Tuesday Shorts: Passed Judgement – Busisiwe Mahlangu

The home was once brand new; fresh paint, clean carpet, window glasses held tightly by wet clay against the frame, a space to move our furniture and our love into.

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Hunadi: I waited – Pheladi Makgeru

My friends and I make a pact, a forever most of us will never keep. We are naive and eighteen years old, barely old enough to have a good sense of the world. We are in boarding school. Well I am in boarding school, I got sent here four summers ago in the south-western regions of Limpopo. It gets really cold and lonely here, so you tend to gravitate to whatever human you can find. I am at a girls only Catholic institution, my parents had always wanted my siblings and I to go to the good schools, and this school was their idea of great.

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Tuesday Shorts: Ash and Lineage – Busisiwe Mahlangu

The first night Nondawonye left her village, she did not say any goodbyes, not even to her lover, Nhlakanipho. Her leaving was involuntary, something pulling her to somewhere. She left after midnight, straight from a dream to the bushes behind her hut. It was unknown to her where she was heading but the route felt familiar, she had walked that path in her slumber before it felt like she was still sleeping and soon her grandma, Gogo, will knock on her door and remind her of her daily chores.

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Let’s Talk Text: Three Months Later

The first quarter of the year is done and dusted and I’m taking some time to reflect.

STORYTELLING

So far the year has been nothing but good to me. Last year I became the first international storyteller to be awarded the J. J Reneaux Emerging Storyteller Grant award by the National Storytelling Network. I used the grant to attend a personal storytelling course in Cape Town this February, a 3 weeks intensive course taught by Sue Hollingsworth of the Centre for Biographical Storytelling.

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Tuesday Shorts: Hem of Garment – Nkateko Masinga

Kwena arrived on a warm afternoon. The sun seemed to be lazing on the horizon, its streaks colouring the sky orange and red as a final act for the day, a curtain-call before the evening breeze ushered in the night. Our meeting seemed orchestrated, the fulfilment of an age-old prophecy. Her father placed one hand on my shoulder, moved his lips close to my ear and simply breathed. We had done it.

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