The boys in my street are singing struggle songs again.
And prison songs.
No one knows where or when they learnt these prison songs. There is an irony where these melodies meet. There is so much passion in their voices, you can tell that something dies inside them when these words reach their lips.
My machete wielding white neighbor absolutely makes me sick.
We got to Johannesburg and we drove to every single student accommodation there was on the internet, and few of them actually looked like the pictures they put up online.
Some had caretakers who were old enough to be needing to be taken care of themselves, the irony. Some communes had holes in the kitchen ceilings, blood stains on bathroom walls, champagne splattered all over some bedrooms! Christ! What do the people here get up to?
Explain death to little children, lest it kills them when they are older and they mourn without intent, never really letting the dead ones go, wishing them birthdays long after they have passed, keeping even the minutest of memories alive. Explication means when they look at deceased people’s pictures, they will not cringe, but be strong enough to reminisce about them without falling apart. We are born, and we die, and the space in between is mercy, this we should teaching little children to cherish it, and not to fear it.