A corda no pescoço da juventude

Num 16 de Junho, na África do Sul, dia em que se comemora o Dia da Juventude em homenagem ao Soweto Uprising, uma adolescente branca se suicida em casa, numa última selfie em forma de live stream.

Ao contrário do que é habitual vermos nas grandes telas sobre a África so Sul, este filme não retrata o Soweto. O Johannesburgo que se vê no filme “Necktie Youth” mostra toda a vida cosmopolita que ali se vive.

Na era do espectáculo, as juventudes branca e negra se misturam, em inglês. Entre cada grupo uma língua diferente: para uns o afrikaans, para outros o zulu, e todas as outras distâncias que os separam.

Em convívios e namoros, a geração “Born Free”, nascida depois do apartheid desfruta das suas liberdades (supostamente) longe do preconceito racial e das barreiras institucionais que antes os separavam.


Mas será isso verdade?


Numa das cenas que mais mexeu comigo, um rapaz negro é largado no meio da rua depois de ter uma overdose de cocaína em casa de um amigo branco. Um casal interracial abraça-se e namorisca com carinho num parque público em plena luz do dia. Mais tarde, uma rapariga branca embriagada é violada por um amigo negro no meio de uma festa.

Parece muita cor, mas o filme é todo a preto e branco.

O suicídio de Emma chega como surpresa para todos os eus amigos. Tão submersos vivem nas suas existências supérfluas, sem causas para defender para além das suas vontades egoístas, que são incapazes de reconhecer a solidão e desespero em que vivem.

Essa é sem dúvida, a maior distância de todas: A do convívio entre eles sem saberem sequer os seus maiores medos e depressões.

A fuga? Drogas; álcool; sexo.. E por fim, a morte. A derradeira chave para a liberdade, e neste caso também a fama.

A fuga para um final feliz, embora sem aplausos. Mas com a atenção que desesperadamente precisamos, enfim.



Quantos de nós não vivemos assim também?

Presos em amizades e amores que não nos preenchem emocionalmente. Sem a possibilidade de redenção, a morrer por dentro de uma insatisfação crónica sem causa aparente.

Raiva, rancor, ausência, trauma, todas essas energias que carregamos diariamente e nos impossibilitam de estabelecer laços sinceros e profundos com aqueles ao nosso redor.

Vicissitudes de uma Geração Livre, mas ainda escrava do seu Passado. Sem paixões nem idealismos, apenas todas as possibilidades dessa tal Liberdade que não nos leva a lado nenhum.




As I’m getting older I’m growing tired of the same old, same old, phallic references here and there. Having to ‘rise to the occasion’ and having to ‘grow some balls’, I’m a grown woman: I know that human beings are way more complex than that.

I think that, personally, I’m more like a vulva: There are different dimensions to who I am, and most of my connections only get you see one or two: there’s the labia minora, the labia majora, the urethral opening, the prepuce, the vaginal opening, and so on. 

Then there is a part of me that is very out there but that only a few people know how to handle: the clit. The clit is a very delicate thing: you can’t just push the clit. You have to handle the clit gently, respect it, praise it, learn how to work around it. If you touch it the wrong way, you get kicked in the face – literally!

Most people get lost trying to find the G-spot and all the while I’m left there standing still, waiting for them to catch up with me.
So, today I take April 15th to show my appreciation for those who touch me in the right places and keep me going. Thank you for not neglecting any part of me. For acknowledging and accepting even the bits of me that scare you. Thank you for allowing me to take my time. Thank you for letting me scream as loud as I want. For the foreplay, for the soft kisses, for the restless support, for the hardcore love making.


I hope you all have an orgasmic day today (I really mean that).

#100happydays and the happiness propaganda

The #100happydays campaign proposes a challenge to today’s society: to make a daily post about something that made you happy that day, for 100 days. From what I’ve seen on Facebook and Twitter, the moments that make people happy revolve around food and hanging out with friends. It’s an Instagram meets Osho kind of thing.

Some of my connections on social networks have been posting pictures for over a month now and as time passes by it is more and more clear to me that some days there’s just nothing to post. This has become another way to fill my news feed with hipster randomness.

I’m here for happiness. I am here for people finding things that make them happy and sharing them with the world, but it is illogical and even violent to force yourself to be happy for 100 days straight.

Let’s face it, there are days that simply don’t bring us any good. I mean, yes, we survived. We made it through whatever bad situation we were in, but sometimes we wish we didn’t. We wish we could just lay here, and just forget the world.

The happiness propaganda is not only dismissive; it is harmful to our true selves. Every day we ask each other “How are you?” and the answer is automatic “I’m fine, thank you. And you?”. We’re told “You should be more appreciative because person X Y Z has way less than you”.

Far too often we don’t get to mourn and grief, we have to ‘suck it up’. We’re not given the chance to talk about the things that upset us. And to me the #100happydays is just another tool we are imposing on ourselves to silence the things that matter to us the most. To me, that is violence.

What if we did a #100honestdays campaign and we talked about the things that bothered us? I’m sure that after the ‘I hate my boss’ or ‘Save the African children’ posts, we would have meaningful conversations about the stuff that haunts us.

Posts like “Today I felt unappreciated because I did something to my mom and it went unnoticed” or “I had a fight with a friend and I don’t think she/he understood my point”, or “A picture of my ex with his current gf popped on my feed and it reminded me of how happy we used to be together”.

Most of us would feel less alone after some people shared similar stories and how they got through them. A campaign like that would open the door for us to share intimate parts of ourselves and, consequently, have a deeper understanding of how we affect, positively and negatively, the ones around us.

A few months ago I was made aware that a friend of mine was recovering from depression. On my mind I started reliving the times they tried to tell me they weren’t okay and I didn’t notice it. It was impossible for me not feel guilty for not seeing this friend’s pain.

At the end of the day, when we lay our heads in bed, we don’t care that it was sunny that day and it doesn’t matter that we had dinner at our favorite place. We care that no one listens to us; we care that we miss an estranged friend and we care that we regret not being there for someone we love.

And if those are the things we care about the most, then those are the things we should be talking about. Things we should be sharing. Things that deserve a hashtag.


When I fell in love with your hands, I remember you had them around me.

We were dancing and you putted your hands around my waist in a way that was so delicate, yet so certain, so accurate. That was the first time I fell your hands on my skin.

After that we kissed, and you did this thing where you putted your hands on the back of my ear and… I don’t know. Your touch was never indecisive or confused, it was always brave, on time, always right.

Your hands were that part of you that would move and make me change my mind. I should have known your fingerprints were maps to my soul.


I first fell in love with your neck. The way it supports your glorious head and stands proud above your shoulders, I found it sexy. I imagined my hands around it, and all my fingers feeling your skin, as if I was playing the piano… Do you play the piano? When you play a piano, when you’re really into the piano, although your eyes are opened and you’re reading the musical stave, your head is shut down and your body moves with the song, it’s a magical thing. Your fingers move almost by themselves and you feel every key, every note, everything.

I imagined my lips touching you. Not kissing! Slightly touching your skin, as I can’t help but suffocate by the emotions I feel standing so close to you. You could feel my breath; it is as if I was breathing into your pores and taking the drops of life I, myself, have given you. In my head, you were always calm, always quiet, a boat and not a sailor. In my head I was a sailor and the sea, and everything in between.