Category Archives: Uncategorized

In defense of a completed sentence.


Remember that evening of September 13th 2009, when Kanye West said to Taylor Swift: “Ima let ya finish but Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time!” Remember that? I think that was the day Kanye stood up and loudly gave everybody permission to interrupt.

These days I find myself to be a woman of incomplete sentences. My sentences get snuffed out by pompous, persistent retorts and then from sheer exhaustion, they take leave to go and die a quiet death somewhere.

I have always thought that being a good listener was a good trait. But now it seems that in order to let your sentences live to a ripe old age, you need to be a good interrupter.

I barely get through slide three on most presentations before some client belts out: “I’m just gonna stop you there.” Lifetimes go by before I get to slide four, where lo and behold – I’ve addressed client’s very very important concern.

Sure, interruption is an art. And a good conversation relies on syncopated words – pleasant twists and turns, surprising revelations and precise comic timing but the line between art and a jelly-and-custard trifle is a fine one.

Sadly, the people with the least salient or insightful points to add are often the ones who blast through your sense pause or enjambed lines like a runaway train. Everyone can forgive wit and wisdom but no one should have to endure hot air.

I’m tired of The Interrupters. I’m nauseated by The Interjectors. I want to explain to them that pauses exist to add meaning or drama and are not open invitations to invade. I want to tell them that the trajectory of time allows for all to be revealed. I want to tell the quiet people in the room to displace cacophony  – to clear their throats and to hoist their voices like billowing flags. I want to say, “May I finish, please?” instead of “C- Ca- Can I just fin-”

I want to let The Interrupters know that everything in this life is fast enough. Everything exists in bite-sized chunks and manic blurts. We trip over everything and tumble over polite words because we need to “drill down” and “unpack” at dizzying speeds. We are reckless and impatient and fast becoming buffoons.

Now I may very well be channeling the voice of Sister Lily, the Sri Lankan nun from my Catholic Primary School, St Anthony’s, but I have to say that I miss quiet decorum, calm debate, refined mannerisms and just plain old respect.

Next time an unworthy Bowling Ball rams through my carefully selected arrangement of words, I’m going to have to pluck up some very feminine balls and learn to say: “NO. You may NOT stop me right now. Hell, I’m just getting started.”

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Without Fear of Vertigo

ImageI was once part of a dance piece called Without Fear of Vertigo. In the piece, the girls wore long, golden dresses and each of us had a pair of wings that slipped over our arms through iron rings. These wings were hard and heavy but read on stage as soft and beautiful. Without Fear of Vertigo was about Icarus who flew too close to the sun. It was about rising like a phoenix out of fear and into illumination and freedom.

I have flown too close to the sun. And I have landed with a thud, leaving a pile of broken feathers. But I have also learnt to lift my feet off the ground and spread my arms again and again. And again.

There are men in this life that teach you to be untrusting. There are men in this life that have mastered the art of taking while ignoring that of giving. There are men in this life who will cut your wings because you threaten to fly. When you have flown with this flock of men, it takes a while to unlearn the ways they have burnt into your navigation system.

At some point the unlearning is aided by the company of the good flock of men. I have known these ones too. And they are so powerful that when you fly with them your wings receive an extra push of air.

There is much to be fearful of. There is much that invites you to keep your wings tucked in. In this life there are no certainties and even the great ball of fire that tempted Icarus might explode one day and save us all the trip. But what can we do if we do not explore and trust and abandon fear? Some days I think Icarus was a fool and some days I think he was a magnificent genius.

The biggest gift we all have is resilience. Vertigo is learnt behaviour – much like distrust and doubt. In this dance piece, I remember being carried across the long back of a man with just my ankles and feet across his shoulders. We were meant to be dead Icarus angels – our wings spread out behind us. It hurt my shoulder blades and my young back like hell but it looked absolutely mesmerizing on stage. Each night, as we danced without fear of vertigo, I remember wondering if he would ever drop me. He never did.


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What would David Ogilvy do?


Two things happened in the ad industry in the last few months that would have made David Ogilvy cringe in his grave. First, an ad agency was stripped of its honours and shamed for entering fake work into an awards show. Second, after an 8-year long relationship, a certain agency was informed – over email – of the client’s intention to put the business out to pitch.

David Ogilvy was born in 1911. At the time, the advertising souls of this era were still floating around in a cosmic bubble, contemplating making a grand entrance a couple of decades later. So of what importance then, is the opinion of this old-world gentleman?

I believe that in a time when our industry is consumed with the challenges and wonders of the digital age, doing good for humanity and fulfilling our rock-star dreams, we should also be consumed with the fact that while nobody was looking, respect, trust and good old common sense started walking out the door.

As someone from the agency side, I have always feared that the very nature of the agency-client relationship is flawed – a relationship that has set us on unequal footing and built master-slave mentalities and battered-wife syndromes. While no relationship is a one-way street, I worry that ours is more strained than it has ever been. Now would be a good time to summon the spirit of the Father of Advertising. Here are five things Ogilvy said that I would like to share with all clients:

“Be candid, and encourage candor.”

David Ogilvy would want us to stop hiding behind debriefs and emails and start having more honest conversations. Tell us what works for you, what doesn’t and before your eyes start roaming, talk to us and give us the chance to show you that we actually care about your business as much as you do. If it still doesn’t work out, don’t break up with us over email.

“Why keep a dog and bark yourself?”

Ogilvy recommended that clients should not compete with their agencies in the creative area. Trust that most of us went to ad school. Trust us to do creativity, to write copy and to design. No one wants their copy dictated to them. We should ban tracked changes on word documents and scribbling on layouts. Give us your opinion, criticise and interrogate the work but allow us to do what we love doing.

“Don’t haggle with your agency.”

Sometimes ad agencies behave like a kid who has a hundred bucks and finds himself in front of a slot machine. But sometimes we feel like the kid who has to score goals in Bata Toughees. Maybe it’s time to loosen the iron-grip on the purses. Spend the right money at the right time with the right people and you will see the results.

“Clients get the advertising they deserve.”

A great idea is chosen by you. When you are brave you get brave work. No doubt, every great idea travels a scary journey accompanied by a manic, feverish sweat. We should not be afraid of this fever because it subsides once the work survives intact. If you set your standards high, you allow us to improve your bottom line and to do great work for you.

“Loosen their tongues.”

I think that Ogilvy meant that we should drink Tequila. We should also have lunch some time.  Maybe play a round of golf too. We compress time so drastically these days that we forget that relationships are built alongside the work, the briefs and the meetings. Get to know the people that work on your business and let us get to know you so that we might each catch a glimpse of the passion and commitment we share.

As 2013 draws to a close and the last brief gets jammed under the door, I hope that we can wake up in 2014 with a more evolved approach to the agency-client relationship. On both sides, I hope that we can behave with more integrity, build trust again and pat each other on the backs without the simultaneous urge to stab each other. I hope that we can find new meaning in our roles. If the face of advertising has changed and now resembles a bearded, plaid-wearing guy with an enormous heart, doesn’t it make sense that we both rock up to work as partners, rather than as ‘Agency’ and ‘Client’? Let us make 2014 the year that all others are compared to and let us make David Ogilvy, that old bastard, bloody proud.

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6 December 2013


A phone call.
Put on the news.
President Zuma.
Amazing Grace.
Nelson Mandela has died.

The Set Up

438229660_640I’ve had a tummy bug for four and a half days now. This means I’m generally nauseous and irritable. And it just so happens that today was my first Set Up. I almost didn’t make it because I couldn’t bear to leap out of bed and be bright and perky while feeling bland and sort of like the flat Coca Cola I’ve been drinking all this while. But the Set-Up coordinators insisted.

Now, perhaps my entire experience has been tainted by my virus-plagued, plain-toast-overloaded, lame and feverish state of being. And the fact that Mr Match was made aware of my tummy bug. Sexy. Very sexy.

So I go to the event which is a braai. And luckily I’m vegetarian because that makes for great opening remarks around chops and chicken sausages. Apple juice in my glass looks like whiskey and I’m okay. My lovely friend sells me unabashedly to Mr Match. And we go about the afternoon in general chitchat and jovial banter.

Just as I start to think this is not entirely unpleasant, the conversation turns to me. I feel instantly nauseous and a gas bubble rises in my chest making me want to burp loudly. Either this is gastro-bug related or I’m beginning to feel that this social encounter suddenly resembles work and looming deadlines. And this is the problem with The Set Up.

It is too conscious for my liking. The threat of disappointment lingers in the entry hall. The pressure wafts around your face like braai smoke. I know why he is there. He knows why I am there. Every word I utter will be analysed as will his. A thousand and fifty mental notes are being taken. And nothing feels like a chance encounter. One feels like a game player and a strategist and a tap dancer rolled into a massive ball of “Hey look at me!” And while there is nothing wrong with Mr Match (or me) the whole scenario feels A-W-K-W-A-R-D. You feel like you’re in the midst of bricklaying the path to your future and treading with utter precision is required.  (Of course, when one’s gut is not in a state of conviviality it makes everything seem worse).

I’ve been pondering it all from the safety of my Shoebox this evening and this is what I’ve decided: Set ups are well meaning and the people that want to set you up love you dearly. They can be harmless encounters and if anything, the opportunity to meet someone new and interesting. But they’re hard work.

It’s starts with deciding what to wear. You think – what if this is the guy? Then I have to think hard about what I wear so that one day when we we’re together for 40 years he can say: “I remember your mother the first day I saw her – she was wearing a blue blah blah”  Also, you don’t want to make too much of an effort because then you set the bar way too high and there’s no coming down from that. So you go as you normally go hoping they like you just the way you are. (Thank you Bridget Jones’ Diary for making all women believe that it is possible for men to like you just the way you are!)

Conversation is tough because it feels prompted and much like wearing a CV on your head. Searching for commonality feels like the mission of the day and is overrated really. Being aware that you’re being observed makes you feel like a house on show day or the hamster at the petting zoo and saying goodbye is AWKWARD – do you wave, shake hands or hug?

Nonetheless, I survived my first Set Up, despite the fact that Mr Match probably will forever remember me as gastro girl. But one has to be open to these things I hear my inner school principal saying, especially if there aren’t dozens of men banging down your door, dear!

But, hello? How can life be so business-like and….and…ordinary?

I blame Hollywood and Bollywood for building up my perceptions of the first encounter as sweeping, epic and swooning. Yes, yes, that’s naïve but hell, even a Tarantino-esque encounter would do! I just want it to be somewhat memorable, heart-stopping perhaps, unique maybe, puzzling and strange even. Just something that, for a moment, unsettles the mundane beat of my heart.

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The Winged Walkers


I haven’t spilled in a while.

Cups of milk, shards of glass, avocado dessert and green vegetable soup – yes. But not words and thoughts. I didn’t feel like spilling. That’s what happens when you summon all your energy and place it with family and at the bedside of the one that faces the most challenging journey of his life. You gather it all up, hold it in and store all the words and thoughts in bottles with lids and then you shelve those too. Because these are words that are not easily spilled. They are the breadcrumbs in your own journey back to understanding.

But while I’ve been labeling my words and thoughts and archiving them, I have been amazed and simply astounded by the concept of human love.

I don’t really know if I believe in angels – I tend to fluctuate on the issue, especially the stereotypical, white-clothed, fluffy-winged variety of Angel. But I do believe in The Winged Walkers. These are humans that restore faith in humanity – that behave with absolute good intent and bring only kindness, warmth, comfort and support. They make love tangible in all parts of your life and leave you utterly humbled.

I have Winged Walkers in my life and they are the Bringers, Doers and Senders of these things:

  1. Trips back and forth over highways for departures and arrivals.
  2. Pots of soup and Goodie Tupperwares.
  3. Tissue boxes for Africa.
  4. Stimulating conversation.
  5. Massages and stories of long ago.
  6. Designing of presentations.
  7. Restoration of things lost in cyber hell.
  8. Handling things.
  9. Taking over things.
  10. Brain Cells – when yours seem to have abandoned you.
  11. Being there in the back row.
  12. Speaking to the Higher Powers.
  13. Phone Calls, Whatsapp, Skype, SMS’s, Tweets, DM’s, Group Chats.
  14. Timely and appropriate memes.
  15. Grocery shopping.
  16. Advice.
  17. Tolerance.
  18. Long-distance check ins.
  19. Company.
  20. The ability not to be morose.
  21. Research.
  22. Contacts and Expertise.
  23. Tough, honest conversations.
  24. The knowing smile.
  25. Chocolate.
  26. Wine.
  27. Dokra.
  28. Pop-ins and drop-ins.
  29. Hagendas for supper.
  30. Knowing what to do and say.

The Winged Walkers have surrounded us. They are the love-armoured guards that line our long path, fending off hard times and fear. They keep us in the Present. They remind us of what matters. And what doesn’t.

The Winged Walkers have been great teachers. Their registered trademark is the ability to suddenly transform into solid pillars one can lean on.

As we all put one foot in front of the other on this journey, we salute The Winged Walkers because they remind us of one very simple, human thing…

…We do not walk alone.




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I wish Cancer would die.

I wish Cancer would die.

I wish it would lie on its bed gasping and take its last breath with misery.

I wish that it would endure chemotherapy and radiation – the therapies that look like healing but resemble suffering more closely.

I wish that Cancer’s Family would sit up late at night with a hole in their hearts worrying and fearing.

I wish that its future was murky and without answers.

I wish that Cancer would Google alternative treatments and read till it felt confused and nauseous.

I wish that it would stop visiting all our families and friends – arriving, fooling us into thinking it had left only to arrive again.

I wish that Cancer would die instead of obliterating everyone we love.

And if it doesn’t die, I’m prepared to kill it.

And if I can’t do it on my own, we should all do it.

We should nuke the hell out of that evil Bastard.

We should run it out of our homes and out of our planet.

Cancer…YOU get your papers ready. YOU get your policies and your Will in order.

It’s time for your own damn medicine.

I wish Cancer would die.

Just die. Just fukkin’ die.


Why a girl will always need her father

My dad has a full head of silver-grey hair. He always says that I’m partly responsible.

I’m sure I can think of a few incidents that sprouted a couple of those grey hairs. There was my 21st birthday opening dance. I choreographed a little Bollywood number and gave him about 15 minutes to learn it. Then there was the time I borrowed by cousin’s fitting suede and leather black dress to wear to the Standard 9 dance. Daddy took one look and calmly asked me to turn around, head back to my room and find some more clothes to put on. And then there was the day he came home from work and found me in tears on the phone with ‘long-distance’ boyfriend. Dad picked up the phone in the other room and gave the guy such a tongue lashing that even if he wasn’t planning a trip to hell, asshole boyfriend started packing his bags pretty fast.

Fathers are different to mothers. The close bond a girl forms with her mum is pretty natural and starts from about the time you decide you need to go bra shopping. Mums nag you about absolutely everything; you rebel as a teenager about absolutely everything and by the time you’re an adult, you’re the closest friends and can confide in each other. The bond a girl forms with her dad is different. It’s less verbal and less overt but supremely powerful.

The way a father exercises discipline is different to a mother. Mothers tend to spend the bulk of daily activity with their children and that allows them all the nagging time in the world. Very quickly, you get to learn mum’s reactions. But because you only see dad towards the end of the day, he tends not to play the nagging role and concentrates only on the major mess ups. So when you’ve done something wrong and dad voices his disappointment, you take note. It’s partly because he reserves his anger for special occasions and partly because you’re surprised he’s echoing mum’s words. Fathers watch from a distance. They observe everything and say little. But…they know things.

A girl will always need her father because he is the first man you get to know and he is the measure for all men you will ever meet. A girl will always need her dad for his quiet guidance and his ability to weather the storms with grace. He reminds you to see the world in perspective and to maintain dignity wherever you can.  He builds a protective force field around you from the day you’re born and you feel it even when you’re old enough to know how to kick a guy in the balls. He can dispense advice like the Dalai Lama and dance with you like Fred Astaire. And most of all, he is able to straddle the worlds of old-school charm and contemporary reality.

Dad was my after-hours English and History Teacher. I wouldn’t sleep well at night if he didn’t tuck me into bed. He open-heartedly agreed with my decision to study Drama and welcomed me back into his home when I decided to leave advertising to be a ‘starving’ dancer. He once sat through a long, angst-ridden contemporary dance piece of mine and when it was over he said: “I’m sorry, I didn’t really get what that was all about. But you were beautiful.”

My dad once gave me permission to tell a nasty, disrespectful old woman to “fuck off”. He has shared dirty jokes in my presence and taught me that no state of being is a permanent state. He always surprises me with his ability to help me put my head back on my neck when I’ve clearly lost it. He is the most open-minded person I know and has taught, and continues to teach me, that better judgement sometimes exists without society’s approval.

Dad, I know you’re not sentimental or romantic like mum. So forgive my next gushy outburst – you can blame it on her genes. But…I have to say that I love you more than you know. I will always always need you. And even though you have not one remaining black hair on your head, I’m proud of your silver crop. In a sea of men, it makes it easy to spot you, for you are the rarest of them all.

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Dinner and Indigestion with the Mugabes



Tonight as I sat down to eat dinner, I was surprised to see old Bob Mugabe and his family having their own dinner with none other than the velvet cushion man – Dali Tambo. My appetite was quickly ruined.

In the Sunday Times, Dali Tambo reveals that his mandate for the show People of the South is to “take the person out of the caricature, to make them real.” The question been bandied around in the press is about whether Tambo’s style should have been more interrogative rather than jovial. My question would be this: Should we be humanising a tyrant who has refused to vacate the Zimbabwean throne for the past 26 years?

My simple answer is no.

History teaches us to understand that humans are never one dimensional and even the oldest president in Africa has silly spats with his wife from time to time. Sure, one can celebrate the power of the media in allowing us a glimpse into the lives of people not always accessible to us, or even offering up a different perspective. But frankly, watching the Mugabes dance a little jig as the show’s credits went up, was enough to make me want to hurl.

I’m just a girl eating my veg curry on a Sunday night in front of the telly. But what if I was a person of the south affected first hand by the behaviour of Mugabe –by being silenced, having family killed, subjected to poverty or having my basic rights been abused? I hardly think that such a person would be interested in the human characteristics of this brute.

If we are really people of the south, surely we should spend our efforts ridding our continent of the used oil that clogs the pipes of democracy instead of cooking up a nice dinner with it? Ironically, this week the SADC (Southern African Development Community) had to cancel a summit to discuss Zimbabwean national elections because Robert Mugabe announced that he was not ready to meet. Hmmm, perhaps he was too busy resting on his newly acquired velvet cushion and being fed almonds bought at Harrods by Grace.

While people of interest deserve their time in the garden with Dali, I still don’t think dictators should crack the nod.  Because the only way for Mugabe to reveal his human side is to release his chokehold on the Zimbabwean nation and to tap out from all things grotesque, undemocratic and unbecoming of a twenty-first century Africa.

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Stupid Things Clients Say in Digital Advertising

imagesIt’s been 7 months since I jumped the Traditional Advertising Ship to join Digital. (Almost enough time to pop a baby). In this time I’ve learnt a few things about ‘The Client’ in Digital.

‘The Client’ in Digital is the same as ‘The Client’ in Traditional Advertising. Only more scared. Selling work is harder because our clients know they need digital advertising but want to get it over and done with like pulling a plaster. They hold onto budgets even tighter and hand them out like the Old Woman in The Shoe who had so many children she didn’t know what to do.

If you thought your clients in above-the-line were little bullies, in digital they’re worse. They can be thoroughbred dictators who’d prefer you to just do and not question.

When giving feedback, they start off by saying how they’re definitely not tech savvy but by the end of the meeting they gather so much momentum in their own belief that they are right, it almost seems as if they are channeling Steve Jobs himself.

We all know that words can drop from a client’s mouth like A-bombs in Nam and in digital it is just the same. These are a few of the stupid things I’ve heard clients say:

1. “I hardly use the internet. My son does though. But he’s always on the internet. The thing you’ve got to ask is why would I go to your website?”

2. “Who has time to use Skype really?”

3. “Well Skype is just about phone calls actually.”

4. “My friends only use Skype to talk to friends and family that live far away.”

5. “That idea is just too big. Our marketing department doesn’t have the resource or time for an idea like that.”

6. “We want something quick and manageable. This requires longevity.”

7. “We want something easy to implement. What about user-generated content?”

8. “We are not a content company.”

9. “You must realise, this target market is not digitally advanced.”

10. “Yes, you guys would do it…but you’re in advertising.”

11. “No…I wouldn’t drop what I was doing to chat to Ryan Gosling on the internet.”

12. “Please list ALL our terms and conditions on the banner.”

13. “The copy is too clever. I just want something straight.”

14. “I don’t want a viral video. I want a million-rand TV ad.”

15. “Can we just have some banner ads please?”

16. “Can we just have some banner ads please?”

17. “Guys between the ages of 30 and 40 are dads. They don’t have time to be online.”

18. “If this was on Mxit it would be great. I’d give it to my helper and she’d spend all day on it.”

19. “I’m having my hair done. Can she come and present to me here?”

20. “Make the logo bigger.”

I know that advertisers say stupid things too. But I also know that when I go to a doctor and he tells me that I need a blood test, I don’t tell him to rather give me a colonoscopy. It worries me that as the marketing and advertising industry grows older, we’re not growing wiser and our clients have become less and less trusting of advertising expertise.

They’re terrified of digital but instead of handing over some of the brand custodianship, they toss out the breadcrumbs and hope to get lucky. The Marketing Director has become brilliant at using the ‘sample of one’ survey – himself. ‘The Client’ always thinks their online engagement is the benchmark for the entire target market. And they still look at digital as the redheaded stepchild.

To my fellow advertisers in above-the-line, take comfort. ‘The Client’ is the same hairy beast in our neck of the woods. So what do we do? Maybe it’s time to gather our reputations as rebellious, crazy, wild advertising people with big ideas. Let’s stop being so damn well behaved in meetings. Let’s bring back the boozy advertising lunch, let’s take all ‘The Clients’ out to lunch and tell them we’ve all had about enough of ‘The Client’.

We would rather have partners. We would rather have good fellow parents who are ready for the fears, the joys, the difficulties and triumphs in raising a brand. We would rather make meaningful, memorable work than banner ads. If there was ever a time to respect the big ideas, it would be now.