Into a HouseWife: 1234….Fife

The year was 2010. I was five months pregnant, with no prospects of a career or any means of income.

Idols SA was doing the Cape Town audition, and myself and a few singing friends were amped at the opportunity to sing in front of Randall.

Now, bear in mind that when I say pregnant, I mean full on, looked like I was smuggling watermelons pregnant. I couldn’t hide my bad judgement under a bomber jacket like most of my skinny friends… or ISIS.

Regardless, this memory has terrorized me for the last seven years. It isn’t even something that I have shared with my husband.

My mom enjoys bringing it up though, but just to destroy me emotionally.

To which I always reply (and lie) : “I didn’t audition.. I just dropped them there and waited … yor”.

Regardless, my friends and I went to stand in the 1000 people strong line at 5am in CBD.

I received side glances from non-pregnant contestants but my desperation to succeed made me Ray-Charles to the bullshit. But unfortunately Ray didn’t rub off anything else onto me as I stood there, swollen feet… racing heart.

In hindsight, I should have known that the world wasn’t progressive/ or stupid enough to fly a five month pregnant teenager to JHb to compete on a stage in front of the whole country… I mean, look what they did to that other kin in the first season, who apparently had a whole toddler out of wedlock.

I had it all planned out though.

I was about to break boundaries for coloured girls everywhere. I was going to prove everyone wrong and win Idols SA while growing an illegitimate human inside of me. My success would mean that I hadn’t made a mistake, and men wouldn’t .exit when I revealed I was pregnant in the chat room.

It was my turn to go in and I was about to blow them away with my gorgeous voice and set my self up for fame and fortune.

I was going to sweep away my dad’s disappointment.


My audition lasted for a generous 15 seconds.

I walked in to a glorified cupboard and stood, shaking, in front of three unknown judges. I was about to be rated by a trio of placeholders. And berated I was.

I sang ‘killing me softly’.


Don’t speak. I know just what you’re thinking. 


And at some point my eyes closed, as I got really into it…..

And I opened my eyes to see the judges smiling. But not with their eyes.

I was respectfully ushered out, with the wave of a hand. No words. No ‘No’.

Just an implied, ‘Jy wiet mos’.


But that wasn’t my last audition…..


 My biggest yet possibly most irrational fear of late, is that someone will recognize me while I use a public toilet.

Well, this came true at the recent “Embrace Your Curves” Event when I emerged from the not so VIP bathroom stall, straight into one of my blog readers who thought that this was an opportune moment to acknowledge me… I silently prayed she didn’t initiate a handshake.  I literally had vagina germs on my much unwashed hands…. Clubs never organize Two Ply.

(My next campaign will be to ban one ply toilet rolls from everywhere. I have been accidentally penetrating my own anus for too damn long).


In the last few weeks, the word ‘famous’ has come up more than I would like to admit. My mind races with terror each time I hear it. The weight of the responsibility is crippling.

What does this mean? Can’t I say poes now?

Apparently my penchant for the P word has placed me on the bottom of the blogging/Internetainer food-chain.

Turns out people would rather watch coloured comedians put on badly fitted wigs, and feed whities gatsbies.

I yearn for the day my content reaches those heights.

I admit, though…. as a child I had dreamed that at some point… everyone would know my name.

Never would I have guessed that when people saw me at Promenade or Westgate mall, they’d shout my name, with admiration…

“Sharna? Wait.. but you mos that Hoe?”

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

If I’m famous, does this mean I can just transfer my financial debt to a lesser being?

Can yous all send me money?

(Some chick did message me to say that she would be happy to hold an event in my honour if I needed her to raise money…. So there’s always that option when this attention seeking, narcissistic blogging thing doesn’t work out.)


In the middle of June I made my monthly trip to Nedbank. Sponsoring my posts to remain relevant means using my credit card… Which always seems like a good idea..  Until Facebook deducts on the 18th. Then I’m always catching myself justifying debit reversals.

I didn’t say that I was a good person.

I found out about my notoriety the hard way.

I was at the branch to pay off my ever accumulating debt, when the woman at the computer, while looking at my entire financial history (and who was now privy to all of my skuld), looked up from her screen and gave me a very impressed, “uhm.,.. are you……………………………..?”.

I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.

All of me.

Not a deposit. Alles.

I have been in several cringe-worthy situations of late, actually.

Of late.



Reminiscing on my pregnancies causes a mixture of uncomfortable emotions. Embarrassment is a prominent one.

For several reasons.

In my past relationships, I’d be left un-cum… and I’d foot the bill… so my marriage is a lovely contrast.

But, even though my life seems to have taken a turn for the better (which it has, Algamdullilah) I sometimes sit quietly in my time with the Lord, and feel my cheeks flush, reminiscing about that one time I auditioned for Idols while pregnant. (I think about it over and over and over till a whimper/scream ejaculates from my mouth… soema anywhere.. And I have to play if off like a fly flew into my bek or something).

And yet, even though my promiscuity put me ‘heavy in the eyes’, I would continue for several more years to cum, to hold ‘that piel like alcohol’. Even though the mixture of dop, food and the odd pregnancy made me ‘heavy on the eyes’.

This week I wanna share experiences from my pregnancies that I have never shared before.

Because this week, when I felt that high I get from being recognized while I walk through the Plaza, I was quickly brought back down to earth when a familiar naarness creeped up my esophagus.



….And as I have no car, and therefore the luxury of stopping for fresh air was impossible- in the back of the Wynberg Taxi… I sat with tears balancing on my swollen cheeks, smelling a stranger’s feet while balancing half my hol on the gaatjies laptop…. Certain imagery from when I carried my kids popped into my head.
It all came flooding back to me. Like muscle memory. Being squeezed between two strangers must have triggered the part of my brain that up until now, blocked out the truly embarrassing stuff.

The struggles I endured. The uncomfortable nausea that hospitalized me up until I was due to give birth.

The lack of funds that fueled the hustle that would eventually make me a household name in approximately three Southern Suburbs.

And as I looked at my husband, who handed the gaatjie our last 23 rand for the month, while we had a ménage à taxi with the residents of Mitchell’s Plain… only one thought really stood out.

“Sjoe. Fame is lekker hey”.

But my Sadventure didn’t end there. This week’s taxi strike meant that I was terrified while doing my daily travels. Part of my commute includes a walk over the bridge that separates Promenade and the Town Centre.

On Tuesday I walked down the purgatory isle and, as always, I had my diary and Old Mutual Pen firmly clasped in my hand.

And the nausea came back.

I stood absolutely still as two ThugLifes walked past me (obviously an easy target), and they heavily eyed my ring, my phone and my Old Mutual Pen.

And suddenly I actually wished that in this instance it was a sword.

Now swollen, and on the brink of vomiting and absolutely terrified, I forced myself to drag my feet all the way to my Portlands home and release a moerse pee that was making me dance.

Now I know why our people are called the KLOPse.

Yes. Audition Number two is about dancing…..

The year is also 2010…………

The production of the smash hit “Dream Girls” was auditioning people in the CBD and everyone who is everyone who saw the ad in the Argus was going to be standing in line to try to be Evy.

So was I.

And they were gonna love me. 

A friend of mine who I graduated from AFDA with, and who was really white so obviously never watched the original movie accompanied me.

She was very polite to not mention my massive physique. But as the rehearsals were set to start in April 2011, I was more than willing to give birth and abandon my child to live my dream, girl.

I passed the singing audition with flying colours.

I was ecstatic.

Until this announcement.

“Thank you to everyone who attended the auditions for the singing. Those of you who were successful, please make your way to choreography”.

Mother of Poes.



Now, there were two options.

  1. Walk away, and go home satisfied – with knowing that I was good enough to make the cut.
  2. Dance in front of a live studio audience, and show the world that not all coloured people have rhythm.

This is the one time my proximity to whiteness had failed me miserable.

I chose to stay.

I am not sure what I was expecting.

I honestly was convinced that somehow I could channel my ancestors and the rhythm would just find me like on some sort of inspirational Disney special. But when the time came to show the judges what I had learnt I just stood there, did a strange attempt at a hip wiggle that wasn’t even in the sequence and I walked out.

My white friend was outside the door, a little too unsusprised that I had .exited early and she gave me the saddest hug that I had ever wanted from another human being.


“I’m very proud of you for trying”, she said.

I hated her for making me cry.



Pregnancy can turn the strongest girl into a desperate pile of doubt.

I am not telling you this to embarrass myself.

I am not telling you this to scare you.

I am telling you this to show you where I come from.

I am telling you this to say, that if you are in a desperate phase, or an embarrassing phase, or just a time in your life where you feel like there is no way out… that things change. This is the natural way of life.

No matter how many times you fuck up.


The year was 2017.

Myself and my husband were in our home, watching movies and eating junk food while the children had their friends over to play.

My husband had just gotten home from the shop with my favourite stuff (literally anything edible) and some other necessities. I snuck off to the bathroom and asked him to pour me a glass of wine.

I thought I would be able to drink it and have a nice relaxing afternoon.

But unfortunately, the ‘bytheway’ home pregnancy test had other plans for me. (I took one because I had been gaining so much weight and craving peanut butter and yogurt combined, but was still wholly convinced that this was a side effect of my Prozac)

And suddenly the nausea I had been feeling all week made sense… ( and of course, the emotional outbreaks about having to take a taxi, and taste people’s feet).

I walked out of the bathroom, straight into Riyaahd’s arms….

Uhm.. baby”.


“I’m famou…”.

Shit wait.. that isn’t what happened…

Let’s try this again..

“Baby….. “



Riyaahd looked at me with a look I had never seen before, and whispered..





5 thoughts on “Into a HouseWife: 1234….Fife

  1. therecanonlybeonenicolev says:

    Such a f-ing good read… had my feet up, coffee and a cig… took it all in… lol for ‘and feed whities gatsbies’ that video was wack tho…
    But thank you for sharing… really want to know what your husband whispered… not that I want know but… you Opened the door and I walked in.


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