Six Ten AM

There’s no easy way to say this... actually, there is: telling someone they’re “well-spoken” is not the compliment you think it is. It simply doesn't convey what you intend. Stop it. Stop it. STOP  it. I recently found myself in a conversation about the impacts of globalization and capitalism in Africa, and it brought to mind every instance I've heard someone say, whether to me or someone else, "You're so well-spoken." It may seem like a leap, but the correlation is there. Let’s ask ourselves this: would you say that to someone of a different race or ethnicity? Would you say that to a palm colored person? Exactly. Yup.  The answer is, likely, no. So why do we continue to say things like this to each other in 2024, the year of our savior, Beyoncé? We give away too much power and impede our progress as a community, whether here on the motherland or in the diaspora, by perpetuating stereotypes imposed on us by “the white man.” In case it wasn’t clear, I root for ever...

Practiced in many countries, each with its own twists, and what the English call confinement. What a loaded concept. Just a second, I just want to make it clear that this isn’t a history lesson. You can learn more about it  here . Many moons ago, I learned of its rigidness and told my mother absolutely not. I’m not shaving my head, nor am I staying inside the house, in a room, for six whole months eating porridge every morning or not having my partner around. It was never going to be me. Not in this lifetime. You may be thinking that I’m spitting on tradition, that these practices exist for a reason, so they must be followed and all that good stuff. But here is my truth: I don’t consider myself a rooted person. I don’t feel any personal ties to Tswana culture—it’s not something I was raised on. I grew up in a household where ‘equality’ was preached (only because my cousin and I were the same age), kids were raised by the father figure, and the mother was the breadwinner. That setup...

Even though the weather’s warming up, if you’re anything like me, you know that hot beverages—especially hot chocolate—are a year-round treat, rain or shine. So, let’s get into it! I’ve discovered that making hot chocolate by simply pouring hot water and milk into a cup and stirring just doesn’t cut it. Where’s the cocoa? Where’s the creaminess? It ends up tasting flat and boring. That’s why I make all my hot drinks on the stovetop. Where did I learn the magic of stovetop drinks? From Unforeseen Love on Glow TV, my guilty pleasure. Now that I’ve confessed, let’s move on to the recipe. Ingredients: Your favorite cocoa powder (follow the quantity instructions on the package) Sugar (to taste) 1/3 cup of milk 2/3 cup of water 1/2 teaspoon of coffee (optional, but it enhances the chocolate flavor) Instructions: 1. In a saucepan, combine the cocoa powder (according to the package instructions), sugar, coffee, milk, and water. Remember, everything depends on your personal preference. For ex...

Dear Reader, I know it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: my experience is not universal. Everyone’s journey is unique to their circumstances. Don’t feel discouraged if you reach milestones at a different pace than others. Take whatever you read and hear with a grain of salt—let it guide you, not define you. I also want to acknowledge that some of what I share may seem repetitive if you’ve read my other posts. That’s because this particular experience has been difficult for me to put into words. My last edit was June 13th, so that should clue you in. I’ve struggled to find the right way to express it, and I’ve often revisited this post before sharing it with you.  I’m glad that people are becoming more transparent about pregnancy and postpartum experiences. It’s refreshing to see that people can now voice their struggles with something they wanted—especially parenthood. If you look at us now, you might not believe there was a time I struggled to embrace motherhood. But on...

I wasn’t going to say anything, but I keep coming across the TikToks of the young mom who shared her experience at a certain government hospital in the city, and I just can’t keep this nightmare to myself. If you’re pregnant or plan to be and had the mindset that I did, please let me be your cautionary tale. Please. Please. PLEASE. Growing up, I had this romantic notion of giving birth where I was born. All I can say is that there’s a time and place for being sentimental, and this was not one of those times. Here begins our tale. After registering my pregnancy, I was asked where I planned to give birth. That’s when it hit me: I was pregnant and needed to figure out where to deliver. It was overwhelming, to say the least. My boyfriend was in another country, and my mom was on the other side of the country. Everyone who knew suggested either GPH (Gaborone Private Hospital) or Ramotswa if I went the government route. Everything was still up in the air—until hyperemesis came along and mad...

Why is it socially unacceptable to use emojis in blogs? I know the answer. I used to write fanfics and would sprinkle in emojis, but then I’d cringe reading them back. And reading fanfics with emojis? It was even worse. But this post isn’t about emojis—it’s about my need to convey the biggest YIKES in existence because, y’all, postpartum hair loss is finally catching up to me. When I looked in the mirror yesterday, my jaw hit the floor. I never had any illusions that postpartum hair loss would skip me and double up on someone else. No. But… I’m still shocked and, don’t judge me, a little excited. I know it sounds ridiculous, but hear me out. Visually, my pregnancy was anticlimactic. I was so excited about having a bump, about looking and feeling pregnant. But if you follow my Instagram, you saw that I barely looked pregnant in my last days. Just boobs the size of Texas and the worst body and face acne in existence. I had HG (hyperemesis gravidarum) and lost a lot of weight. It felt lik...

As a Taurus, I believe that good food is essential, no matter what you’re going through. Good food brings comfort, and I'm all about comfort. The recipes I'll share, including this one, aren't entirely my own creations, but I've adopted and tweaked them over time. I first started making this French toast when I was severely heartbroken, and it quickly became my go-to Sunday morning breakfast—a little treat for making it through the week. Just a heads up, I have a serious sweet tooth, so proceed with caution! Feel free to adjust the ingredients and quantities to your liking—I usually let my instincts (and perhaps a little ancestral guidance) tell me when enough is enough. All the love, N. Ingredients: - 2-4 slices of stale bread - 1/2 cup of milk - 2 eggs - Cinnamon (to taste) - 1 tablespoon of sugar - 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract (optional) - Butter (as needed) Toppings: - Fruit of your choice (I recommend berries and bananas) - A sprinkle of powdered sugar (optional) ...

I've learnt from my long-term friendships with women. When you're looking for love and it seems like you might not ever find it, remember you probably have access to an abundance of it already, just not the romantic kind .” - Dolly Alderton  We often focus on romantic relationships, and while that's important, we don't talk enough about the privilege of being surrounded by young women who want nothing but the best for you, who stand up and show up for you. For one reason or another, I’ve never been the luckiest in the friendship department. This isn't a sob story, but rather a love letter to the girlies (you too, Queen V and Uncle Steve) I’m currently rocking with. They are the rarest of jewels, and I consider myself blessed to have them in my life. New stages in life, such as parenthood or marriage, are usually accompanied by friendship loss, at least from what I gather. But my underrated flex is that motherhood has brought me closer than ever to my f...

Dearest Reader, I had an idea of how to introduce myself, but now that I'm typing, words seem to fail me. My name is Ntswaki. I'm a law student and a new mom—these two aspects of my life will be the focus of most of my writing. This is my millionth attempt at blogging. I lacked the confidence to start before, but now that my daughter, my gorgeous girl who insists on keeping me up at odd hours, is here, I can safely say that the mic is on. I have so much to share, and since I can't see my therapist at the moment and I'm avoiding the vulnerability of journaling, here we are. It's extraordinary what one look at her does to me. For her, I have an inexplicable desire to fight my anxiety and face my fears. She makes me want to be brave and embody all the qualities I lack. I want her to be proud to call me mom, just as I am proud to call her mine. As much as this is for me, it's also all for her. Enjoy. All the love, N.

When I was 17, I decided I wanted to be a human rights lawyer. Activism has always been a passion of mine, as anyone who knows me will tell you. At 18, I began researching the steps I needed to take to achieve this goal. Every blog, website, and person I consulted emphasized that law school is no easy feat. But what would you expect from “the noble profession”? Of course, it’s hard (sorry Elle Woods, it seems I have failed you). For me, studying law has been difficult for unexpected reasons. The content itself is fascinating, and despite my friends and I often lamenting how much we hate law school, we frequently find ourselves discussing legal topics outside of class, as if they are our favorite subjects. What has been truly challenging is the sense that the institution itself is against me. When I started school four years ago, I was anxious but ready to face the challenges of law school. I was eager to write essays again (can you guess my favorite subject in school?). At each new aca...

Trigger warning, there are mentions of abuse.   I’ve lived a life that, much like many people in the world, has led to a plethora of mental illnesses. That being said, I know there are people out there who have it much worse than I do. However, just because “it could be worse” doesn’t give anyone the right to invalidate your pain and experience. It’s because of this notion that I wish people were kinder about different life experiences, regardless of whether they relate. There are no medals handed out at the struggle Olympics, and if anyone ever misled you on that front, I’m sorry. This is what I think we all need to remember: 1.  Yes, there are two sides to every story. However, context matters. Context MATTERS. If a child in a parent-child situation has been wronged and subjected to years of unnecessary mistreatment, there’s only one party that knows better and should be the bigger person. Something I’ve never subscribed to is the idea that a child has to mend the r...