Unfortunately, I entered corporate South Africa as myself.
Nobody had told me that it was better to present a shrunken version of myself.
Nobody had taught me to shrink so that others could be more comfortable with my black presence.
Nobody had told me to be apologetic, for… existing as black, female and not a tea lady.

Nobody had told me that I wasn’t entitled to occupy space, and that whatever little space I was allowed, I had to occupy quietly, otherwise I would be a loud black and eventually a problem with an attitude problem.

Nobody had told me to say less and smile more; to smile for no reason, so that I would be more palatable; matching the white woman grin; assimilating in fake so that I would be a real fit;
so that I wouldn’t be called “that angry black girl”.

Nobody had told me that I could not be confident, because I would then be problematic;
Black confidence is “problematic”;

Nobody had told me that my brilliance was only good if it could be used to further someone else, someone who isn’t me and who doesn’t look like me.
Nobody had told me.

Nobody had told me to shrink so I had entered corporate South Africa boldly as myself, and had carried on as though that was due, proper, acceptable.
It wasn’t. It isn’t.
But nobody had told me.

Nobody had told me until I was in an elevator, one morning, on my way to the 3rd floor, the floor where my dreams were going to come true; where my ambitions would propel me and where I would make the sort of impact which they would write about and give awards and rewards for;

Nobody had told me until I shared an elevator with a successful black woman, one who had not just one Bentley; one who carried bags which they didn’t sell at Woolworths or Nine West or Guess or that outlet at Bree that looks like the one in Woodmead;

Nobody had told me until I was in an elevator with a woman who should have been a role model;

Nobody had told me until I shared an elevator with a successful black woman and she looked at my dreadlocks and said, quite frankly and quite sincerely: “how do you expect to get anywhere in corporate with hair like that?” The “hair like that” being simply my hair.

And then somebody had finally told me.

Somebody had told me that there was no place for me as me; for us as us.
My older sister had told me.
My older sister had told me that there was no place or space for me unless I was less black and more assimilating.

And then I knew.
Someone had finally told me.

But then I also knew that I would have to build my own so that my sister could know that we have every right to exist, to occupy space, as us, as ourselves, with our hair growing as it grows.
Then I knew that I had to tell her because nobody had told her and so she didn’t know.

She doesn’t know.

She belongs to a generation which told us to tear our blackness apart, to be less ourselves, to assimilate
She belongs to a generation which told us to revel in being the only black at the table,
She belongs to a generation which tried to shrink us and then called that mentorship.
My sister belongs to a generation which resigned itself to crumbs because the pie seemed too unattainable.

She belongs to a generation which picked up the crumbs and then declared that it had arrived, that freedom had been attained, and that empowerment had been achieved.
She belongs to a generation which declared scavenging empowerment.
My sister belongs to a generation which is constantly kicking ladders and shutting doors because there can only be one, there can only be room for one black. She is of a generation which cannot imagine a place where we are not just squeezing one in but own it all.

She belongs to a generation which knows its place; its tiny bless of meek blackness; pale blackness; blackness which has been washed so often with whiteness that it’s lost colour.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t
so she and hers mock us and laugh when we say that we are coming for everything, and they respond with ‘You don’t have to tell anyone that you are coming for anything’ silliness.
They laugh and mock, thinking that they have crossed over, when all they are doing is negotiating crumbs
So, they mock

But we say it, anyway.
We say it because we get that we have to say it until it forms part of our breathing rhythm
Because it is as important as living
Because if we don’t come for what is ours, we will soon be dead
We say it anyway,
because we understand that the system doesn’t have the numbers so it holds the minds,
So, we say it
With everything in us, we say it to shatter the shackles and shout down the walls which shackle the minds:

#Wearecomingforeverything

We are coming for that world which constantly tells us: not you; not for you; not yours.
We are coming for it;
We are coming for everything.

We are coming for spaces where young Shezi doesn’t have to shrink or be less black or not be too black;
Where she doesn’t have to be apologetic;
Where her sister doesn’t have to be a “better black” in order to “maintain”

We are coming for everything.

And we are not coming to cause ripples, we are not coming to make waves, we are coming for the ocean.
And we are not coming for one black seat at the table; we are coming for the whole fucking table.

We are coming for everything

We are coming for ownership not access
We are not begging
We are not assimilating

Asinciki
Asincengi
We want it
We demand it
We are coming for it all
We are coming for everything.

Writer: Nomfundo Shezi