My grandmother’s house was always warm, even in the coldest winter. Simmering pots with hearty meals would permiate the small rooms and steam up the windows. It often felt like we were in a wood cabin surrounded by snowy mountains with an indoor fire raoring in the corner. But we were home, living a so-called modern life in an old neighbourhood. Continue reading
She drags her feet all across the other side of the room to reach out for the framed portrait of Nalumu. She places it closely to her chest, takes a deep gasp and limps back careful enough to not slip before lashing onto the arm of her rocking chair. She has sat there since the morning, seemingly cold and distanced from reality. Her eyes staring blankly at the screen, by then she had already muted the lady on the television.
They were drenched in a patina of sweat by the time they finished. They lay on their backs, panting and gulping, in needed oxygen. Their ardours somehow cooled, but still alive only waiting to be called on again when needed. Continue reading
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