29/11/2025
Angizange ngacabanga ukuthi a single song can feel like ibhalwe from enhliziyweni yami, but yikho exactly okwenzakale izolo, ngizwe ingoma okuthiwa ngu "Who Knows", by Daniel Caesar, I clicked on it by mistake, but ngicine sengiyifake ku-repeat.
Inwele zami bezisamanzi from a rushed shower, and my soft lotion cream was still clinging to the warmth of my skin, lokuyi loose black trackbottom kwami kubuthelelene ezithendeni zami. Amagetsi ebesehambile, my LED light was glowing softly, bekuthule and ukungena kwe-voice yakhe into the room, felt like ukhona umuntu, ozwisisa izinto engingazikhulumiyo out loud.
I’ve been drifting through ama-relationships aqala nge-spark, ephele nge-silence. Bakhona engazama ukubavulela inhliziyo yami — women who seemed so good, so put-together, so impossibly sure of themselves. Like, omunye engathi ngiqala ukumbona, wayefake okuyi curled weave, egqoke i-sweater eyi-navy blue, eyigqoke angani it was part of her skin. Lomunye owayele-voice encane kakhulu engaqala ukumbona in a crisp white blouse tucked neatly into her dark female formal trousers, carrying the subtle scent of nutches and rain. They all felt too good for me before anything even began.
Every time, ngangizitshela ukuthi ngizazama. Ngizaba braver, softer, and more honest. And yet, just when something started to bloom, ngangizizwa ngisiba lokuyi familiar tightening enhliziyweni — of panic, of doubt, an instinct to pull away. Ngangicatsha behind ama-casual jokes, delayed replies, or the sudden busyness I'd create just to avoid being seen too clearly.
iLyric elingitshaye angani yi-confession engingazange ngaba lesibindi sokuyitsho:
“I’ll probably be a waste of your time, but who knows?”
It felt like someone had cracked open my ribs and read the words directly from enhliziyweni yami. I had said that line kanengi, and ngendlela ezihlukeneyo — subtly, quietly, in the corners of conversations, ngendlela leyana eyokuthi I'd brace for disappointment before anyone offered it.
Yimi engangihlala ngiphuma out of rhythm, overthinking every beat, couldn't help but stumble even lapho okwakumele izinto zizihambele lula khona.
Ngangisithi whenever nxa ngimile, besides women who looked effortlessly composed — shirts ironed, sleeves crisp, wearing confidence like a second skin — I felt like akula mfazi onje ongafuna ukuba lendoda elenwele eziphothana zodwa, indoda etshengisa ukuba confident and cheerful but actually nervous and uncontrolled ngaphakathi. A man carrying a heart too noisy to be elegant.
And yet, ngangihlala ngizizwa ngifuna. Ngifuna umuntu ozahlala even when I felt unsure. Ngifuna someone who wouldn’t flinch when I faltered. Ngifuna someone who’d hold my trembling honesty ezandleni zakhe without dropping it.
When Daniel Caesar sings about being a coward wrapped in softness, I feel that in my bones. Kunini ngicatsha behind being “the kind one,” the man who gives and reassures and accommodates. Kunini ngi-gentle, not because I didn’t want to take up space but because I was terrified of being told I shouldn’t.
Isikhathi esinengi, ngiyabacabanga abantu asebazama ukungithanda even though ngangisehluleka ukubahlangabeza halfway. Lokhe ngilama messages, awa-last of last year, from my primary school friend that tried to get close to me — someone gentle, patient, familiar. I remember warning her away, even listing ama-flaws ami wonke engakwanisa ukuwacabanga, as if exposing my worst parts early could save us both.
She replied, “Sometimes women are willing to accept all of that.”
Then she followed it with something that has stayed with me ever since:
“Umfazi ozamayo ungabomvalela phandle. It's a situation that's already hard for umuntu wesifazane, so mnike i-space sokuzama at least. Even if imzamo yakhe ingaze icine isiba pointless, at least she won’t regret trying.”
Angizange ngabakwazi ukuthi ngenzeni with that kind of sincerity. So I folded into myself again, overwhelmed by someone who was willing when I wasn’t man enough to be.
Sometimes ngiyake ngibacabange abafazi engazama ukubathanda. The one with dimples that appeared every time singaxoxa ngama-movies. The one with the neatly faded short hair and the leather jacket that made her look like she belonged in a slow-burning black American indie film. The one with soft eyes and a quiet laugh that always made me want to lean closer. Each of them was a universe I convinced myself I wasn’t ready for.
Things always ended before anything began. Those women were never wrong for me. Yikuthi ngangizitshela ukuthi they deserved someone braver, someone steadier, someone ongasabi ukuthandwa.
Listening to that song, I realized how much of my life has been built on hesitation — on hovering at the doorway of my own desires, choosing safety over possibility, ngizitshela ukuthi I wasn’t enough, way before anyone else could.
But then the lyrics slip into a gentle refrain — “but who knows?” — like a small rebellion against my own certainty. Maybe things don’t have to unfold the way they always have. Maybe kuyavuma ukuthi lami ngibe lethemba. Maybe phandle lapho ukhona umuntu ozabona something I haven’t learned to recognize in me.
Sometimes I imagine what it would feel like to let someone close. Someone ongahlala across from me in a café, smiling whole heartedly, wearing a soft beige sweater that makes her brown eyes look warmer. Someone whose smile makes my fear unclench just a little. Someone ozangibuza ukukhula kwami and engilalele like it truly matters.
But then the future presses in uncertain, unpredictable and I wonder if I’m built to share it with anyone. I see myself reaching out, ngisesaba ukuthi my touch will drive them away. I remember all the times I loved quietly from a distance because nearness felt too dangerous.
Still, ingoma leyana ingikhumbuze ukuthi ukuba unsure isn’t a crime. Ukuthi doubt doesn’t make me unworthy. Ukuthi tenderness doesn’t make me weak. Even if I'm alone now, my heart still beats toward something bigger.
I want to believe ukuthi ukhona umuntu ozahlala eceleni kwami without expecting perfection. Someone who will see the mess, the fear, the softness — but ahlale anyway. Someone who doesn’t need me to be put-together to choose me.
Kwesinye isikhathi I picture a version of myself sitting behind my laptop, wearing a white vest and scotch boxer shorts, sipping tea. Kulomuntu eceleni kwami, with sleepy eyes and a soft smile, engikhangele angani ukungithanda isn’t work at all. And I wonder if that’s something I’m allowed to hope for.
Reality pulls me back. The pattern repeats itself no matter how gentle I try to be. Yonke into idilike before it even stands — not ngenxa yakhe, but because I fold too early, scared of what might happen if someone actually stays.
Then that line plays — “Maybe we get married one day, but who knows?” — and it doesn’t make me think of marriage. But it makes me think of possibility. Of the future not as something I must fear but something I could walk into with someone holding my hand.
I tuck that thought away gently, delicately, angani it's a fragile stone engisaba ukuthi lingangilahlekela.
And when he closes the song with “I know that I’ll love you always,” bukhona ubuhlungu engibuzwayo ngaphakathi kwami — not for someone I’ve met, but for the version of myself that is ready to allow love to reach him fully.
So for now, I'm holding this song close. Letting it speak for the man inside me who has always been too scared to commit to love. I'm letting it remind me that even after years of pulling away, of believing I’m not enough, of convincing myself that I ruin what I love — there might still be love out there, for me, that doesn’t ask me to shrink.
..
Tau Kelvin
