STUDIO83

I’m not about to get a pedicure. I’m not about to get into some tight-fitting jeans with my ass all out like I’m a ballerina and shit. I’m not about to grease my hair so when the sun starts blazing, I sweat some funky smelling oils. And I’m not about to wear no big fucken belt squeezing me out so much I end up bulging like I was born with breasts – just because some dude did the same thing on some French fashion magazine. Are you kidding me?! Nope. That’s not for me. And to be honest with you, I don’t have beef with cats that do that. Peace to them. The argument that I always get when I say this is that I’m not a modern man. They tell me that I’m not moving with the times. Apparently the modern man is not scared of delving into his feminine side. Feminine side? We got a feminine side? Since when? And do we all have it or it’s only a “chosen” few? And this is not on some homophobic tip. Even though that’s not me, I got no beef with that. Do you?

This is about me refusing to be something I’m not, under the guise of being a modern man. I’m 30 years old and, depending on the context of a particular environment I find myself in, I could be very old or I could be very young.

When Chris Brown comes on radio, and I feel my last nerve being rocked like a famous prisoner does on an island, I feel old. But also when I’m chilling with a brother who was my junior in high school, and he’s been married for seven years and has four babies, I feel very young. But the one thing I rarely feel, is modern. The image of the modern man in my head might be a little less than accurate. It’s that Dunhill dude right? It’s Brad Pitt carrying his 38 babies on his back going up a mountain in this mysterious place they keep referring to as AFRICA. It’s Bono who’s fighting governments for governments to settle world debts – this all done with Fendi glasses on his face even though he’s inside a dark room. Or it’s Musiq Soulchild who swears to love his woman even if he discovers that she was a prostitute. Or David Tlale who walks around with an Afro bigger than the whole of Brakpan. Or Kanye West who walks in public with his whole chest out for the world to see. Or Loyiso Bala who keeps winning these awards for being the best dressed man in the country. Or Kojo Baffoe, the good-looking dude who recites love poems in his deep voice to a room packed with women whose vocabulary decreases, in a matter of seconds, to “ooooooooh”. Or Siphiwe Mpye, whose every word written turns into a pool every reader wants to just jump into. DJ Sbu, who with his designer labels, exotic cars, thriving record label, TV show, radio show is the ultimate picture of young black success. Bouga Luv who talks proudly and loudly about his love for his God.

The modern man. It’s way too much pressure. I have limited edu-cation. I have a criminal record. I have reputation that puts OJ Simpson’s to shame. I have a lisp. I’m a walking “how not to dress” catalogue for fashionistas. I’m a cheat. I’m an alcoholic. I’m depressed. And I am partially deaf on one ear. I have also been blacklisted for almost a decade.

So I sit here and I wonder if it’s possible to be considered modern with all of my glorious deficiencies. And the answer is hell-fucken-yes. I’m modern because being a human being has never been out of style. And as much as I admire all these cats. They all have flaws. Flaws we may never ever find out about. But those flaws play their role in building their magic. They rise so well because at some point, they fell, they felt some pain, they cried, they fell ashamed, but they rose, and they moved right along to being human. To being unique individuals with distinctive voices. Human. The most important ele-ment to their mordenisation.