, but surely I could have found my little corner of the world to do what I love best and show the world my talent.

These tears that stream down my wrinkled face from my once sparkling eyes are for all the hard work I put in that has resulted in nothing. My labour produced not a single fruit. I weep for who I could have been and what I could have done. The disappointment is so difficult to swallow after having been told constantly that I had what it takes and now I recall this phrase with such sour memories, ‘your future is bright. It’s gleaming, rich with stars.” Did it really? Did it?

Langa-Rose

"Find a kid. Use them as inspiration." -- Sibo

Short, thin and malnourished; Tom Nkosi had never been the kind of kid that anyone liked to play with. He was shy, dirty and, above needy, something that had earned him a bad reputation amongst the neighbourhood children. Born into a home without a father, he had grown up with a mother who preyed on men on a daily basis to stay alive, abusing alcohol like it was her life support. She was wrecked, in every sense of the word, but one thing she remained sure about in her life was her love for her only son. Tom was all she had in life and she loved and cherished him deeply, the way a mother was supposed to. When she passed away from a kidney failure, Tom was left stranded in the world, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to.

Alexander House Children’s Home was nothing close to luxurious. With about fifty children being catered for by money that could barely keep one suburban child going, it was only a call away from being shut down. When Tom arrived, he wasn’t treated any differently from the children who had been there all their lives. He got the same food, same set of rules and no grace period to learn anything. Life had admittedly taken a worse turn, if he was going to be truthful. Two months passed by before he started making any actual friends. Tapiwa, Joe and Bill were the kids feared by everyone in the Home, and when they took notice of Tom, he didn’t have much of a choice but to join into the clique.

The friends that Tom had made were the kind of friends who looked out for each other. They were a family in their own right and they stuck by each other through thick and thin. By the time that Tom was sixteen, he was no longer a shy boy. He was a feared individual who lived and preyed on others’ fear of him. It wasn’t long before he got attached to alcohol and drugs. Every chance he got, him and his friends would steal money and waste it away on alcohol and girls for a good time. They were caught, several times, and punished but nothing seemed to slow them down, but when Tom turned eighteen, he was faced with the same problem his mother had encountered.

Tom had a failing kidney. Donors were looked for to try and save his life, but no help was coming his way. He was at the bottom of the list, with at least a hundred other patients before him waiting for the same organ. In the weeks that followed, Tom suffered immensely and he couldn’t help but think about the times that he had seen his mother suffering from the same thing. His brothers kept the faith alive for him, praying for his recovery, but Tom knew that the end was nearing, and it was coming soon. Tom had entered into a broken world, and at a young age, he left the world the same way that he had found it.

Sibo