This May Offend My Political Connects: The End of KING Cedric

Cedric Dladla
Nov 19
6 min read

“I knew that it was cruel to be so optimistic, but, in my solitude, I couldn’t resist the urge and spent entire days basking in idiotic fantasies, sometimes verging on prayer.” — shared by Khanyisile.

Dear ColorBloc Family, Hayani Africa, The Seasonal Table community, and every person who has crossed my path,

I write this from a place I have never accessed publicly before: a place of clarity forged in fire, cosmology, and the refusal to choose between my ancestors and my diagnosis.

My name is Malibongwe Sicelo Cedric Dladla, and I am a three-time survivor of sexual assault. For years I held those experiences in silence: layered in shame, buried in self-blame, and complicated by a spiritual calling I did not yet understand. Without a stable internal anchor, my life fractured — emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually.

The Survival Experiments

In the midst of that fragmentation, I carried out three digital augmentations online. They were not pranks. They were not performative chaos. They were survival experiments — attempts to rebuild a self that trauma had scattered across timelines, identities, and realities I could no longer distinguish. Yet those attempts also hurt people who love me. For that, I take full accountability. But I am also asking: where is the accountability for my abusers?

Where is their public statement? Where is their therapist-approved transparency? Where is the justice that would make my healing anything more than a solo performance in a system designed to protect them?

The Cosmology vs. Psychiatry Paradox

Some interpret my experiences through traditional cosmology. In the metaphysics of my lineage — isintu — what I have lived through is uk’vukwa umoya (spiritual awakening), isthunywa (being called by the ancestors). These are not symptoms. They are interventions.

Generational redirections. But there is a seething rage that courses through my blood each time my mania is nuanced purely through psychiatric frames. The DSM-5 calls it bipolar disorder. My ancestors call it divine intervention. Trauma psychology calls it PTSD. All three can be true. None cancels the others. Yet I am asked to choose. I am medicated for refusing to be quiet. I am diagnosed for my resistance. I am told to trust systems that have been consistently unreliable in the hour of need.

The Political Reality of Survivor Silence

Speaking this truth is politically and emotionally dangerous. Some fear the ripple effects of acknowledging trauma. But I seek no names, no revenge — only the courage to name the system:

Generational silence
Shame as social currency
Spiritual displacement
The weight of surviving what should never have happened
The political strength of abusers that renders survivors unnamed

How many cases of sexual assault in South Africa — in this country with its history of political violence — go unspoken because abusers hold power?

How many survivors are discredited, weaponized, disputed, and told their rage is pathology?

At what point does one receive justice? This is not rhetorical. This is the existential question that has fueled my decision to become a mental health PR advocate for survivors of sexual assault. Because my story is invalidated, chastised, weaponized, disputed, and discredited — with merit, yes, I made mistakes — but when I ask about justice, there are no words.

The Daughter of Mhlana: A Reflection That Changed Everything

On the birthday of Jo-Vaughn Virginie Scott (Joey Bada$$), a daughter of the Mhlana clan reached out. She reflected my contradictions with gentleness and bravery: my hunger to heal, my instinct to experiment on myself, and the ethical boundaries I overlooked.

She mattered. I may have lost her. But she shaped this healing.

Mi Amiga, Mhlana, I cannot promise you change. What I can say is perhaps Blacklist Number 10 might come to life. I owe myself a real-life Need For Speed experience, and I may have someone who might be a good place to start. I am not your responsibility nor burden to carry, but the lineage carried in the husky surrender of your octaves that fluctuate at different points of the day will always be my favourite ringtone. Thank you for your time, your grace, your faith, your laughter, and of course, James Baldwin.

The Philosophy of Taste: A Healing Ritual Disguised as Dinner

When we whisper about taste, it’s the cultural exceptionalism of @chilifoodandbev — healthy food that can be indulgent. Chef TK stitched oral tradition into meals, feeding us with recipes carried by ancestors. In late-night conversation, Chef TK tailored a yet-to-unravel tale of friendship and the lineage of uGogo — the power of African memory through the chapter of oral tradition: recipes that fed traditional weddings, gatherings, funerals, coming-of-age ceremonies. On the strength of those narrative shoulders, I found myself connecting to the visual songwriting in the melody of @ayarish_florals and the instrumentalist @zendehandmadecreations.

Is it a contemporary saxophone or a Ghanaian Kente Cloth? What is the sound of craft? How do you feel at home in hands? All I could think was: What am I doing here?

@ayarish_florals turned petals into poetry. @zendehandmadecreations reminded me that craft has a sound — like a heart beating through cloth. Luxury became communion. Belonging became the point. To @theseasonaltableexperience, @nyambose_villas, @ayarish_florals, @_mfundoo, @randimphaphuli, @thegoodgirlgene, and every soul present: Thank you for turning a Tuesday into a healing ritual. Thank you for taste, prayer, patience, and atmosphere. Thank you for proving that Black luxury is not aesthetic — it is community. Mr. Nyambose’s philosophy stays with me: Walk into every room with connection as your currency. That is how you heal a people. That is how you build generational wealth — spiritually, culturally, and structurally. Black looks like a revolution. Black looks like a family reunion. Black looks like us.

Accountability Without Justice Is Performance

So, with support from my psychologist, ColorBloc Magazine, and Hayani Africa, I submit myself to a digital-augmentation accountability process — not to defend myself, but to be held, to be understood, and to heal transparently. But I am also holding up a mirror: Was I wrong? Yes. Do I need a locus of control? Absolutely. But at what point does one receive justice? This is the question that fuels my new work. This is why I am stepping into mental health Public Relations advocacy for survivors of sexual assault. Because we are told to heal quietly while our abusers are protected loudly. Because accountability without justice is theatre. Because rage is a rational response to being told that spiritual calling is psychosis, that trauma survival is instability, that demanding justice is delusion.

The New Chapter: Mental Health Public Relations Advocacy

I am building a practice that:

Centers survivors of sexual assault
Holds tension between cosmology, trauma, and diagnosis
Refuses to choose between Western and African epistemologies
Demands justice alongside healing
Names political preservation as an obstacle to mental wellness
Creates language for those told their reality is impossible

My work now exists at the intersection of:

Culture Writing
Public Relations & Media Strategy
Trauma-Informed Communication
African Cosmology & Spiritual Literacy
Survivor Advocacy & Narrative Restoration

I refuse to choose between my ancestors and my diagnosis. I refuse to heal quietly while abusers are protected loudly. I refuse to trust systems that demand my silence as proof of my sanity.

Closing Note to Those Who Journey With Me

Right, President Carter, you strapped, my sir? Asithi shwi emkhathini, lordy, this is not going to be pretty, but I trust you. Dwayne and I must return to New Orleans. There is much for us to do for the children of Imbali and Hollygrove. And nna? Kumele ngiqale ekuqaleni (I must start from the beginning), but know that I love you, I believe in you, and you are God — not only to me, but to the children of Sudan, Congo, Palestine, Sophiatown, and all the secrets we never got the chance to unpack in this universe. It has been an honor to serve as KING Cedric, however uMntungwa benoMagatsheni (my ancestors) require me home.

In the words of Mam’ Noxolo Grootboom, a media maverick: Ndinthanda Nonke emkhaya (I love you all at home). Mbali, you know my soul more than anyone. Thank you for taking a chance on me. I do not know what lies ahead after this. Whatever it is, your legacy? A Masterpiece. Forever wena chom, Wale Watu, Takameru Mishima. If not for me, my friends, fight for Olwethu. Nisale Kahle (Stay well).

From Sadé’s Promise:

“The dagger of your crimson Daydreams wraps Its legs around the veil Of my intrusive thoughts.” Not a love letter to a person, but a love letter to the version of myself that learned to live again

Issued by: Malibongwe Sicelo Cedric Dladla In collaboration with my therapist, my team, and my grandmother

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