Professional belly burning clinic

Rustenburg, NW, South Africa
Medically based beauty and health clinic providing free online confidential consultations conducted by certified doctors. As professional on the net as were are at our clinic. As efficient as I have ever been.

Monday, 19 March 2012

Could life be more basic than this?

I like to think of us as superior beings, frontal lobed to suppress our basic limbic drive, strategist in chief and in some instances of such mutant brilliance that we can altruistically foresee that which may be detrimental to our community at large, rare as it may be. Mandela is a good example of the last species, that he is dying and we have yet to find a substitute is the magnitude of the scarcity of the raw resources.

Every now and then though, a social deviation in my job reduces me to an animal that I am, brainstem and all in the opposite direction. When an elderly woman brought 24 yrs old retarded epileptic and polio child to me for review, I like a total care centre we should be asked what happened to the two fathers of the children she bore at 14 and 16. One died of HIV which he unfortunately passed on to the retarded 16yrs old then. The other was still at large, 45yrs old and unemployed but every now and then bought a few groceries from the temps that he organised here and there. A feather he added to his cap as the granny put it was that he after 9yrs of rejecting the child has honoured him with acceptance to a level of giving him a surname.

Charging him with a statutory rape logical as it may seem to me, was out of question for this family. Not only was he redeemed in their eyes, he was supporting the family. The amount that ranged in the 100 to 150 rands a month was not the issue at all. When did democracy become so cruel? Can justice be sacrificed under the hammer of the majority view? Could the retard be raped if the aggressor promised to buy bread for the family? Could accepting the potential baby and giving him a surname erase the emotional hurt the retard suffers?

I don’t know my father and if anybody rose and told me my surname was his I would stand in the queue at home affairs for a week to become X in the footsteps of my father Malcolm. I am an African and like the iconic speech of my intellectually isolated president of yesteryear, Mbeki, I do hope to smell perfume off the armpit off a Shangaan woman dismounting a motsheka (rear view enhancer) one day. I will repeat I am an African blood and all, not by acquisition only and hope with acceptance from my fellow justice sacrificing majority will stay African, irrespective of my non forgiving heart (somebody ought to think for the children) and hyperactive nose.

If biochemistry and physiology of beauty and health are the elements of every mix, then results are assured

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