At this time, the state had officially taken over all the writers’ camps and no scribe was allowed to leave the premises unless authorized. This followed the release of false medical records by Errol Lesner, chairman of the World Medicine Association declaring that all the writers were unfit to function within society. Continue reading
My daughter loves flowers. She makes comments about their different smells all the time.
“This one smells like heaven. ”
“Mom! Look! This one smells like medicine”. Continue reading
Floating on white, fluffy cirrus like a cherub with wings and little bow of love.
Themba was there too, of course. Right beside me. His face bright and shining like glass. I could see the dancing fire in his eyes as he looked lovingly at me. The passion bubbled deep in me also. In my heart and in my entire floating being. I am sure he could see it in my face and in my eyes. See the fire of eternal love that can never dim. Continue reading
It is day three of therapy and still, I have not had a wink of sleep since the tragedy. There is a piece of jewellery shrunken into my right hand, and I’m attempting to feel. I am desperate to connect it to an image, no matter how vivid; to a sound, no matter how silent; perhaps to a memory, no matter how distant. Continue reading
I count Philisiwe reply of a big fat yes to the residency as a blessing. I mean do you know this woman? I met her in 2015 at the Women Playwrights International Conference held in Cape Town. ‘Weh oou!” she would exclaim at the ends of her sentences like a typical Durbanite. She had big hair and a big heart to go along with it and I was drawn towards her. I followed her on social media, (I realized that I am a bit of a stalker) and admired her work from afar. When Facebook finally gave us the love option I was very grateful to spread some love on her posts. Continue reading
A day is never just a day. Each day comes bearing new gifts and sometimes those gifts come in the form of an inbox from a fellow literature blog editor, saying, “Hi sister, I see you all the way from Nigeria and I want to collaborate.” When I started Naane le Moya I wanted to make stories accessible, but not just stories, black stories and not just black stories, young black stories and when Amaka slid into my DM’s and invited Naane le Moya to build a literature bridge between South Africa and Nigeria I said yes. Let us make the dream a reality. Continue reading
I got up from the floor after she threw me on the ground. I thought of lot things. I thought how stained my yellow dress was. I don’t know how it all began. Continue reading
The smell of burning wood always calls me home. Mme always wakes up at the crack of dawn to prepare me for school and papa for the mine. She always comes to the bed to wake up both of us, in one sweep of the blankets away from our frail and lifeless bodies.We live in a big peach painted house, with three rooms and a pit toilet a good distance from the house. Our yard is full of neatly cut wood and chickens, Mme sells chickens to the local people. We had to have a big fence around the yard so the chickens do not run away. Continue reading
The road to the river was way to far for Nombewu to carry three buckets alone, going there she had no problem but coming back was the issue. She always thought she should share with her brother Nqobani. Continue reading
He stood at the gate. I didn’t see that my uncle followed me behind. I think he wanted to smoke but I didn’t see him. We had just eaten dinner and everyone was full and happy. Between the laughs and hand clasping I heard the whistle. I knew that whistle, that Baby phum’ endlini, ngizokuchecka kind of whistle. I wanted to stop breathing. I felt in seconds that this life will no longer be mine. Continue reading