There I was, healing, hydrating, and telling my ancestors I was done with men — like done done. Love was blocked. Archived. Buried somewhere under feminist texts and soft life aspirations. And then the universe, in full ancestral pettiness, said: “Zintle, hold my impepho.”
Enter: Somkhanda.
A man who didn’t just walk into my life — he arrived with spiritual credentials, a royal surname, the voice of a midnight radio host, and the calm, commanding posture of someone who’s been reincarnated with a clear mission.
Built like a warrior. Speaks like a scholar. Laughs like a naughty schoolboy. A man who makes you want to pray, protest, and pack lunch all at once.
He’s a linguist. A language man. Passionate about the preservation and decolonization of African languages, especially his beloved isiZulu. He teaches it on radio with such fire and reverence, you’d swear it’s the language of angels.
His voice, teaching syllables and meanings and ancestral pride — haibo! It’s so sexy I almost started writing my will.
But it’s deeper than the sound. It’s the mission. The way he speaks about language as identity. About African thought, culture, and consciousness. He reminds me — and I say this with full chest — he reminds me of Steve Bantu Biko.
No, I never met Biko. But I’ve felt him in books, in memories passed down, in the pulse of resistance. And this man? He carries that same fire. That same fearless gentleness. That soft, loud, revolutionary spirit.
And yet, he’s hilarious. Outrageously so. He can go from quoting Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o to mocking his own childhood nickname in the same breath. He tells wild stories about religion, tradition, politics — and suddenly you’re laughing through liberation. You can’t fake that kind of brilliance.
He lives far away. But love doesn’t care about distance — not when it’s rooted in spirit. We’ve already had our dramatic first and second fights (we’re both passionate, don’t judge). But even in the chaos, he’s never been unkind.
Never been disrespectful. In fact, the way this man respects me? I’ve never known anything like it. It’s not performative. It’s not poetic. It’s practised. It’s lived. It’s real.
And the way he honours his late mother, MaCele — The Queen who raised a King — makes my heart ache with gratitude. I never knew her, but I thank her every day. Because she didn’t just raise a man — she raised a movement, and then wrapped it in tenderness.
One day, I packed food for a homeless man. Nothing grand. Just a normal meal. And he looked at me like I’d parted the Red Sea. He said, “I love Ubuntu bakho.” I almost cried. Because he sees me. Not just the fire and the fight — but the kindness. The giving. The parts of me I don’t broadcast.
We bond over food, music, language, dreams. He makes sacrifices. Sends me songs that become medicine. Randomly breaks into dance that is both confusing and deeply attractive.
His touch? Yoh. Gentle. Grounding. Ancestral. It’s like he’s praying without words.
Somkhanda is my man, yes — but he’s also my comrade. My cultural twin flame. My intellectual chaos partner. The one who reminds me that love doesn’t have to be shallow to be fun.
It doesn’t have to be loud to be real. And it can be revolutionary without losing its tenderness.
So here’s to my Zulu revolutionary in jeans and a deep voice. My late-night linguist. My spiritual, political, romantic comedy co-star.
May we keep fighting, laughing, cooking, teaching, and loving like it’s part of the freedom charter.
Forever yours — in softness, madness, and radical Black joy,
MaKhobeni
