Partial Arts

Author: Khensi Vision

  • Run-out Groove

    Run-out Groove

    Most of a honey bee’s social life unfolds in the darkness of the hive.

    I like my tea with honey. I reach for the box that contains my uju and peak inside. The special note that accompanies every jar I purchase stares back at me. A fun fact about honeybees. A tablespoon in my cup of rooibos. Morning and evening. Warm winds of sweetness encourage the drink to settle throughout my chest.

    If I keep this up for long enough, I might have something to say. Though, unlike the honey, the truth isn’t as easy to share. The tea cools before it is even touched. Now, I am become awares of the season to come.

    I wonder how you’d feel about the things I do in the dark. They’re the same things I do when I’m at a concert and when I’m alone or with you in my room. Hands moving uncontrollably, eyes dilated, knees weaker than the hips.

    I wonder how you’d feel about the sounds that escape from my lips when my song comes on. Would you rewind so you could watch me do it again? I wonder how you’d feel about how I lose my mind over you. Would you unwind so you could make me do it again? 

    Reminiscing on the late evenings I spent mesmerised by The Beyonce Experience in my childhood, I recall how live music made an early impression on me. I’m always beside myself after a live show; whether that be on the stages of Constitutional Hill or behind some trees at Arts on Main or even after I’ve had you over.

    I spend hours ruminating over the experience; hands rewinding uncontrollably, eyes fixated on the screen, reliving every detail until the phone dies from desire. 

    Owing to the endless soaps and periodic field trips to the Johannesburg theatres, myself and plenty other unassuming music lovers wound up repressing the love for the musical. I for one, went from being the supporting act in my school plays or the exotica at the church demonstrations, to settling as the leading lady in a special somebody’s phone during the dark ages.

    The media we consumed conditioned how we process music, but as things change, and they tend to do, we grew to perform in different ways. Now, the only other places I get to be the main score are in my room, and amidst a crowd of fellow inflated musical egos. 

    Aided by altruistic stage planning, contraband and a feeling that I might get lucky, all this pent up energy releases itself when I’m at the function. The music isn’t all that makes the party, the people feed the fire.; the genge I arrive with in the late afternoon, and the gengi I might end up with by the end of the night.

    Who I might see, what I might do, how it might make me feel. The function is a place of possibility. In a crowd of hundreds of people, thousands sometimes, what are the odds I bump into you? It must mean something… seeing you here.

    The most recognizable honey bee sound is their buzz. The familiar hum comes from the rapid movement of their wings during flight, which generates vibrations in the air.

    In January 2025, I attended the first Milk & Cookies Festival in Johannesburg, headlined by Kaytranada. Do you want to roll the tapes? Do you want to watch the film?

    The energy of the music festival pulsed through the night air; thick with the scent of trampled grass, spilled beer, and the faint trace of languid smoke drifting through James & Ethel Gray Park.

    In chaotic unison, our bodies swayed. Stacked shoulder to shoulder and depth scintillating through the line array, our heartbeats synched.

    He towered over the crowd just beyond the reach of the flashing lights. The music faded into nothing the moment my eyes found him. I perdendosi’d from the real world and entered a private session.

    The deprecated basslines, the harmonious cheers, the vibrato from the city’s uber creatives – they all resolved into a shoegaze-y rhythm and for a second I was left with only the sharp inhales I forgot to take.

    Unsure of whether the air had vanished or if I had simply forgotten how to breathe on my own, I struggled to explain myself to myself. Rolling in the deep, I struggled to communicate the feeling that overwhelmed my body and numbed my physical reactions to the groove. 

    The strobe lights cast an eerie glow on his skin, turning him an almost spectral blue at times, like a figure caught between worlds. His haircut was sharp, the faintest shadow of facial hair framing his jawline.

    He always carried himself like he had nowhere better to be, as if the chaos around him barely consumed him but he loved it nonetheless – present yet detached, always just out of reach.

    When he looked up, his eyes lingered for a moment, pride flickering through them. Then came the slow, knowing smirk, curling at the edges like a secret left unsaid.

    The frequency of honey bee buzzing – typically between 200 and 250 Hz – has been shown to have a calming effect on humans. 

    I felt that smirk in my chest before my brain could process it. His mixes were tight and a tad bit predictable. The kind of arrangement that declared the greeting a native habit. He must have sensed that this was the exact sequence I replayed BUBBA in.

    I came alive in the nighttime as we raged to the depths of our electronic souls. I lost it at every queue. We could’ve been anywhere else in the world, but we were there together.

    I believed it meant something more, as you do, but the veil of reality halted the rhythm of this train of thought, creating a lump in my throat.  

    With my hopeful melodies unable to escape through my voice, my muted emotions travelled down my passaggio and dissipated from my heart as a fleeting moment, my chest unable to hold on to each transition that hooked me in the first place.

    I found the moon during a segue and exclaimed of how well Kaytranada knows me. It may be an artists’ rule of thumb to spark an emotional reaction in every member of an audience but in that moment, I was the quirk. I had surrendered to the music.

    Honey bees also use their buzz as a warning signal, making themselves sound more threatening to potential intruders.

    After the encore, I spot irony walking towards me. With nowhere to hide, I turn the other cheek, unawares of the wild enthusiasm the Randy in the blue flannel shirt busts with at the opportunity to disrupt my blues. 

    I’m walking this way, you’re walking that way. I see you, I look away. You stop talking, you turn around. You shout my name, I turn around. You’re in my face, you embrace me, you shout my name, I say, “hi”. You let me go, you look at me, you hug me again. I hug you back because why the fuck not?

    We let go after an eon. You cross your arms. You’re in my face again asking me where I’ve been. I say I’ve been getting my money up. You smirk and we lock eyes. You appear to be holding something back. I’m waiting for you to just give it to me.

    Then your friend interrupts, “Bro we gotta go”. You’re still gazing at me. Then you bite your lip and glare at him for what felt like forever. He says, “Dude come on”.

    Then you introduce him as your little brother and me as the love of your life. That’s a lie, you just say my name. He greets me, I greet him back. He reiterates that you guys should, “really get going”. The staring contest intensifies.

    Bees spend seconds to minutes on a single flower, often spending longer on flowers they are “buzz-pollinating” for pollen. A single honeybee can visit between 2,000 and 7,000 flowers in a single day. Throughout their lifespan, a bee can visit up to 150,000 flowers.

    You try to put up a silent argument but defeat washes over the resistance. I hold my breath, anticipating it. You surrender to the fact that you have to leave. I surrender to the moment because you are here right now. 

    The buzz from the bees and the chords from the strings take me to places I have never been. For three minutes and thirty seconds, I’m willing to go there with you.

    I feel my body forgive you for crimes you didn’t know you committed. I feel myself open up and lose control, letting your arms sway me back and forth and all the way round.

    Just when I think you’re about to let go, you pull me in closer and hold me tighter for just a little longer. Unapologetically rocking my boat with no intent of loosening your grip on my waist.

    You whisper everything to me in one short sentence. Overwhelmed by your sweetness, I mumble something back. I can’t find the words to carry this conversation or the confidence to let it carry me, but I trust that you feel it too.

    Our symphony concluded with a delicate pianissimo as we went our separate ways, and the needle slipped into the runout groove. KP

  • Blue Eyes, Blue Lies

    Blue Eyes, Blue Lies

    This is what happens when a child internalises society’s rejection as truth.

    • Wake

    Literature can only be read when we are ready to read. It’s a simple idea really. It’s the reason why we’re able to explore full worlds in one night, then spend years with unbent spines as homes to cobwebs on our shelves. I like to think books choose their readers.

    During a period of isolation, I surrendered to my Black state and spent my hours listening to Jamila Woods’ sophomore album, LEGACY! LEGACY!. I was so deeply enamoured by this world she had built that I researched the names she chose as the song titles, at an attempt to connect more deeply with her music, with her.

    The further I fell into the Wikipedia rabbit hole, the more unfamiliar the names got. So unfamiliar, I realised I had done myself a disservice by having not taken any of the great African-American writers to bed. How could I have dreamt of writing well without having widely read? 

    This deep dive ended with a resolution – I’d eventually have to break bread with Toni Morrison. Not in my wildest dreams, and wild they do get, did I expect our first encounter to be about a tale of how Black children begin to seek differences between themselves and their white counterparts.

    Born and raised middle class, or something close to that, I’ve had my fair share of identity crises, but none were related to my race, or so I thought. As I walked the campuses of Wits University with my tinted worldview of Blackness as the default, this filter desaturated, little by little.

    I could feel the cracks in my mind form, break wider and wider, and ache more ruthlessly. Bloody eyes and all, I lost it. I did not make it out the same way I came in. Or maybe I did, just more aware of my state. More intertwined with it, enraged by it… terrified of it. 

    Through The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison journeys an uncomfortable road on the map to the door of no return; she traces the link between the external environment in which children are raised, to the inner worlds they are forced to inhabit, and describes the psychological effects of institutional racism on a familial level.

    She really went there, and brought it home, leaving me more open than ever.

    • Try

    The protagonist, Pecola Breedlove, is born outside of comfort and throughout the novel, this Black state (poverty) functions as a symbol of decentralised despotism, as the coloniser continues to exert control over her despite the geographical distance between them.

    She is psychologically despot and this is where the depression begins to permeate her body, cell by cell, like a cancer or a viral infection.

    Morrison fractures the class narrative of Black children aspiring to whiteness and instead reshapes it as Black children seeking refuge from poverty and using whiteness as a tool to escape the legacies of colonialism, which are “the far more tragic and disabling consequences of accepting rejection as legitimate, as self-evident” (i).

    It is not that Pecola wants to be “Jane”; rather, Pecola simply does not want to be herself. She rejects herself because the world rejects her.

    Morrison uses the Dick and Jane narrative in the beginning of the novel to foreshadow the beliefs that Pecola will internalise because of her perceived difference from Jane.

    The passage appears eight times throughout the novel. Morrison’s usage of repetition as a literary device symbolises the speed and force with which these ideals are absorbed into children’s memory. 

    “Here is the house. It is green and white. It has a red door. It is very

    pretty. Here is the family. Mother, Father, Dick, and Jane live in

    the green-and-white house. They are very happy. She has a red

    dress. She wants to play. Who will play with Jane? See the cat. It

    goes meow-meow. Come and play. The kitten will not play. See

    mother. Mother is very nice. Mother, will you play with Jane?

    Mother laughs. Laugh, Mother, laugh. See Father. His is big and

    strong. Father, will you play with Jane? Father is smiling. Smile,

    Father, smile. See the dog. Bowwow goes the dog. Do you want to

    play with Jane? See the dog run. Run, dog, run. Look, look. Here

    comes a friend. The friend will play with Jane. They will play a

    good game. Play, Jane, play.” (1)

    Unlike Jane, Pecola has no pets to play with, no mother who laughs with her, and no father who smiles at her. Her childhood is marked by neglect, sharply contrasting with Jane’s white, suburban, middle-class upbringing. Even beyond the family unit, Jane is embraced by her peers, while Pecola is frequently bullied.

    Whilst Jane is accepted, Pecola is not. 

    • Break

    The second occurrence of the Dick and Jane narrative,

     “HERE IS THE HOUSE. IT IS GREEN AND WHITE. IT HAS A RED DOOR. IT IS VERY PRETTY. IT IS VERY PRETTY. PRETTY. PRETTY.” (31)

    explains Pecola’s living situation compared to Jane’s suburban upbringing. 

    Pecola’s family lives in a building previously occupied by numerous businesses. They are unable to emotionally connect to the furniture because they do not own it; it is not their property. Lacking the resources to procure their own furnishings and build their own memories, the children sleep on couches and are deprived of privacy. 

    There is a sense of personhood that is attached to our place of residence, to the place we call home. Being able to connect to our home makes it easier to connect with ourselves as well as with the people we live with.

    Before one can imagine freedom, one must feel safe. Pecola never does.

    Morrison uses the third occurrence of the Dick and Jane narrative, 

    “HERE IS THE FAMILY. MOTHER, FATHER, DICK AND JANE. THEY LIVE IN THE GREEN AND WHITE HOUSE. THEY ARE VERY H-appy” (38)

    to eliminate the euphemistic tone often used to describe poverty. She states it plainly and simply. The word happy is interrupted because there is no easy way to be happy when you are poor. 

    Pecola’s being denied comfort leaves her in a constant state of unease, a sort of nervous condition that she permanently lives in. This takes a psychological toll on her as she subconsciously seeks escape from her immediate environment. 

    • Fight

    The fourth occurrence of the Dick and Jane narrative, 

    “SEE THE CAT IT GOES MEOW MEOW COME AND PLAY. COME PLAY WITH JANE. THE KITTEN WILL NOT PLAY. PLAY. PLAY. PLA” (79)

    reveals forms of Black-on-Black aggression caused by classism. Pecola experiences rejection from Geraldine, a middle-class Black woman, who lives in a house near the school Pecola attends. 

    Her son is in trouble and he frames Pecola for his domestic mistake, painting her in a bad light, and the mother believes him because of her internalised misogyny and self-hatred. It also does not help that Pecola comes from poverty. The kitten, symbolising other women, rejects Pecola.

    Gordon Parks | Segregation Series |
    Outside looking in, Mobile, Alabama, 1956

    Women such as Geraldine are also aspiring toward whiteness, an aspiration that ultimately uplifts white men, giving them more incentive to be “kind” to Black people by promising them a piece of the pie.

    In this pursuit these Black women become ashamed of any behaviours or features that mark them as distinctly Black. They see these traits as blemishes on their imagined proximity to whiteness and therefore reject them entirely, 

    “wherever it erupts, this Funk, they wipe it away; where it crusts, they dissolve it; wherever it drips, flowers, or clings, they find it and fight it until it dies … they hold behind in for fear of a sway too free; for fear of lips too thick, and they worry, worry, worry, about the edges of their hair.” (81)

    These same women are victims of white supremacy and become unconscious agents in training the children they birth into being monsters, perpetuating and excusing problems such as rape, domestic violence and emotional abuse.

    • Read

    The fifth occurrence of the Dick and Jane narrative, 

    “SEE MOTHER. MOTHER IS VERY NICE. MOTHER WILL YOU PLAY WITH JANE. MOTHER LAUGHS. LAUGH MOTHER LAUGH LA” (108),

    is about Pecola’s mother, Mrs Pauline Breedlove’s emotional death (specifically, the death of her beauty), marked by the loss of her front teeth.

    It is heavily linked to class, because access to healthcare, even for something as routine as dental check-ups, is inaccessible to the poor and Black.

    Whether someone can care for or beautify themselves is often signalled through their teeth, which also reflect diet, lifestyle, and access to leisure time such as exercise or “healthy,” marked-up foods. 

    Beauty also serves as a measure of a woman’s worth and potential to marry, a significant aspiration for women of that era.

    Equating physical beauty with virtue fosters envy, insecurity, and self-contempt, reducing love to possessive control rather than genuine care.

    This dehumanising standard extends to women’s experiences of childbirth, where their pain is minimised or ignored, reinforcing the notion that their suffering is less significant than that of their white counterparts and stripping them of agency and recognition.

    • Cry

    The sixth occurrence of the Dick and Jane narrative, 

    “SEE FATHER. HE IS BIG AND STRONG. FATHER WILL YOU PLAY WITH JANE. FATHER IS SMILING. SMILE FATHER SMILE. SMILE.” (132)

    sheds light on Cholly Breedlove; Pecola’s father and Pauline’s husband.

    Cholly’s behaviour illustrates the intergenerational and systemic impact of racism. Abandoned at birth and consistently unseen, he internalises the rejection and marginalisation he experiences, which manifests as shame and rage.

    His inability to direct anger at the white men who oppress him reflects the power imbalance of a racially stratified society: confronting them would be self-destructive, leaving him consumed by helplessness.

    Morrison portrays this internalisation as a cycle in which societal devaluation of Black life directly shapes individual psychology, perpetuating trauma and dysfunction.

    • Speak

    The seventh occurrence of the Dick and Jane narrative,

    “SEE THE DOG. BOWWOW GOES THE DOG. DO YOU WANT TO PLAY. DO YOU WANT TO PLAY WITH JANE. SEE THE DOG RUN. R (162)”,

    introduces Soaphead Church, the man who plants the idea of blue eyes in Pecola’s mind, “With the confidence born of a conviction of superiority, they performed well at schools” (166). 

    Young, impressionable, innocent, and naïve, she adopts his harmful belief, “He read greedily but understood selectively, choosing the bits and pieces of other men’s ideas that supported whatever predilection he had at the moment.” (167)

    Soaphead Church perpetuates purity culture in his quest to enforce defeminisation through the church, teaching girls’ shame and submission. Vulnerable girls such as Pecola are then seduced by conservatism and learn to shrink themselves to be accepted. 

    His very nickname (implying purity) is a conjunction of the two tools through which he exerts power: soap, symbolising physical cleanliness (and thus bodily or disciplinary power), and church, symbolising spiritual purity (and thus sexual control).

    By preying on girls rather than adult women, he expresses a desire for innocent girlhood (girlhood without agency, or sexual autonomy). His behaviour is explicitly predatory and paedophilic, relying on the vulnerability of children who cannot desire him in return.

    In Pecola’s case, he manipulates her into poisoning Bob the dog, a symbol of companionship and acceptance, 

    “LOOK LOOK. HERE COMES A FRIEND. THE FRIEND WILL PLAY WITH JANE. THEY WILL PLAY A GOOD GAME. PLAY JANE PLAY.” (191).

    • Die

    The eighth occurrence of the Dick and Jane narrative marks Pecola’s descent into madness. She creates an imaginary friend as a form of escapism. She becomes who she imagines herself to be, and this comforts her after The Incident.

    Without a secure support structure, she must create a “friend” who will “play” with her, “So it was. A little black girl yearns for the blue eyes of a little white girl, and the horror at the heart of her yearning is exceeded only by the evil of fulfilment.” (202).

    That “friend” often takes the symbolic form of a white doll (an object historically given to young Black girls in place of care, attention, or affirmation).

    These dolls functioned as instruments of neglect, encouraging Black girls to dream on whiteness rather than tend to themselves.

    White dolls are not living, breathing beings; they cannot mirror the realities of Black girlhood.

    This absence threatens Black girls who were never exposed to dolls that looked like them; dolls with kinky hair to style, dolls meant to resemble the children they might one day nurture.

    At one point, dolls were even designed to be babies, subtly trapping young girls into premature performances of motherhood.  Yet these dolls are not real, and this is why a strong-willed character like our main narrator Claudia hates them. 

    Claudia’s anger gestures toward the deep unfairness of a society that privileges whiteness so profoundly that even a white doll is treated as more worthy of care than a living Black child.

    The kindness she and her sister Frida extend to Pecola demonstrates the possibility of moving beyond preconceived notions of beauty; refusing to see beauty as something scarce or competitive. Instead, they treat beauty as an artefact that is plentiful and available for Black children to share.

    Beauty standards become a kind of currency for love. The more beautiful one appears, the more deserving of love one seems. The power of the male gaze validates women who are obsessed with beauty.

    Morrison asserts that she does not blame these women, she pities them. Their love is conditional: without the house, the red dress or the blue eyes, they cannot feel loved. It is painful for women to sit and wait to be chosen. 

    Morrison writes, “Love is never any better than the lover. Wicked people love wickedly, violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love stupidly, but the love of a free man is never safe. There is no gift for the beloved. The lover alone possesses his gift of love. The loved one is shorn, neutralized, frozen in the glare of the lover’s inward eye.” (204)

    By killing Bob, Soaphead Church tricks Pecola Breedlove into killing the possibility of genuine acceptance. This can be connected to the cultural idea of dogs as “man’s best friend”. When she kills the best friend, she isolates herself completely.

    Alone and desolate, depression looms and she descends into madness. 

    In this sense, the title The Bluest Eye, can be reimagined as The Saddest I, marking the novel as a study of how depression overtakes those born into systemic poverty and racialized neglect. 

    We know that there is no key,  but further introspection has made me realise that there was never a door to begin with. Morrison Is trying to tell us that the system was never built for us. Yet this void, this fracture, is the cognitive schema in poor Black children.

    By changing the ancient narrative, the psychological story that we were fed through the educational system, we offer Black children possibility; alternative routes to the door of no return.

    This is the Black child’s first liturgy, the idea that they can exist outside of a white context, that they may not know what that is, but that it is there, it looks like them and they should trust it. Reiterating the idea that they can grow and become from that unknown is their second chance at fullness. Teaching them how to trust themselves on their journey into the further unknown – well, that would be the Revolution. 

    Love thy neighbour as thyself.

    Love thy neighbour. Love thyself.

    But what happens when the self has already been declared unlovable? Pecola could not love herself because she was never shown how.

    What kind of world makes a child believe that they must disappear in order to survive?

    Works Cited:

    • Morrison, Toni. The Bluest Eye. Vintage International, 2007.