Six Ten AM

  One of my goals with this space is to provide the kind of transparency I wish I had seen more of. Someone once told me that many people who have kids didn’t actually want them. They just lure others into parenthood by sharing all the wonders of it, like sirens beckoning sailors into a melodious trap—because, well, misery loves company. Honestly, that’s some B.S. I’m here to be transparent. Parenthood is a spectrum, okay? And today’s healthy dose of honesty is that you will get angry. Anger is normal. I used to try to suppress it because it’s often seen as the “bad” emotion, but here’s the thing: you have to let yourself feel what you feel. Let it pass, don’t hold onto it. Holding onto things that don’t serve you only pollutes your mind and body. I’m 24, and though it sometimes feels like I had a teenage pregnancy, I genuinely wanted a baby at this point in my life. That being said, I absolutely HATED being pregnant, and I do not miss it one bit. I love my baby, but oh my goodness...

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...